intrepidacious

[intrepidacious]

@urbeautifulwife thank you so much 🥺 this story truly was a piece of my heart. this made me so happy 💚💚

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

i cannot believe it's over either but i'm so happy to have had you along for it 🥺🥺

now that's over i can admit it, this was all a big ploy to go from "that hellcat from hell" to "our cat" 🥰

god i'm so grateful for your comments. they've truly carried me through the last leg of this journey. i'm so glad you enjoyed my little hints and parallels and just … for everything. thank you so much 🥺💚💚

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

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.

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.

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Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

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—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

we can sit and cry in the corner together 🥺💚 well i'm glad they get added and not substracted bc honestly i'd get it 😭

time after time [6]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

* * *

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

* * *

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

* * *

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

* * *

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

* * *

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

* * *

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

* * * * *

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[intrepidacious]

i just had to with that flashback 😈💚

cat dad bucky i will never forgive the mcu for not letting you live !!

i think you may be the first person to call out immediately who bucky's trying to reach here 🤭 ughh if these two would communicate openly this fic would have 5k at best 😭

time after time [7]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 11.1k

chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

seven: spellbound

The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.

"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.

He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.

"You alright?" Sam repeated.

Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk."

He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.

"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.

"You’re a squatter."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."

Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."

"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."

People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.

"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.

"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."

"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.

"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."

"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"

"Pretending?!"

"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.

"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"

"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"

"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."

You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."

"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"

"Must be nice to get to forget things."

Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.

Do it, then.

But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.

"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.

"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."

"Who did, then?"

You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"

Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"

You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."

He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."

"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."

"Then why don’t you try to find out?"

"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."

"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."

"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"

"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."

"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."

The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.

"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."

* * * * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Darkness.

.

Darkness and pain.

.

.

The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.

.

Something like a bright light.

.

.

And then—

* * *

Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.

He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—

A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.

He doesn’t find any.

Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.

And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.

He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.

Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.

When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.

Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.

Maybe a shower will help.

It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.

This is real.

The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.

He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.

His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.

"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"

You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.

He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.

Then again, you usually have that effect on him.

Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.

It’s the one thing he gets.

He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?

Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.

He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.

It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.

He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.

But it’s strange.

Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.

This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.

He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.

This is real.

Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.

The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.

She’s hungry, then.

Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.

There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"

"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."

The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.

"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.

Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."

Really; he’s used to it by now.

Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.

Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.

* * *

Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.

There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.

He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.

It’s been a weird day.

That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.

The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.

He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.

Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.

Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.

"—only scream when there’s good reason."

"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."

"You’re no fun, Bucky."

He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.

The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.

If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.

Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.

"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."

Take them out now.

"—makes Barnes cranky."

"You forget he’s always cranky."

This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.

They might be dangerous.

He swallows.

One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.

Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?

It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.

So easy.

"Any time, Buck."

Breathe out.

The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.

With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.

He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.

Сбой.

No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …

Another fight.

The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.

This is what he was made for.

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

It fires into thin air, instead.

The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.

Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.

There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.

A little too perfect.

There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"

There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.

There’s something wrong with him.

Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—

He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.

Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.

Even though he just got shot.

Again.

He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.

So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.

There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.

But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?

Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.

He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.

This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.

Right?

"This is impossible," he whispers.

His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.

* * *

One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.

His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.

Third time’s a pattern.

The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.

Everything feels the same.

No one’s done laundry.

It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.

"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.

Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.

He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.

You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.

The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.

"You look like shit."

You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.

"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.

You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."

You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.

One more.

He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.

The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.

He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.

There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.

Everything is exactly the same.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.

He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.

There never is.

Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.

Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?

The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.

Like he’s usually looking at you.

Desperate.

It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.

The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.

He really should’ve known better from the start.

* * *

He needs to talk to you.

He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.

But she’s got time powers.

He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?

Месть.

Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.

Then how?

"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."

Neither of us is.

His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.

When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.

Fuck you, Barnes.

And then it happens again.

Clearly, he’s losing his mind.

It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—

No, you’re not.

His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.

You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.

Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.

Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?

Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.

It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.

Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?

That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.

And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.

You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.

"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."

There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.

"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.

Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.

You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—

"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"

"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.

"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.

"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.

He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?

"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.

Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.

"Talk to me, Buck."

He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."

Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.

"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"

Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"

And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday," Sam says.

"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."

He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."

He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"

"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.

Just deserts, don’t you think?

"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.

He’s never felt less like joking.

"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"

Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."

"I think she knows something."

"But that’s a good thing, right?"

Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.

"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.

"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"

Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."

Yes. You do.

"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."

Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.

But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.

And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.

He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.

He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.

And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.

"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.

* * *

"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"

Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.

"I’m good," he says blankly.

Are you?

Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.

She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.

On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.

In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.

"You sure?"

Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.

Talk to me.

"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.

You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.

It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.

He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.

It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.

"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.

"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.

And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …

Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.

A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.

The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.

Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.

Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.

It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.

"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.

You didn’t do that yesterday, either.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?

He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.

How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.

The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.

The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.

"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."

"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"

She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"

He frowns. "Something like that."

She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."

Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.

"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."

He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.

Or the numerous head wounds.

"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"

Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.

"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."

He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"

She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."

And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.

It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.

His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.

14:47.

What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.

* * *

He throws his punches a little harder each day.

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.

"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.

"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"

So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.

"Two o’clock."

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.

A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.

But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.

No. You’re too perfect.

Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.

His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.

Your silence is deafening.

"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.

There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.

He’s never hated it more.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.

He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.

He asks, Like this?

And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.

It’s Friday again.

Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.

Maybe he was wrong.

He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?

Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.

Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.

His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."

He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.

"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"

"Buck?"

For a second, everything screeches to a halt.

He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.

He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.

The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.

The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.

Keep trying, it says.

It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.

Talk to her, it says.

He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.

Or day, rather.

His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.

"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.

You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.

"What do you think?"

Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.

You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.

Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.

Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?

Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.

You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?

By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.

He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.

"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.

"That I’m stuck in a time loop."

A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"

Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

No. "Humor me."

He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.

How long ago was March?

"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.

"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.

To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.

"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."

"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"

Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.

And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.

He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.

Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.

"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."

"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"

"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.

It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.

"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.

Bucky’s hands clench into fists.

That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.

Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.

"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.

Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.

Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.

Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?

His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

"She’s not coming."

There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.

It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.

"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.

"Are you sure?" Sam says.

No. "I’m asking as a friend."

As expected, that’s enough.

He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.

He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.

Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.

There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.

.

…

That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.

* * * * *

From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.

And yet you did. Over and over.

I want her out.

It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.

You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.

"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.

On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.

Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.

You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.

Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.

"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.

"It’s not about that and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."

You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.

"I made—"

"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."

"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."

There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.

You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.

It was useless.

"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."

"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."

You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"

"Sure," Sam said.

You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."

You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.

"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.

Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.

That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.

chapter eight

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback

[intrepidacious]

honestly i blacked out and my brain came up with a bunch of stuff 😭 eee i'm thrilled you enjoyed it 💚💚

time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinkie is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

[intrepidacious]

oh my god hi 🥺💚

they do both have a funny relationship with time don't they 🤭 ugh their early(ish) dynamic is so dear to me

you were right about delivery guy 😏 i was so proud of that reveal hahah

of course there is a way out 🥺 sometimes you just need a little wibbly wobbly timey wimey shenanigans to remember that!!

i will forever maintain that all cats are just magic and weird (affectionate), but alpine especially so <3

time after time [6]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

* * *

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

* * *

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

* * *

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

* * *

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

* * *

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

* * *

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

* * * * *

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

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[intrepidacious]

thank you so so much 🥺🥺💚💚💚

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

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Error: Delayed transmission.

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Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

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—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

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.

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.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

💚💚💚💚💚💚

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

[intrepidacious]

🥺🥺 thank you so much!!!

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

@ilistentotayswifttocope 👀👀🤭

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

five: carousel [3/3]

» time after time series: chapter five

this is a repost of my time loop fic in shorter parts for greater reading convenience. please refer to the series masterlist for more context.

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 4.2k

chapter warnings: nothing except the usual ones; another panic attack near the end; the riveting resolution of the coffee side quest? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

“Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you?”

You pretend not to hear him, shuffling the straws around in their container until they look a bit more orderly. Even though you’re not working, even though this isn’t even your store, it’s hard to shake the need to feel useful. Particularly if you’re trying to ignore Bucky’s gaze burning into your neck.

You’re saved by your name being called out because your coffee is ready. For some reason, you half-expect him to swoop in front of you and take the drinks himself, but of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

With a shake of your head, you rid yourself of the ridiculous thought and hand Bucky his coffee without looking at him.

“You know,” you say, stepping out of the crowded Starbucks into the sunshine. “I have a blanket somewhere in here.” You point at your backpack. “We could try to fight for a spot in the park.”

There’s a pause, and then Bucky sighs. “What else do you have in there, anyway?”

“Spy stuff.”

You don’t expect him to find that funny, but he snorts slightly. Then, like a habit he can’t break, his gaze falls on your hands again.

“I’m just tired,” you say wearily before he presses the matter.

“You should try the floor,” Bucky says. “If you can’t sleep.”

It helps, sometimes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You take a sip of your coffee and scrunch your nose when you realize it isn’t what you ordered for yourself; it’s what you ordered for him. In your haste to change the topic earlier, you must have switched the cups.

“Sorry,” you say, “this is actually—”

But you stop talking, because he’s already taking a tentative nip of yor drink, and then he licks his lips. And they curl slightly upwards.

