islayhawkin

[islayhawkin]

Helloo Beautiful! Are you currently taking requests? I have this angsty idea for a newt x reader fic, but I just want to make sure you’re currently taking requests in :))

I'm always open for angsty ideas hehe

[islayhawkin]

oh to be 13 years old again, staying up late to read fanfiction

[islayhawkin]

To Be Fully Known— R.L. X GN!Muggle! Reader

Warnings: a swear word or two, mentions of Remus feeling like he's going to vomit because he's an anxious man but no actual vomiting, feelings of loneliness and mentions of dying alone, also quotes from Sylvia Plath and those are a bit dark and sad

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Young Adult Remus (22) x GN!Muggle!Reader

Summary: Remus Lupin is a lonely liar. He was sure he would never fully let someone in his life and spill all his secrets, that is until he met a muggle bookstore owner that changed everything. Too bad he's been telling them lies for six months.

A/N: The italic quotes are taken from the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Masterlist Taglist

Lies. Secrets. Remus had plenty, more than the average person. James knew he actually hated potions but he didn’t know the reason. After taking thousands of potions in his 22 years of life, dreaming that they would cure the monster inside of him, he can’t look at a cauldron without remembering the disappointment, the burn in his throat, or the sadness in his mother’s eyes. He only told James it was harder to learn. Peter knows Remus has nightmares but the visions of Fenrir Greyback chasing him while his toddler legs tried and failed to get him to safety was something only Remus knew. The lie about a dragon trying to eat him was easy to craft. Sirius knows more of Remus’s secrets than most but even he doesn’t know the depth of his self loathing and the utter fear he feels when faced with the realization he may have to watch his friends marry and start families while he remains alone until his final day. A well placed smile was a better lie than he could ever come up with.

The secrets he kept from his dearest friends ate him alive, clawing at his heart desperate to be known but Remus endured the pain. They already knew of the beast inside him, how many more dark secrets can the three boys handle? Surely not many more. Not with James about to have a second kid in two months. Sirius was preparing to travel to America, hunting down any dark wizards that may have gone there to hide out after the defeat of Voldemort; he didn’t have time to coddle Remus. Peter was too stressed about the engagement ring that’s been in his dresser for the past year to think of anything besides when the perfect time to propose to his partner was. No, there was no one in his life that could listen to more secrets. Lies would have to do.

Remus pulled the coat closer to his body, only slightly wishing he didn’t refuse the new coat James had offered to buy him. It was only February; Remus was convinced his coat could last until the summer but the missing buttons and holes in the sleeves said otherwise. The chill settling into his bones only added to the ache he felt from the previous full moon. As he’d gotten older, it was harder to recover from the pain of a transformation and now here he was, close to a week after the moon and his joints still protested most movements. At this point, the only thing keeping him from crying from the pain was the little bookstore in the distance. Remus swore to himself this would be the last time he ever stepped foot into the store but Remus also told himself that two weeks ago and a week before that and a month before that. Every time was going to be the last time but like breaking a bad habit, the last time was never really the last. Remus had completely mastered lying to himself.

The chiming bell gave away his position and he resisted the urge to hide as a figure emerged from behind the shelves. The bright smile on your face warmed him from the inside out, melting the icy walls around his heart he had spent so long building. Remus fished around in his pockets, hunting for the muggle coins Lily gave him that were mixed in with the wizard coin. In the time it took him to feel the faces of the coins with the tip of his finger exposed from the hole in his glove, you already had a cup of hot chocolate on the counter with his name scribbled on the cup. With shaky hands, Remus pulled the correct coins out of his pocket and laid them out on the counter but when yours reached out to steady him, he could feel his face heat and knew it must have been bright red.

“I thought I told you last time that hot chocolate was free?” You said with a smile, putting his money back in his hand, closing his fist around them.

“Yeah but the sign on the window says it's free for kids. I may be too old to count as a kid.” He dropped the coins back on the counter, meeting your gaze.

Remus watched you shake your head and take a single coin from the pile, not nearly anything close to what he should be paying. “Please stop paying for the hot cocoa. You spend enough of your money on books, the least I can do is give you something warm and sweet for free.”

“A terrible business model.” You turned to put the money in the register and with as much speed as he could muster, Remus put the rest in the tip jar.

“I hate to tell you but I didn’t get anything new since you’ve been here last. Everything is just the same.” You turned back to him, leaning on the counter to watch as he took a seat.

“That’s alright.” Remus whispered, clutching the hot chocolate in his cold hands. “I can always find something in a bookstore, new or not.” His eyes darted between the cup and your own eyes and when he found them staring back at him, he hurried to take a drink, ignoring the way his tongue burned and just how much he liked the pain. A small reminder that he is in fact alive. “What would you recommend?”

Remus watched you straighten up, your smile back on your face. If he could spend the rest of his life bringing a smile to your face, everything would be worth it. You moved out from behind the counter, slipper covered feet leading you both to the back of the store. Remus glanced behind him and smiled at the sight of your shoes by the door. He learned you always change into slippers when you come into work the hard way; it took weeks for the lump on his head to go away and it took months for you to stop apologizing. At least now you were better at tucking them against a shelf and out of people’s way.

The further back in the store you moved, the more disorganized it was. Boxes of books were laid out on the floor, still waiting to be put on the shelves. Two weeks ago you had asked a woman to not go through them but you had no problem when Remus did the same. In the past six months since he’s been shopping here, you’ve given him more freedom than any other customers. This was only confirmed further when you opened the door with the bright yellow handmade sign that read “employees only” and beckoned him to follow you.