He blinks a few times, as if he’s as surprised as you are, and tries again, less hesitantly this time. Then he looks at the writing on the cup. “Wait,” he says, frowning, “I think you’ve got mine.”

Your mouth closes, then opens again. “How do you know?” you finally say. “They both have my name on them.”

“Yeah, but you always get the same thing,” Bucky says, as if him knowing your order couldn’t possibly be news to you.

“It’s fine,” you say when he tries to hand you your cup back. “Maybe I should try something different sometimes.”

Bryant Park is already bustling with people, and it’s just about noon. The little green tables are all occupied by chess players and chatting families, the carousel horses manned with happily shrieking children.

Still, you find a place to spread out your blanket near the edge of the lawn, almost within talking distance of the Public Library’s security guard, who is currently on his first smoke break. You demonstratively sit down with your back to him. If ever a man took his job too seriously.

“Aren’t you hot in that?” you ask doubtfully when Bucky uncomfortably sits down opposite you, the collar of his leather jacket pushing up.

“'Course I am,” he answers, not elaborating.

You let your eye roam through the park. “Terrible news,” you say dryly. “Not a single person is looking at you, Sergeant Cool.”

Bucky shakes his head, not looking at you.

“No one cares,” you say, more sincerely this time. “Even if they did, they’re not gonna say anything. And they’ll have forgotten about you tomorrow.”

He huffs again. “And you’re wonderin’ why I call you stubborn.”

“I thought you didn’t do that to my face?”

He pulls his gloves off, throwing them on the blanket between you with his eyebrow raised. “Happy?”

In the bright sun, his left hand is gleaming, the inlets reflecting the light in a way that makes it dance across the cotton like swirls of pure gold. You smile and lean back, closing your eyes.

You don’t come to this park often, even though it’s not far from the Tower at all and it’s easier than returning to Central Park with all the memories it holds and that have turned more bitter than sweet after everything. It’s the same as with the library, you suppose. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re missing something until you find yourself in the middle of it.

It might have been a Saturday, you think, the last time you were here. What a concept; Saturday. You sit with the thought for a while, and then you let it drift away, just like you’ve been practicing.

It’s such an unexpected feeling, to get to experience this moment of quiet reprieve when lately, most of your time in this loop has been spent studying, or training, or fighting. You already know you’re getting another talking-to if you don’t return to the astral plane at all today; but it’s just the one day. Surely, you can be allowed one day.

Your brain craves it more than anything.

When you open your eyes again, Bucky is contemplating your backpack with a frown so oddly different than the one you’ve gotten used to in previous loops. He seems so … It takes you a while to come up with the right word, because somehow, it makes you think of Alpine, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Comfortable. He seems comfortable.

His shoulders are relaxed, his jaw unclenched, and even though he’s still wearing the jacket, his eyes aren’t flitting around to assess everyone within sight. His head tilts slightly.

“Are you trying to see through it?” you say, and the dryness tastes wrong on your tongue.

Bucky nudges the backpack with his foot. “Just wonderin’ what you thought you were gonna be up to.”

“I like to come prepared.”

“Since when?”

Well, ever since resetting has kind of stopped being an option whatsoever. “This isn’t gonna turn into one of your 'constant vigilance’ talks, is it, Moody?” you say lightly.

He looks at you again, and you’re not really sure if that’s better or worse. “You’re deflecting, doll.”

“Well, what do I know!” you say. It’s worse, definitely worse, but you don’t know why. “You might have been off on a covert mission or visiting a secret girlfriend or buying a beehive to put on the roof or—”

He unzips the backpack. “So you brought a blanket, a baseball cap, binoculars and a banana?”

You try to bite your tongue, but it’s impossible. “I was kind of set on the bee scenario.”

Bucky laughs.

Genuinely laughs. His nose scrunches up, his eyes creasing and his head thrown back a little, shaking with a quiet and almost childish glee as you blink at the unusual sight. It’s over almost as suddenly as it began, but … still. A warmth spreads from your chest to your cheeks as you watch him, your own smile almost hesitant by comparison.

Joy looks good on him.

It leaves a twinkle in his eye even as the laughter subsides, like specs of sunlight.

“What?” he says, his mouth still twitching.

“You seem happy.” And it’s astonishing.

Bucky shakes his head slightly, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s blushing. “No need to sound so shocked about it.”

“You sure?” you ask, your voice cracking only a little. “I feel like I need to call an ambulance.”

“Shut up.”

“Or Area 51. I think you might’ve been swapped with an alien doppelganger.” You sit up properly. “Tell me something only the real Bucky would know. Oh, wait. He wouldn’t have told me, either.”

“You are the most dramatic person I know, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk, Sergeant I Need Nobody’s Help, I Will Jump Out Of  A Plane Without A Parachute.”

“So many rank drops today.”

“Now who’s deflecting?”

“I take calculated risks.”

Except he doesn’t even know his calculator is broken.

Bucky stares at you. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Not today. Your fingers twitch automatically to take it back, but of course, nothing happens. Nothing apart from his attention being brought back to your black rings.

“What did you do?”

The concern in his voice is quiet, but it’s there nevertheless, and it makes your heart ache, long desperately for it to go away, to be replaced by the joy that was there mere seconds ago. You want to make this day stop, make the world stop so you can continue living in that ease of just sitting here and laughing together without thinking about anything else.

And then you realize what’s really happening, and the world chokes, like something falling into place.

For a moment, you can’t breathe as you look at him, whole and confused and missing parts he can’t even remember leaving with you, and you feel as though your heart might stop because the only thought running through your head is Please, not now. Not now. Not now. Every single beat is an echoing no inside your mind.

You are so fucked up, you think, but you can’t find it in you to stop looking at his face, nearly flinching as you shove the feeling all the way down, down, down, until you can feel it like a brick in your stomach. It’s nauseating, like the vertigo you get at the very top of a roller coaster just before the car drops into freefall.

“Y/N?”

“I don’t know,” you say tonelessly. He must have noticed your face change, he must have. So why doesn’t the frown deepen?

“Liar.” Your heart is still pounding so loud he must hear it, even over the racket of children screaming in delight and cars blowing their horns in the distance.

Concern, you think again. Exact same thing that you see mirrored on Bucky’s face right now. You’re concerned for your friend.

Roommate, really.

Colleague.

Guy you sometimes work with, professionally.

Exactly. That’s it. That has to be it.

You’re in deep enough shit already.

He’s still waiting for you to say something and you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, the buzzing in your head getting louder, and the only thing you can think to say is, once again, “I’m sorry.”

Before Bucky can answer, his phone rings, and there’s the flicker of annoyance you’ve been waiting for.

“Hold that thought,” he says. “Sam?”

Your heart sinks as Bucky presses his phone to his ear, reality catching up with you again. You try to rearrange your features into a neutrally curious expression when he glances back at you, but you’re probably failing horribly.

“No, I’m good, I didn’t end up going.Yeah. Alright.”

You clear your throat as he hangs up. “So. Sam’s about to give his big speech then?”

Bucky looks bemused. “I’d hope not. That was hours ago.”

“What?”

Confused, you look at your watch. Then you look at Bucky’s watch. Then you look at your phone.

Even though you can’t have been sitting here for more than thirty minutes, every clock you look at tells you it’s past 4 p.m. Confused, you twist your rings around your fingers, one by one, but they’re as pitch black as ever, and yet somehow …

“Should we go?” you ask, your voice just a little pitchy.

Bucky gazes at you for a very long moment, and then gets up to his feet and holds out his hand to pull you up. He still hasn’t put his gloves back on.

You take it.

“You’re really off today,” he remarks and you hum noncommittantly as you fold the blanket back up and unceremoniously stuff it into the backpack. He shoulders it himself before you can grab it. “You’re just gonna complain again,” he says, even though the Tower isn’t that far.

You don’t say anything, though, just trudging behind him without a glance back.

Probably because of the time of day, 42nd street is packed. You watch Bucky pass through the crowd with his head downcast and his hands back in his pockets. If it’s been a struggle not to get separated from him earlier this morning, it’s near impossible now.

He looks over his shoulder when, for the third time, several people have pushed between the two of you, and you shrug helplessly as you try to catch up to him. Again, you can’t help but think this would be so much easier with your powers working the way they’re supposed to; just stopping everyone else for a second while you move past them.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you reach him waiting for you at a crossing. All of a sudden, you feel how tired you’ve been for a while.

“Wanna just go home?” Bucky asks.

“That’d be nice,” you say, cringing at the thought of having to change immediately once you get back. Sam is probably already impatient.

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Don’t make this a thing.”

And then he takes your hand again and links his fingers with yours as if he’s done it a thousand times before. The light changes to green, but you don’t move, and Bucky softly tugs to get your attention. His hand is solid and warm in yours, and it does nothing to ease the feelings of unease and contentment that mingle in your stomach with his touch.

Neither does the fact that as soon as the crowd disperses and you slowly, reluctantly let go of his hand, he steps out into the street with his head half-turned to you and—well.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and it’s like the air is getting knocked out of your lungs.

After that, the days start to blur.

* * *

“Why would it have anything to do with the mission?” Strange asks, and you can’t decide whether he sounds condescending or genuinely confused.

“Because it’s never happened before then, maybe?” you say, throwing up your arms. “I don’t know!”

“The loop is tied to you, not the other way around. If Sergeant Barnes has only ever died during the mission before today, the only other variable in that equation is you.”

His cloak curls at the seams in a way that’s almost apologetic. What a stupid thing to say about a piece of magical fabric, you think.

“Great,” you huff, sitting down on the ground and crossing your arms in order to not shake violently. “So first time’s skipping and now if I spend time with him, he’s just gonna die earlier?”

There’s a pause as Strange frowns. “Show me your wrist.”

You press your lips together tightly and hold out the arm with the swirling green symbols. Strange examines it with a particularly grim expression.

“Just say it,” you mutter when it becomes unbearable.

“Time is a precious thread in the fabric of the universe,” he says, dropping your hand. His silver eyes are very serious. “You don’t get an endless supply of it.”

“I literally do,” you reply, flourishing your wrist demonstratively. “That’s the whole problem.”

“No.” Strange shakes his head. “Your reality is going to collapse if time can’t move on from where it’s stuck. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will happen.”

You stare at him with wide eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means, no more distractions. Things are detereorating more quickly than I’d hoped.” He sighs, and there’s something about his demeanor that lets real fear course through your bones for the first time in a while.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing it down. “Let’s do some overtime, then.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Look at her.”

You glance at your sleeping body, stirring in her sleep.

“You asked when this is,” Strange continues. “That’s the thing with this version of the astral plane. It’s unstable. It only exists between dreaming and waking, and so our time here is very limited. You are then, and now. Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one. The nature of time doesn’t like this.”

“So, what?” You laugh humorlessly. “I go through an endless day, and then reality crumbles anyway?”

“Do you understand now why it’s so important that you get a grip on your powers?”

Because you’re the one who created the loop, and therefore the only person who can untangle it again.

“So no pressure then,” you say tonelessly.

“All of the pressure, I’m afraid,” Strange says grimly. “There’s really no time to waste anymore.”

* * *

“When we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive. I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you.”

Your head has started pounding to the beat of the song and Sam’s fist at your door, but you keep staring at the ceiling, unmoving. It all just starts over.

Even this godawful song.

“Tell me all that you’ve thrown away. Find out games you don’t wanna play.”

You must admit, the universe has a certain sense of cruel humor. Not that that’s any news. It doesn’t fucking matter what you do any of these days, because the outcome stays the exact same, and there’s a moment each and every time where Bucky knows that, too. Only by then, it’s too late.

“Geez, I hate you.”

You’re so tired.

“I know, Buck.”

Fade to black. Back in with a blast and the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The—

“I’m coming in,” Sam finally shouts from the other side of the door. “You better not be naked!”

You hear him enter, but you still don’t move. You’re busy replaying that look on Bucky’s face in your mind of the exact moment it goes wrong. It looks so pale, his mouth twitching downwards, a bit like with his coffee, but much more devastating.

Black out. Rewind. His eyes are on you, not even on the white jacket shooting him.

Black out. Rewind. The fingers on his metal hand grasp so tightly around your wrist you feel something move underneath your skin.

“What is going on with—Y/N!” You feel Sam rushing to your bedside in three long strides.

Right. You’re still covered in blood.

You can’t look away from his eyes until the last second. Black out. Rewind.

“FRIDAY, turn this shit off. Call an ambulance.”

“Calling 911.”

The sudden silence slams you back into the present with a start. “Cancel call,” you say loudly, your voice only slightly shaking. “I’m fine, Sam.”

“You don’t look fine!” He helps you sit up, looking you up and down, a sense of urgency still vibrating in his every movement, but of course, you’re not bleeding. “You look like you just shot a man and then rolled over.”

“You’re not wrong,” is all you get out before you start crying.

Black out. Rewind. God, you’re pathetic.

You shrink back from his arms, cradling your wrist to your chest. It’s starting to swell.

And yet, the green symbols swirl.

You’re not sure why you’re reacting like this now, after … you’re not sure. It’s not like this is your first time. Does that make you an even worse person? Probably.

Sam is talking to you, you recognize his voice, but you can’t focus on the words. You’re desperate to find something to focus your attention on, like you’ve been trying, training, grasping to do, but you’ve got nothing. Just numbness, a gaping nothingness, and the scars to prove you’re not just stuck in a nightmare but this is in fact your reality, and you are the only thing that remains while everything else resets in an endless cycle of hell, over and over and over again.

Nothing stays.

And you can’t help but feel like you’re running out of time, anyway.

This is ridiculous, you know that. You know you’re worrying Sam out of his mind, that you just need to focus, damnit, take a breath, stop crying, anything. Your incompetence to do any of these simple tasks is like another slap to the face.

Time passes, and doesn’t pass; it doesn’t matter at all whether you’re there for a minute or six hours, it’s all the same to you.

Through the fog of it all, Bucky’s voice is like your lighthouse.

And you despise yourself for it, even as you reach out for him.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his hands rubbing circles into your back until he slowly, carefully pulls you out of your head back to earth. “It’s alright. Everything’s okay.”

He says it over and over and over again until you nod slowly. It’s a pretty lie, after all.

“What happened to your wrist?”

You know what you have to do, but that concerned undertone makes it so hard. You’re still not used to it, but you want to be. Fuck, you want … No.

It doesn’t matter.

“I need to tell you something,” you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “One more time. And then … Then that’s it.”

You have to do this. Have to close yourself off emotionally. Distance yourself from Bucky in order to stay rational about this situation and find your way out. Treat this like you’re not involved at all; like this is just another puzzle for you to solve, and nothing else.

It’s the only way.

You’re going to fix this mess you’ve created, if it’s the last thing you do.

* * * * *

“If we die here tonight, I’m blaming you,” you told Steve through chattering teeth, and he laughed at you. If you hadn’t still felt bad about his bruises—no matter that they’d already healed completely again—you might have kicked him in the shin.

You’d reached the point of wanting to kick Captain America on a concerningly regular basis.

This time, though, you felt completely within your rights, because you’d been training hard all week, and thanks to New York being just about the most disgustingly freezing place on the planet if they asked you, you really didn’t see the point of driving into the city to a random ice rink. Particularly not on an evening in early January when it was already dark outside.

“You’ll be warmed up in no time,” Steve said and waved at Nat, who was already waiting for the two of you, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up so the red roots of her hair stayed hidden.

“Couldn’t we have done this at the lake?” you asked, looking around wearily. The crowd was substantial.

“Sure,” Nat said and put an arm around you. “Do you have about fifty friends we can invite so we can properly train your powers around other people?”

You grimaced. “There are children everywhere.”

“Oh, yeah. Some of them went home early, but most opted to stay when I told them Steve would drop by.”

You groaned. Of course they were Natasha’s Blip orphans; they had the same mischievous shimmer in their tired eyes. “Thanks for that, Nat.”

“You’re so welcome,” she answered, patting your shoulder. You narrowed your eyes when her coat shifted to the side.

“Is that my hoodie?” you said.

She looked down as if she hadn’t noticed what she was wearing at all. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I was looking for that everywhere earlier!”

Natasha merely shrugged. “It’s your own fault for leaving your stuff in the dryer for anyone to take.”

“Don’t pay attention to it, she does it to all of us,” Steve said, putting an arm around her.

“That is not true.”

“It is. You’re like a clothes hoarding dragon.”

“Did you just call me a dragon?”

You didn’t listen to the rest of their bickering, because your eyes had started to water, and not because of the cold. It’d been a long time since you’ve felt this warmth inside, this feeling of belonging, of, well … family. It made your powers pulsate through your veins soothingly.

Still, the worry came back when they gave you a helmet and knee pads to wear.

“I’m a travesty on skates, but it’s not this bad,” you told Natasha again when you shakily followed her to the rink entrance.

“We’re here to train, not to have fun,” she said, taking your hands. Of course, she moved like a dancer even on the ice. “Well, both,” she amended when you looked unconvinced. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was Steve’s idea.”

“Then why is he sitting over there doing nothing?”

“He’s got the day off.” She pulled you to the side of the rink. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said, pointing to the far end. “I’m going to close my eyes and you’re going to guide me straight through the middle to the other side.”

You stared at her. “You’re insane.”

Natasha ignored you. “One straight line, you tell me when to dodge someone. We’ll go slow.”

“I don’t know how many times I can jump.”

“It’s not exactly a life or death situation, Y/N. I can survive a few bruises and so can the kids.”

“I’d rather not injure a child if you don’t mind,” you say, trying not to sound hysterical.

“And I’m confident that you won’t. Do you trust me on this?”

You met Nat’s calm gaze and took a breath, even though the knot in your stomach tightened. “Fine.”

“Such a vote of confidence,” she snorted. “Just watch what they’re doing, and keep it in mind. Think of it like a dance recital. It’s all just a sequence of steps in a specific order.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded. Natasha closed her eyes. “Ready?” you asked.

She smiled. “I love this song.”

You could barely hear the music over the thrum of adrenaline, but you supposed that was her way of saying yes. This’ll be the day that I die.

You pushed forward.

part 1 | part 2 | series masterlist

[intrepidacious]

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

not even a little crazy 🥺 and our mcc (main cat character)??

she's trying

time after time [11]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.8k

chapter warnings: time travel 101 (until your head hurts); suicidal ideation within a time loop; a dash of smut 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's like 3am and i've definitely missed some typos and/or descriptors but i really wanted to post this one. we've almost made it folks!!

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

eleven: tomorrow we live

You weren’t well after the battle.

You’d kept yourself out of sight for the most part, evading Strange and the other Masters while kicking alien ass and trying to save as many of your people as you could. You managed, right up until Tony’s snap.

You’d never known him that well, hadn’t particularly liked him much from what you were told, but Pepper Potts had invited you to Morgan’s third birthday party along with Natasha and you’d seen the way that little girl’s eyes lit up when she looked at her dad, and the way he looked back at her. It had made you ache.

Now, you saw him make the decision to end all of this, far ahead in the distance, and all you could do was scream. Because you’d seen what kind of toll it took on a person, and you knew what it meant for his child.

You tried to reset it, but your powers were weak and you were tired and too far away. You only made it back a few seconds and had to watch him snap again. Then, your knees gave way and the world turned black.

You had a strange dream. You were standing in a twilight realm with nothing but a shallow body of water surrounding you. It was quiet, the air impossibly still, and when you moved, the water didn’t make a sound.

"Still not good enough, I see."

Kaecilius looked the same as he did in your nightmares, a stern face and purple-rimmed eyes.

"You’re not here," you whispered. "You’re dead."

"For now," he agreed.

Your hands balled into fists by your sides. "I’m not afraid of you."

Your voice only shook a little bit.

"Of course not," Kaecilius replied. "Fear would be useful." He lifted his arms. "Look around. What do you see?"

"Nothing," you said. "It’s empty."

"Is it, now?"

You watched the shaking reflections at your feet. A dull greenish glimmer surrounded your mirror image, like something was shining at you from behind. When you turned to look over your shoulder, there was nothing.

"Untethered," Kaecilius said quietly.

"What?"

"That’s the price for freedom." He tilted his chin to look at you, and there was that familiar tug in your chest. "Tell me, was it worth it?"

"I lost everything once. I’m not doing it again."

"Oh, but you will."

You couldn’t tell if it was meant as a promise or a warning. Before you could say anything else, the world around you began to flicker at its edges and faded into true nothingness, once and for all.

When you woke up in the med wing, they told you Steve had gone.

"Gone?" you asked, confused. "Gone where?"

"Back," they said, but that was impossible. He was a man out of time, always had been, but he wasn’t supposed to get lost. He had found his place, right here, with his friends, with his family, now that everyone was finally back. He was supposed to be there as you all rebuilt the world.

After Nat, you hadn’t expected to lose him, too, when you’d already lost so many people, and so your body didn’t know how to react. You were stuck in shock and grief in a frozen universe for hours before sleep finally dragged you back down and the world resumed, as it always did.

Continuing, despite.

If this was victory, you didn’t want any part in it.

* * * * *

You’re so warm.

You blink into consciousness deliciously slowly, the midday sun tickling your nose. A steady heartbeat thrums right underneath your ear. You cannot remember the last time you slept this comfortably.

Bucky gently squeezes your side, his right hand continuing to trace invisible lines on the back of your neck. "Hey."

"Hi."

How strange to think that you might just be allowed to kiss him now. How adrenaline spiking.

So you do.

You’re still sprawled on top of Bucky, and nothing has ever felt as right as brushing your lips against his and having him hum into your mouth in response. Again. Again. Why couldn’t the rest of the loop have been just like this?

"We should probably get up," he says finally.

"Are you kidding? I’m never getting up from this couch again." You snuggle closer to him, your nose pressing against his neck. "Tell me something I don't know."

His soft laugh shakes your entire body. "There's several books I could fill with stuff you don't know about."

"Well, I'm starting to run out of things to read, anyway."

Bucky’s fingers keep wandering, brushing your ear, your cheek, careful, soothing touches. As if he’s not quite certain, yet, that you’re not just going to vanish between his hands.

"You were never afraid of me," he says quietly.

You keep playing with the collar of his shirt, the fabric softened with wear. "Why would I have been afraid of you?"

"Even when we first met, when I was awful to you—"

"You weren't awful—"

"No, I was. And you didn't care. At first I thought it was because of your powers, but …" He lets out a sigh. "It's been a very long time since a complete stranger's treated me like a normal guy."

You prop up your chin on his chest. "You are a normal guy."

There's protest in his eyes, but he doesn't voice it. "It was nice," he says instead, "to get to just be myself."

"Ah. So your true self is a complaining asshole."

A playful grin twinkles in his eyes. "Don't pretend like you've hated all of our fights."

You roll your eyes and kiss him again. "I much prefer this."

"Good," Bucky says into your mouth, his voice lower than usual. "Me too."

"Glad we’re agreed for once."

He smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss. You trace the ghost of his dimples underneath his stubbled cheeks, slipping your hands into his hair as he rolls you both over, his weight pressing down on you, your mind finally, blissfully shutting up. You could stay forever in this moment.

"Really? On the couch? Don’t you people have rooms? You know, with doors you could lock?"

"Busted," you stage-whisper.

Bucky’s pupils are huge as he stares down at you, lips red, his hair perfectly mussed. The sight makes you stupidly happy.

Sam clears his throat exaggeratedly, and when your gaze turns to him, he has a shit-eating grin on his face. "Nice to see the two of you … getting along."

"Shut up, Sam," you both say at the same time.

"Seriously though, this," he gestures vaguely at both of you with his spoon, "is good, and it's about damn time, but get a room."

"Don’t you have a speech to write?" Bucky says roughly.

"Get lost, Barnes," Sam replies.

Bucky's smile flickers as he catches your lips with his one more time before sitting up, pulling you with him. His fingers interlock with yours easily, like he's been doing it for ages, his thumb circling the back of your hand.

Something in your chest aches when he pulls away from you, half-expecting the world to fall away and for you to wake up alone in your bed again; but nothing happens. Still, you don't want him to stop touching you, and not just for reality's sake.

"Did you want something?" Bucky asks, talking to Sam while keeping his attention on you.

"Lunch. How do you guys feel about Italian?"

"God, no," Bucky says.

"Literally anything else, please," you say.

"Alright, subtle," Sam snorts. "What, then?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows at you. "I can make lunch," he suggests.

"Jesus Christ," Sam replies.

"Italian sounds great, actually," you add.

"Hey," Bucky says, frowning at you.

"I don't want flames erupting from the oven again."

"That was one time and also not my fault."

One time that he remembers, at least. "Then whose was it, the cat's?"

Alpine, who’s just entered the couch table, meows in protest.

"I can cook," Bucky says.

"Anyone can cook," you reply sweetly. "Doesn't mean everyone should."

"Bold statement from someone who burns coffee for a living."

"If I don’t get another suggestion in the next ten seconds, you can both starve," Sam interrupts.

You think about any options you’ve not grown completely sick of yet. "How about Korean?"

"Thank you," he says, going back to his laptop. The conversation stalls for a while as you try to ignore Bucky’s sideward glances. Finally, Sam looks back at the two of you again, his eyebrow raised. "So when exactly did that happen?"

You exchange a quick look.

"Now, come on, Sam," Bucky says with a smirk. "It’s not like it came overnight."

"You sure about that?" you grin.

"Ew," Sam says. "Whatever that just was, ew. I’m retracting my question. I’m going to make a call."

"Say hi to Sarah!" you call after him.

He makes a crude gesture with his spoon that makes you laugh.

"What was that about my cooking?" Bucky says.

"We’ll work on it," you grin. "We might need another fifty Fridays or so, but one day I’m sure you’ll—" You yelp when he abruptly pulls you into his lap.

"I’ll what?" he asks, and his breath brushes over your lips.

You swallow. "Get there eventually."

"Anyone ever tell you you’re awfully bossy?"

"You did." You lean closer again, lowering your voice. "I think you like it."

He doesn’t respond verbally to that.

Without breaking the kiss, you reach for his left hand and pull it around yourself, shivering pleasantly at the cool touch against your skin. He hesitates briefly before letting his metal fingers curl around your waist, grasping you tighter.

Finally, with a groan, he gently pushes you away.

"I hate to say it," he says, sounding almost wrecked, "but Sam might be onto something."

"You okay?"

He laughs breathlessly, a distinct blush spreading on his cheeks. "Give me a moment."

Alpine chooses that exact moment to claim her spot on the couch once again, meowing at both of you disapprovingly. You can’t help but grin, pulling her onto your lap as you move back onto the couch, careful to keep touching Bucky in at least some way or other.

"Dialing it back, Sarge. Understood."

"Don’t," he hisses.

You tilt your head in delight. "I’m learning so much about you."

He pokes your side and you snort.

For a couple of minutes, you scratch Alpine’s chin and play with her paws, leaning against Bucky’s vibranium arm. She seems perfectly content with all of it, not even extending her claws.

"How do you feel about coffee?" you ask when you feel Bucky relax behind you again.

"Why not," he replies.

"Perfect. One sec." You raise your voice. "Do you want something from Starbucks?"

"Something iced!" Sam shouts back from the other room. "Is the kitchen safe again now?"

"Shut up!" you both reply.

Bucky’s picked up on the fact that he shouldn’t let go of you so the universe doesn’t reset again, or he simply doesn’t want to. You can’t bring yourself to mind either way.

You’re almost delirious with happiness when you’re back in the elevator and he pulls you against him again. You’re still in your pyjamas, probably spattered with blood, and you couldn’t have given less of a shit.

There’s something solid peeking out from underneath Bucky’s shirt, and you frown. "What’s that?"

He hesitates for a moment before pulling on the chain of his dog tags.

It’s your ring.

The ring you used to wear on your pinkie. The one you thought had vanished many loops ago on the floor of your bathroom, threaded through the metal chain to rest above his heart.

"It kept appearing in my pocket," he explains. "I didn’t want to lose it."

You press your lips against his again, a soft, silent thank you. "Keep it," you say.

Something catches your eye like a glint of impossibility, a strange trick of holographic lighting: a tiny spec of green. Before you can take a closer look, however, the elevator pings and you have to step outside into the lobby.

You raise your free hand and look at the rings you’re still wearing out of habit. They’re all pitch black.

"You okay?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," you mumble. "Yeah, never mind. It was just the light."

It’s busy outside, the midday sun frying the concrete. You don’t talk as you make your way through the crowd, sticking as closely together as possible. At a red light, you manage to steal another kiss and Bucky looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.

"They’re out of iced tea at this time," you tell him, enjoying the feeling of his hand on your lower back. "But if we get Sam a cold brew, I think we should be …"

Your voice trails off when you look around the store. Apart from the two people behind the counter, it’s completely empty. A shiver runs down your spine.

"Something’s wrong," you say.

Bucky tenses, grasping your hand more tightly and putting himself in front of you. The coffee grinder howls, the sound echoing in the empty building.

Slowly, you step up to the counter.

"Hi, welcome to Starbucks." Lucy looks past you like she’s talking to someone invisible standing right between you two. After a pause, she nods and taps at the register. "And will that be for here or to go?"

"Luce?" you say carefully.

"Alright," she smiles. Her colorful make-up is running down the side of her face like red-white-and-blue tears. "It’ll be right over there. Oh, careful about that spill, we’re working on it. Hi, welcome to Starbucks."

"Whole place looks deserted," Bucky tells you.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lucy says.

"It’s like we’re not here," you say quietly.

"It’s not just her," he says. "Look."

Over at the pick-up counter, there’s a pile of spilled cups on the floor. The second barista behind the bar doesn’t notice any of them. He keeps shoving them down by placing new cups in the same spot. Perfectly rehearsed and executed each time, except he’s performing for nobody.

"Like they’re stuck in their script," Bucky says.

"This is bad," you say, "this is really, really bad."

"Hey." He tugs you closer, his eyes locking with yours. "It’s probably just another glitch."

"No, Strange warned me something like this would happen at some point."

Reality folding in on itself.

You bite your cheek so hard it hurts. "The loop is at breaking point. We’re running out of time."

"But that’s good news, right? We’re getting closer to it being over."

"No, it’s not." Your voice is wavering. "I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do."

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you," Lucy says.

You turn towards her again.

"I swear," she continues, fixing her hair with perfectly mechanical movements, "if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad?" you ask quietly.

Her gaze focuses and she turns to stare right at you with clear, empty eyes. "Please kill me."

There’s not a hint of her usual dryness in her voice. You instinctively retreat, bumping into Bucky as you do. The steamer howls, the only noise in the sudden silence.

Lucy keeps looking at you, not keeping up with her own lines. Like she’s waiting for you, or something else.

Please kill me.

You shake your head, sick to your stomach. "I can’t."

An actual tear rolls down her face, and then she snaps her head back to stare at empty air again. "Usual," she says, but it’s not a question this time.

Useless.

You rip your hand out of Bucky’s, and the world around you vanishes in a stream of multicolor as he shouts your name.

* * *

"You talk to her," Sam says, his voice muffled through the door.

There’s a murmur too low for you to understand from where you’re hiding underneath your blanket, pressing the palms of your hands to the sockets of your eyes. The band around your wrist is whirring wildly.

One day.

You’d gotten less than a single day, a single morning of everything working out, of finally thinking that maybe things wouldn’t always be this bad. Of feeling something like hope.

It’d been foolish.

You’re still stuck on Friday, and reality is still crumbling around you, or fading away, or maybe melting into another one; you don’t even know anymore. You’re so sick of this.

You can hear the crunch of your lock being reduced to pieces, and then slow, soft steps into your room. With a soft click, the door closes again. You stay under your blanket.

"Y/N," Bucky says softly.

"I can’t."

He lets out a breath, and your mattress dips. Gently, he pulls the blanket off your head.

Geez, you hate the way he looks at you. Like you’re about to break, and he’s just waiting patiently to pick up each piece and mend them together again.

What the hell have you done to deserve to be looked at like that?

"Hi," he says, and your vision blurs.

You want to kiss him again. You want to wrap yourself around him and protect him from whatever bullshit this day decides to throw at you next.

"Everything is falling apart," you whisper. "It’s gonna keep happening until we find a way out. I’m nowhere closer to knowing what I’m supposed to do, and so we keep circling around, making everything worse. And what if—" You cut yourself off, pressing a hand to your mouth.

"What if what?"

What if it’s just you?

These past few weeks, it’s been a quiet thought, pushed to the very back of your mind with everything else going on. You know that you’ll make it out, which is some relief, but what if it’s just you?

Strange never said anything about Bucky, and you’re still beating yourself up over not asking.

What if this, all of this, will have been for nothing?

No, you can’t think like that.

You put one hand on Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath your palm, soft and steady. He’s still breathing, and that’s all that counts for now.

You’ve made it this far, right?

"I’m just so scared," you whisper. It’s the truth, after all.

"Me too," he says quietly. Both of his hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. "But we’re getting so close. I know it. We just need to keep going. You need to keep going."

A wet laugh bubbles up your throat. "You’re putting a lot of faith into someone who’s not been able to use her powers at all in months at this point."

"Is that what you’re worried about?"

Is it? Truth be told, you’ve gotten so used to the absence of time magic running through your veins. There’s an empty space at your core where you used to be able to feel it, tucked safely away, a reassuring connection to the flow of time itself.

Ever since your visit to the Sanctum, you’ve become very aware that you’re missing that link now. There’s a void inside you that’s been growing whilst you were looking away, a black hole that tastes like regret and loneliness.

All those years, and still …

"My powers were never something I wanted to have, and they’re … I used to feel like an anomaly. Like a mistake. But now …" You swallow a sob. "Everything is going wrong, and now they’ve been gone for so long, and I feel like a part of me is just missing."

It’s such a selfish thing to care about, but Bucky’s been nothing but honest with you, and you owe him as much.

"And so I keep wondering, what if I can never get them back? Or I do, just to stop the loop, but the price to end all of this is giving them up? I mean, what am I going to do then?"

What a waste of time.

You’re so tired, and weary, and sick of having to lean on other people. You should be able to do this, of all things, on your own.

Even when you couldn’t properly control your powers, at least they were yours and yours alone. There was a certain merit in being the only one of your kind, too; no one knew how to control you.

And yet, looking back, it all seems like wasted time you could’ve spent doing good, learning to understand them more intricately, to use them for more important things than getting out of awkward conversations and keeping yourself safe.

Without them gone, would you ever have honestly stopped trying to avoid situations that left you cut open and vulnerable, just as you are right now?

Untethered.

"Hey," Bucky says again and you blink back into the moment. "Didn’t you tell me that the Winter Soldier doesn’t define me? Well, your powers don’t define you."

"But I don’t want to lose them," you say quietly.

Despite the chaos they’re brought. Despite all your mistakes and shortcomings, despite the loop, despite everything that would never have happened without you having these powers in the first place. Because you’re just starting to accept them for what they really are: a gift, and a curse.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

"You’ll get them back," Bucky says. Sometimes, you do wonder where he gets his relentless confidence in you from.

"You don’t know that," you say quietly.

He huffs. "You hate clichés. Stop thinking you’re doomed to live in one. That’s not like you."

"Then what is?"

He presses his forehead to yours, and your eyes flutter closed. "You fight."

You can’t help but laugh. "I’m not a fighter."

"Didn’t say you were. I said you fight. You don’t give up so easily."

"Maybe I should. Might save me a lot of racing thoughts."

"You would be bored in five minutes." The knowing smile in his voice is really annoying. "You’re not so bad the way you are, you know."

"I’m not that great, either, though."

"Look at me?"

You do, his hand gently tipping your chin. He’s always so gentle with you.

"Powers or not, doesn’t matter. You’re still you. I wouldn’t want you to be anything else. It’s more than I … it’s more than enough."

His heart is pounding underneath your palm, and there are too many emotions written across his face to make sense of them all, but you feel them. Heartbreakingly so.

"It shouldn’t be," you say. "It’s killed you. Multiple times."

"I don’t care. I’m still here, and so are you. I’ve watched you do great things with and without your powers, time after time, and you’re gonna continue doing that over and over again." He smiles at you in that way of his, soft and sure. "We’ll be okay."

You love him. The thought rushes through you without a shadow of a doubt, a knowledge so certain it might as well be written across your forehead. You love Bucky Barnes with every fiber of your heart.

The problem is, he’s right. You hate clichés.

And so you’re afraid that in the grand scheme of things, love alone won’t be enough.

You lean in to hug him again and his arms envelop you perfectly, like this was where you were supposed to be all along. You bury your nose in his neck and inhale deeply, and you’ve never wanted to freeze a moment in time more than you do right then.

"I want to kiss you so bad right now." A whisper against his skin, another teardrop on his shirt.

His hand comes up to your neck again, pulling you back.

The look in his eyes is devastating, and you wonder how it’s taken you so long to recognize the longing in it. He lets you see it so clearly now, but it’s been there for a long, long time, in flashes and stolen moments, barely concealed behind a veneer of indifference. You’re sure he can see it mirrored in your own gaze right now; you’re almost bursting with it.

You nudge your nose against his, once, twice, and he shivers.

"We need to stop," he whispers, even though he sounds like stopping is the very last thing he wants to do. You can relate. There’s a hair’s breadth between your lips and it takes every single ounce of self-control you have not to close that distance.

The memory of how he kisses you is still too fresh in your mind. The way he perfectly molds into you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, even now. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

Except you don’t.

There’s still so much you haven’t figured out, and no telling how many loops you have left before reality collapses entirely.

Reluctantly, you pull away from him once again, wrapping your arms around yourself instead. No matter what you do, it always seems one step forwards and two steps back with you and Bucky.

"Okay," you say quietly, letting out one long breath and then nodding. "What’s the plan?"

The corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle with a grin.

* * *

"What do you want with Redwing?" Sam asks skeptically.

"Repair it." Bucky leans against the kitchen counter. His hair is still damp from his shower, and your eyes keep getting drawn to a single curl that’s hanging into his face.

Sam scoffs and continues his typing. "If it were that easy, I’d have fixed them already. One’s sensors got fried in that explosion, and the bullet that hit Two splintered into about five million tiny pieces."

"Sorry about that," you say.

"You didn’t shoot at him." He pauses, narrowing his eyes at you. "Tell me you didn’t shoot at him."

"I did not shoot at Redwing." You didn’t reset it happening, either, but you feel like now might not be the time to fess up.

"It’s going to take forever to patch them both up again, and I’ve not had that kind of time lately," Sam says, tilting his head at his laptop as a case in point. You feel awful.

"Let me take a look," Bucky presses.

"No offence, man, but you’re not exactly MacGyver," Sam grimaces. "And it’s not like there’s spare parts just lying around the place."

"Redwing’s Stark tech, right?" you ask thoughtfully.

"Wakandan. But the hardware’s still similar enough."

"I have an idea," you say, checking the time. "Either of you guys hungry yet?"

"I don’t know about this," Sam says about forty minutes and one time loop explanation later, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "How old did you say you are?"

"He’s a great kid," you tell him. "He’s a candidate for MIT."

Peter blinks. "I didn’t say—anyway, I, uhm. I used to intern at Stark Industries, so sure, I could take a look at it."

"Did you now," Sam says dryly.

"Yup. Just one summer though. Before the …" He swallows. "I was gone."

Something softens a little in Sam’s expression. "Same here, kiddo."

"Yeah, I know. I mean, I heard, I wasn’t there." Peter clears his throat, tucking his hands into his armpits. "So where’s the bird?"

"Why are you trying to fix your archnemesis?" you say, catching up with Bucky.

"It’s not my—" He cuts himself off, rolling his eyes when you grin. "I’d like an audio recording of the crowd when Sam gives his speech."

"Why?"

He hesitates. "It’s probably not even about the loop. It’s just …"

That frown you can recognize. That inkling suspicion, that 'it’s probably nothing, but I’d like confirmation'. It usually means he’s onto something.

"A clue?"

"Sure. Maybe. A clue."

"Okay then." You slip your pinkie into his.

"What," he chuckles, squeezing back, "no criticizing my plans?"

"I am nothing if not out of ideas," you sigh. "And who knows, maybe it’ll help."

You don’t usually go into Tony Stark’s old workroom. Most of the interesting stuff got packed up before the move to Avengers Campus, leaving a sterile looking, well-lit room with a large work bench and a single old rolling chair that Peter plops onto.

The Redwings are a rather sorry sight, laid out in their cases with all the extra pieces collected in small plastic bags. All of you watch as Peter cracks his knuckles before he carefully unscrews the busted top of Redwing One’s casing. Sam is hovering over his shoulder like he’s about to grade his efforts.

Waiting’s the worst part. At your request, FRIDAY puts on a 70s playlist that makes Sam tap his foot while he questions whether Peter’s declared his major yet—"no, uhm, they want us to do that at the end of our first year and I’ve not been admitted yet, so"—and his most recent eye appointment—"my vision’s 20/20, sir"—until they both finally let out a deep breath.

"Getting the spare parts won’t be the problem," Peter says, swiveling around in his chair. "I have that sorta stuff at home, it’s just a question of replacing the nanosensors and soldering the PCB."

"Sure," you say, understanding most of those words individually.

"The problem is, it’ll take me a couple of hours. There’s no way for me to get it done until, what, 2 p.m.? If we rush, dust could get into the circuit and it’ll all be a worse mess than it is right now."

"Told you," Sam says.

"What about the other one?" Bucky asks.

Peter grimaces. "That one’s gonna need a proper cleaning, ideally with ultrasonic equipment to get all the particles out. Sorry, Sarge."

Bucky just nods, then leaves the room without another word.

"I got it," Sam tells you when you start after him. "Put that lid back on and step away, MIT."

Peter holds up both of his hands, eyes flicking towards you. "Can’t break it if the loop resets, right?"

"You’re good," you confirm, still looking at the door.

His shoulders lose some of their tension as he leans back in his chair, clearly still impressed with everything going on. "So, how does it work?"

Your laugh comes out a little shrill. "I wish I could tell you."

"There was an episode of Star Trek TNG where they got stuck in a collision loop." He plays around with the screwdriver he’s still holding, his hands surprisingly quick. "Have you tried sending yourself messages as well?"

"Kind of," you say, thinking of Bucky’s writing on your arm and the tally marks on your legs.

"So cool."

"I don’t know about that," you reply. "It’s been weeks, and I still don’t understand how this loop is working. Especially now that there’s two of us who are aware it’s happening. Does that mean it’s still just one reality on repeat?"

Peter shrugs. "I dunno, I don’t know much about it, but in my experience, reality’s just what people remember. Who says there’s much more to it?"

"Right," you say. "It’s just us two getting looped. Your reality is mostly fine, it just happens over and over. But if you don’t realize that it does, it’s not actually a loop."

"I mean, maybe, maybe."

Maybe.

You can’t just separate one from the other. There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics.

"You know much about thermodynamics, Peter?"

"The, uh, basics, I guess? Perpetual motion is impossible, energy consumed by a system must be resupplied by an external source, everything is balance, that sorta stuff?"

Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act.

You massage your stinging temples. "Top of your class, were you?"

Something flickers across his face before he smiles. "Nah. I’m more of an applied physics guy."

Once all of this is over, maybe you could introduce him to Bruce. He might enjoy the pop culture references as well.

Before you can suggest as much, Peter takes a look at his phone and curses under his breath. "Shoot, I’m sorry, I gotta go, I got a—photography club."

"Sure, don’t worry about it," you say. The symbols around your wrist tingle again, and you distractedly trace them with your thumb.

Funny, you think, how the timing of your intervention seems to completely derail his day. Last time, he said he was visiting his aunt.

* * *

Here’s the thing: When you’re able to travel through time, looking at the past becomes surprisingly emotionally taxing. Remembering what could have been, what might have been, what should have been in another, better universe is, you suppose, hard on everyone.

For someone with the ability to theoretically do something about all these what ifs, it’s ulcer inducing.

These are the kind of things, therefore, you force yourself to suppress most of the time. Ironically, it’s mostly the sort of moments that, at the time, you want to freeze and preserve forever. Looking back, they’re the ones that hurt the most.

Sometimes, though, you can’t help it. Some routines, some rituals that were established during happier times demand to be maintained, even if you’re the only one who remembers them anymore. Even if there’s other, more pressing things to do, secrets to work out, realities to stabilize.

Your hands know this rhythm.

You’ve let FRIDAY put on some music from one of Sam’s favorite playlists again, and you watch him nod along as he’s typing away on his laptop with a faraway focus. You smile as you wash your hands again, preheat the oven, grease your pan.

It takes him a little while to consciously notice what you’re doing. "Really?" he says. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"We have a functioning AC," you reply. "I thought we should celebrate that."

"The planet is dying."

Be that it were only the planet.

"I’m making turtle pie," you say. "And cinnamon rolls."

That seems to placate him for the time being, because he moves to the living room area without further complaint.

You grimace in concentration as you transfer your pie crust to the pan for prebaking. You’ve never been particularly skilled at pies, but you’ve been living by the motto "trying counts for something" in all other aspects of life lately.

"You’re hovering again, Barnes," you say without turning.

"You’re baking." The surprise in his voice makes you smile.

"I am," you say. "Notice how there aren’t any flames erupting around me."

"Yet," Bucky says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "I didn’t know you could bake."

"You never asked." You dust your hands off the excess flour. "It’s easier to think when I have something else to focus on, you know?"

"Can I help?"

You’re tempted to make another dig at his baking skills, but the way he looks at you makes you reconsider. "Can you knead with that arm?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"I won’t be blamed if you malfunction. Are you dishwasher safe?"

"Give me that." He frowns slightly, looking at the ingredients you’ve started to measure out into your mixing bowl. "I thought you’re making pie?"

"I am. Well, and these."

"Ambitious." He swoops a finger through the mixture to try.

"Lots of thoughts require ambitious projects to procrastinate with."

He nods, and you fall into a sort of companionable silence you’ve not felt with him in a while. Sometimes, your arms brush as you work, and it sends a warm shiver up your entire arm.

You want to interlock your fingers again, pull him towards you, see if you can taste a hint of cinnamon on his lips.

"During the Blip …" you start, immediately unsure whether you want to share this particular story or not.

You watch Bucky’s hands, continuing to slowly and methodically fold the flour into the dough.

"Nat wasn’t allowed in the kitchen at all. She was so much worse than you." You laugh when he elbows you. "But there’s this stress-relief in baking, you know? In doing something with your hands, and by the end of it, you’ve got something you can give to others."

"I get that," he says, scraping at a particularly sticky piece of dough.

You nod and measure out your sugar. "Steve had a lot of late nights, especially those first couple of years, and there was only so much to do at all when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with everyone blaming you for half the globe being gone."

"How was he?" There’s a careful fondness in Bucky’s voice that he usually hides. It makes you think about your answer.

"Lost, I think," you say, even though it seems lacking. Steve’s out-of-timeliness had always been very different to Bucky’s. You used to think he’d managed to rearrange himself over the years, to reorient himself in this new reality.

You didn’t realize he’d used an old compass before it was too late.

"I mean, everyone was," you add, even though you don’t really know why you’re defending him.

"Were you?"

"Desperately," you huff. "Turns out, though, when the world around you is upside down, it’s really nice to have some fixed points to look forward to."

"Like what?"

"Bath towels. Or making cinnamon rolls on someone’s birthday."

Bucky stops kneading, calculating in his head. "Is it—"

"Yup."

He curses under his breath.

"Yup." You sigh and grab the mixing bowl again. "Hand me the butter?"

"You need to add a pinch of nutmeg. And … cardamom, I think."

You stare at him in surprise.

"That’s ma’s recipe. I used to beg for these when I was a kid. I’ve not had them in ninety years or somethin’."

A warm feeling spreads in your stomach. "About time, then."

Usually, you’d get to skip over this part; the waiting. It’s your least favorite, when you’re stuck in between tasks, your crust in the oven, the other dough still proofing. You’ve never been very good at waiting.

You start scrubbing the counters furiously, your thoughts returning with a vengeance as soon as there’s a lull in your blessed distraction plan. The loop on your wrist is particularly itchy again today.

"Talk to me."

With a frustrated groan, you drop your sponge. "I keep thinking about physics. Like, maybe there’s some sort of equation or quantum experiment that’ll help us out."

Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one.

But how does any of that make sense with what you’re experiencing?

Humans can only be in one state at one particular time.

"You reckon we’re gonna be spacetime experts before the universe implodes?" Bucky remarks.

"They should just hand us our doctorates right now."

"James Barnes, PhD. My ma’d lose her mind."

"Eh, not as impressive as a racecar driver in the family if you ask me." You turn on the hot water tap to let the bowls soak and yelp when you’re pulled back against his chest.

"That so?"

"Hmm." Your heart is beating wildly as Bucky interlaces your fingers. "I’m still not convinced you should be allowed to drive with that flimsy piece of paper you call a license."

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "That’s pretty hurtful, doll. I’ve never had any complaints about my driving."

"Maybe everyone else you drove had a danger fetish."

You should probably turn off the water again. For the environment. But Bucky’s laugh fans across your cheek before he inhales, deeply, and you are so sick of pulling away from him.

"God, it’s so unfair," he whispers, leaving a trail of goosebumps running down your neck.

"What is?"

"You."

The oven timer starts beeping and you want to smash it with a baseball bat. Reluctantly, Bucky releases you from his hold to retrieve the pie crust while you prevent the imminent flooding of your kitchen sink.

It’s not even noon yet, you remind yourself. You’ve been over this. You don’t know how many semi-stable loops there are left, and you can’t afford to waste another one of them.

No matter how much you want to.

There’s a tense sort of silence between you as you finish up the pie and let Bucky revise your cinnamon roll ingredients.

"You know," you tell him, wiping another bowl clean, "Steve’s tried to recreate these for years."

Bucky crosses out another measurement. "That’s what you get for stealing a family recipe."

It’s started to smell heavenly in here; like dish soap and warm cookies. By the time the rolls are finally ready to bake, you’re sweaty and excited, and Sam’s checked in on the status of the goods twice. The air’s turned giddy with sugar and anticipation, the silence shifting into something more comfortable, almost peaceful.

How lovely to know a day like this can have pockets of lightness, you think; even if they’re fleeting.

Bucky’s hair has started to stick up in the back a little as you move around each other in a routine so easy it feels choreographed. Whenever you look at him, he’s already watching you, and it makes your heart jump every time.

"Hold on, you have a little …"

With a small grin, you reach out to wipe away the trace of glaze on his cheek. He catches your wrist, his eyes darkening.

You don’t breathe.

He pulls your hand closer to his mouth, licking the icing off your thumb without breaking eye contact. Fire rushes down your spine.

"Now who’s not playing fair?" you whisper.

"Fuck fair," he says. It comes out like a plea.

You despise yourself for shaking your head. "It’s too early."

You’ve agreed. There’s too much left to sort through. You’ve not even been to the astral plane today.

"Feels late to me," Bucky says, keeping hold of your hand. "Couple weeks late, at least."

Every part of you aches to close the distance between you, reality be damned. So what if it all unravels? No one but the two of you would remember, anyway.

It’s just you and Bucky, in the end, and doesn’t that count for something? You’ve already lost so much time getting stuck in this single day, time you can’t ever get back, because unlike everyone else, you can’t just go back to the beginning.

Not as long as you’re in the loop.

And just like that, with a sudden, crashing sense of clarity, you know how to finish this.

* * *

"Space and time and reality are related," you explain, drawing a bunch of overlapping circles and labeling them. "That’s what Strange said, that’s what Wong said. Even Peter."

In my experience, reality’s just what people remember.

"Dimension’s all a question of perspective. Right now, for Bucky and me, time is experienced as a loop, but for Sam here, it isn’t. Because he is physically in a different space than we are."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are. This here," you hold up your arm, letting the green runes shimmer in the sunlight, "is breaking down the barriers between dimensions. If reality was stuck in a loop for everyone else, everyone else would remember, but they don’t. It’s just us. It’s just our reality."

"I’m getting a headache," Sam groans into his pie.

"Your timeline is normal," you tell him, drawing an arrow pointing to the left. "July fourth today. July third before that. No detours or anomalies. Your day always goes the way it’s supposed to. It just happens to intersect with our loop." You draw an infinity symbol cutting through the line, then point at its center "We meet right here, at this junction, and then your reality continues the way it’s supposed to and ours resets."

"I thought I’m the one that’s getting reset."

"So did I, at first. But we’re the ones continually jumping back to when Friday begins, over and over, with our memories intact. All of this," you trace over the infinity symbol multiple times, "is one linear timeline that’s weeks long, but been compressed to a single day."

"So then, if my reality continues …" Sam starts. "That means, for every single time you’ve been through the loop, there was a different version of me that just went on from there?"

"Exactly," you say, relieved. "Infinite versions in infinite universes."

"Sometimes I miss the simplicity of a good government conspiracy," he mumbles, grabbing another cinnamon roll.

Bucky frowns. "What does that mean for us?"

"There are versions of us outside the loop—obviously, we don’t just stop existing on July fifth. But because of the time loop, we can’t access them. Our consciousness can’t move on from this day, if you will."

Thus, Friday ad nauseum. And because the universe isn’t built to sustain all of this excess energy in just one single point, reality’s started to fracture; trying to relieve some of the added pressure through cracks and TAGs and inconsistencies.

"Then how do we get out?" Bucky asks.

You rub the empty spot on your pinkie. "That’s the part you’re not gonna like. As long as I’m stuck in the loop, my powers have to keep it upright. They’re tied up in it, that’s why I can’t use them. It’s perpetual motion in a closed system."

"So?"

Your wrist tingles. "So the only way to stop it for good is for me to be on the outside. I need to be the external source of the equation."

"How are you gonna do that?" Sam asks.

All the color drains from Bucky’s face. "No."

"You know I’m right," you say softly.

"No," Bucky repeats.

"I’m not liking this," Sam says, looking between the two of you.

"There’s no guarantee it works."

"It’s the only thing we’ve not tried." You look at Sam with a feeble smile. "I have to die."

"What?"

"I’m not watching you die," Bucky says loudly. His hands are balled into fists so tight they’re shaking. "There has to be something else we can try."

"And what would that be?"

"I don’t know! Maybe we need to go back to the astral plane, try something else."

"It’s not enough. It’s a liminal space."

"It has to be enough!"

"Bucky—"

"I’m not losing you!"

With a single slam, the couch table breaks straight down the middle. Bucky’s breaths are heavy, every muscle tense. A cursory glance would tell you his walls are all the way back up, but his eyes … his eyes tell a different story.

"We’re running out of time," you say gently. "If we do nothing, we’ll inevitably lose. And then we’re all fucked. We don’t know what a disintegrating reality is gonna do to the multiverse at large."

"To be honest, I don’t really give a shit."

Sam reaches out a hand. "Buck …"

"No, Sam. Why don’t I ever get to be selfish?" He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. "Why is it that every time I get a little bit of good in my life, the world’s about to end?"

"It’s going to work," you tell him.

Again, he shakes his head. "You can’t know that."

"No, but I do." You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. "I know because Strange told me I make it out of the loop. I’m the one who tells him how to find me. I can’t do that if I’m dead. It’s going to work."

For a while, Bucky just stares at you, shoulders drooping.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks quietly.

You shrug helplessly. "It never seemed like the right time."

"We’re stuck in a goddamn loop, and it never seemed like the right time?"

"Be angry with me all you want, but it doesn’t change the facts. We’ve been going around in circles, because that’s the very nature of this timeline. I need my powers back to set things straight." He refuses to catch your eye. "The only way for me to break the loop is not to be in it."

"How are you even going to know you have to do that if you don’t remember anything about today?"

Your mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a very good question, one you don’t know how to answer. How do you finish something you won’t know you’ve started?

"Plus, the loop’s still there and bound to you, right?" Sam cuts in, nodding at your wrist. "Regardless of perception. Who’s to say it’s not gonna implode if you can’t remember it?"

You let out a long sigh. "Because it’ll have to be bound to Bucky instead of me."

"Then just do that," Bucky argues. "I can handle it."

"I know that," you say. "But I still need my powers back."

"There’s another problem, too," Sam says frowning at the whiteboard. "Say it all works out like you’re saying and you get out of the loop while Bucky’s still inside. That means you have one shot. And if it doesn’t work …"

Yeah. You’ve seen it, too. It’s the biggest risk of your plan, and there’s no safety net that you can put up.

If it doesn’t work, Bucky’s going to stay stuck in the loop forever.

* * *

On the day you’re gonna die, you wake up on the couch in the living room area, alone. A deserted cup of coffee sits on the couch table. Everything is quiet.

You sit up slowly, stretching your aching limbs. Sam must’ve already left for Madison Square Garden, because the shield is no longer propped up against the counter. It gives you a nice window of time.

You bring your cup to the sink and finish the washing-up, carefully setting everything on the rack to dry. You wipe the counters. You check the fridge. You write a post-it for Bucky, just for the hell of it.

Right when you’re about to leave, there’s a meowing at your feet. Alpine stares at you with her wide, solemn eyes, like she means to impart long forgotten wisdoms on you.

More likely, she wants a treat.

"Hi, hellcat," you say fondly and she accepts a couple of scratches under her chin. "You seen your dad?"

She purrs for a bit, then bumps her head against your legs and occupies herself with the leftover tuna in her bowl. You sigh, deciding to leave her to it before she decides you need to be reacquainted with her claws.

"Bye, kitty," you whisper.

Her tail twitches.

You’re not surprised to find Bucky on the roof, looking out over Manhattan with an unreadable look on his face. It’s another perfectly sunny day, cloudless cerulean skies and too many degrees to be wearing a leather jacket.

He doesn’t turn when you step up next to him, and it makes your heart ache a little.

Look at me.

"Are you angry with me?"

He lets out a bone-deep sigh. "No."

"Could’ve fooled me."

It’s been a couple of days since you realized what you’re going to have to do, and to say the bubble has burst would be an understatement. There’s been more arguing; more negotiating; both of you clearly seeing where the other one is coming from and yet unwilling to accept it without a fight.

In the end, it’s made no difference. No matter which way you twist it, you need to stop this loop. And he’s not been able to come up with any other ideas towards that goal, either.

"I’m worried," Bucky says quietly.

You reach out for him, intertwining your pinkie with his metal one. "I’m not going to leave you in the loop. I promise."

He shakes his head. "I don’t give a shit about what happens to me."

"Well, I do."

"I’m worried about you." He tucks his chin into his chest. "That’s a helluva lot of pressure you’re putting yourself under, and you won’t even remember where it came from."

"You forget I thrive under pressure." You cast a sidewards glance at him. "Besides, I’ve got you on my side. So I’ve got nothing to be scared of."

It’s a half-truth. You’re terrified. You keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong, all the ways you could fail and condemn him to an infinity of loops in which he’s gonna die and you barely even know him yet.

And yet, when you look at him, your worried mind is soothed, every doubt replaced by something much more certain: He’s going to have your back.

You trust him with your life and you trust him with his, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

"If I—" you start, your voice cracking. "If I don’t get my memories back, when it’s done, I just … I should probably tell you now, right?"

For a few short, unending moments, Bucky doesn’t say anything. Your hands are getting sweaty.

"You know," he says quietly. "We never did try the Groundhog Day option."

Your hand tightens on the railing as your heartbeat kicks up. You glance at him from the side. His face is still hard, but determined. And there it is; that little glint of a challenge in his eyes.

A beat passes.

Your gaze drops to his mouth and he surges.

There’s a new edge to the way he kisses you this time. He holds your face in his hands like you’re something precious, and you can feel him pour all of his desperation into the kiss.

Tears spring to your eyes. You want nothing more than to just melt into the moment, forget everything else and keep kissing him forever. It’s not that simple, though.

"Just in case," you whisper, pulling his mouth to yours again.

You kiss him like it’s the last time and Bucky responds with the same urgency because you both know, deep down, it might well be.

"Just in case," he repeats against your lips as you come up for air, his voice dark and rough and full of fear.

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

He picks you up in one quick, fluid motion, and you rub your nose against his, breathing him in before you find his mouth again.

Again.

More.

You lose your shirt somewhere on the stairs. Your hands are shaking as you attempt to lock his door behind you.

His belt won’t unbuckle. He snaps it in two without taking his lips off your neck, and you let out a surprised laugh as he drops you on his bed.

Despite the growing heat, neither of you hurries this; quite the contrary. It’s a slow, reverent dance. Every inch of clothing that gets removed feels like peeling back another layer, leaving you both fully exposed for the very first time.

You kiss every single scar on his chest as he watches you through half-lidded, glassy eyes, his heart beating so wildly you can feel it just as well as your own. You interlace your fingers and pull him even closer, and when you press another kiss to the palm of his metal hand, he lets out a shaky breath.

When he finally sinks into you, you can taste yourself on his tongue, and your eyes roll back in your head because yes.

Nothing in your whole life has ever felt this right before.

I love you, you think, and the words are at the tip of your tongue when you tumble over the edge as Bucky mumbles sweet praises into your mouth. I love you I love you Iloveyou.

You think that maybe he knows, anyway.

* * *

"What are you thinking about?"

The sun is setting outside, leaving a reddish hue on Bucky’s hair. Your voice is rough after hours of talking and sex. You’ve spilled so many of your secrets you’ve lost count, and he listened to all of them.

Just in case.

You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and Bucky shudders. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Nothing."

His eyes betray him, like they always do.

"You are the worst liar I’ve ever met, Barnes."

"Being a good liar isn’t something to be proud of, you know."

There’s something so devastating about the way he looks at you, like he’s watching something shatter right in front of him. He kisses you again, softly, and it makes you forget your next thought.

"You …" He sighs. "I don’t want to lose this."

"Do you still trust me?" you ask him, voice quiet.

Bucky looks at you, huffing breathlessly, hesitant in a way that only lends more conviction to his answer. "Of course I do." Like there’s no doubt to be had.

It sends a thrill through you.

"I think it’s a good plan in theory, but it puts everything back on you again." He cups your cheek in his hand. "You’ll go back to hating me, and then I won’t be able to help you."

"I never hated you," you say. "I mean, you drive me up the walls sometimes, but I never hated you."

"Why not?" he asks. "I would."

You sit up a little to look at him straight, one hand pressed to his chest. "James Buchanan Barnes, you are more than worthy of all the good things in the universe to happen to you. I’m only sorry it took me that long to tell you."

The saddest little smile curls at the edge of his mouth as he evades your eyes.

"Hey," you say. "We’ll be fine."

"Yeah."

You lean in to kiss him, short and sweet. "I need you to promise me something."

"Hm?" A vibration against your lips.

"Don’t do anything stupid."

He grins, and it’s almost honest. "You know me."

"I do. That’s what I’m concerned about. When I do this, we get one try, and if I fail …"

"Don’t worry about me, sweetheart."

As if he’s not made that quite impossible.

"Fuck you, Barnes," you whisper.

His eyes melt a little, and you trace the little lines in their corners. "There she is."

You roll your eyes. "Bucky?"

He looks at you questioningly, and the words die on your lips. Instead, you pull him in for one more kiss, trying to pour everything you’re not able to say into it, your heart beating wildly.

He presses you deeper into the matress, and you savor every second of this feeling. His stubble scratching across your cheek, the way your fingers slip perfectly into his mussed hair, the low, soothing hum of his arm.

This, you think. This should have been the kind of day that got stuck all along.

You roll on top of him again. His hands catch your waist, warm and cold against your skin, and you shudder as he smiles into your mouth.

One more, you think, sinking back into the kiss. One more. Just one more.

You bring him even closer to you with one hand as the other one slips under his pillow, carefully angling yourself forwards.

Just in case.

"It’s strange," you whisper. "Somehow I wish we had more time."

A hot tear falls on Bucky’s cheek. His eyes widen.

It’s the last thing you see before you put his gun against your temple and pull the trigger.

chapter twelve

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 we're in the endgame now and you are so welcome to shout at me in the comments/tags 😈

[intrepidacious]

thank you so so much darling 🥺🥺 so happy and grateful to have crossed paths with you on the wide wild internet and to get to call you a moot 💚

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

if it helps at all i'm also very not normal about tat being over 😭😭💚 thank you so much for your support and your comments and your dms and just. for caring about these two so much as well!!!

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Error: Delayed transmission.

.

.

.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

.

.

.

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

[intrepidacious]

god that's such a mood :') i hope you enjoy it!!! 💚

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

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Error: Delayed transmission.

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Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

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—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