The back room was small and cramped but you managed to squeeze in a couch and fridge among the stacks and stacks of books. Your bag was thrown on the couch and it was when you started rummaging through it Remus realized you were not just searching the stock room for his recommendation. “I just finished this book yesterday and I think you may like it. I’m assuming you know who Sylvia Plath is since you’re an English literature major and all but here.” You thrust the book forward into Remus’s hands as he hummed in agreement. He had absolutely no idea who the author was but nodded to keep up with the lie he said previously. Would there ever be an end to the lies? “I don’t have a copy for the store since it's so new and I can’t afford to buy more copies but you’re welcome to borrow my personal copy.”

You took the cup of cooling hot chocolate from his hand as he turned the book over in his hands. The Journals of Sylvia Plath. He had never heard of this book or Plath in his life but since going to Hogwarts and then graduating, he didn’t spend much time in the muggle world apart from visiting you and your bookstore. “I’ve been wanting to read this for a while but I couldn’t get my hands on it.” The lie flowed off of his tongue with ease and he tried to ignore how much it bothered him. “I can’t take your copy from you.” He tried to hand it back but just like the money, you refused.

“You’re just borrowing it. Remus, I don’t mind at all. Besides, it gives you an excuse to come back when you’re done.”

At your words, Remus choked and wished he could blame his drink for the strange noise. This wasn’t the first time you flirted with Remus. In fact, most of the time, he flirted back but today was different. It wasn’t because he didn’t like you otherwise he wouldn’t come into your bookstore and spend money he didn’t have. He liked you a lot and in another universe he would have asked you out months ago but in this universe, Remus never did. The many lies he told you were finally starting to get to him. How any wizard has a relationship with a muggle is beyond him. At least his father never kept the secret from his mother as she found out right away. What would he tell you every full moon? How would he explain the scars that increase in number every month? How would he pretend to go to muggle college? He wasn’t an actor; Remus was just a liar. The lies were enough when he only saw you in your store but as soon as those lies followed him out the door, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Lying had become so easy over the years but lying to you was going to end him.

“I can’t. I’m moving in a week and I don’t have time to finish it before I leave. I don’t know when I could get it back to you.” His chest ached when he saw the sadness in your eyes at his lie. But in a flash, the sadness was gone and your smile returned.

“Then think of it as a moving gift. You can keep it.”

“Now I really can’t take this from you.” Remus sighed, holding it back out to you.

“I refuse. If you really don’t want to keep it then you’ll have to finish reading it before you move.” You grabbed a small paper bag and tucked the book inside, handing it back to him. “Please, take it.”

His hand reached out on its own accord, clutching the bag in his fist.

---

Remus didn’t remember what excuse he used to leave the bookstore as quickly as possible but he knew it was a lie. The book still remained in the bag, sitting on his dining table and burning in his mind. It’s been two days since you gave it to him and he had every intention of reading it but every time he thought about it, his stomach churned and he felt like running away. From what he wasn’t sure. After his latest lie, there was no way he could ever go back. The knocking at his door dragged his eyes away from the bag. Remus glanced through the window, his eyebrows furrowing when he saw Lily Potter.

As soon as he opened the door, Lily pushed her way inside. “It's freezing out there and this stupid coat doesn’t cover my stomach anymore. I can’t believe I thought being eight months pregnant in February was a good idea.” Remus watched her shed her ill fitting coat and toss it on the old couch, opting to grab a blanket to wrap around herself instead. Lily turned to look at Remus who was still standing at the open door. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Forgot what?” Remus mumbled, shutting the door and joining Lily by the couch.

“James is taking Harry out on a father-son adventure before the baby comes but with the due date coming so soon, I can’t be alone. You offered to hang out with me.”

Distantly, Remus recalled agreeing to that but life must have been different when he agreed. He had a million questions he wanted to ask her, starting with how she got here and ending with how long she would be here but he never got the chance to ask her. The bag on the table caught her eye and much like a cat chasing a laser, she was on a mission. She took the book out of the bag, unceremoniously throwing the now empty bag over her shoulder. When Lily cracked the book open, Remus tried to keep his stomach from jumping. “Y/N L/N? It says this book belongs to them. Did you steal their book?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Really? Because this book is brand new and I have been wanting to get my hands on it for a week but I haven’t had any luck. So, tell me how you got this book and why it has some random person’s name in it.”

Remus groaned and dropped down onto the couch, his head in his hands. “Can we please not? I’m going to puke.”

“You liar.” If only Lily knew how accurate that statement was. “You just don’t want to tell me the reason. Well, there’s an address listed here too so maybe I’ll just go there and return this book. And who knows, maybe I’ll go into labor and have my baby and when I’m alone and laboring, I’ll blame you.”

“It was a gift, alright? I was given the book by this muggle bookstore owner as a moving gift. I didn’t steal it and you don’t need to hunt anyone down when you look seconds away from giving birth on my only dining chair. So drop it.”

Lily gasped, causing Remus to jump, thinking something was wrong with the baby but instead he saw Lily slowly standing to her feet and waddling over to him. “Not the bookstore you’ve been going to all the time. Remus, are you being courted by a muggle?” Lily giggled, sitting next to Remus and using his shoulder to steady herself. “Wait, moving gift? Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“I told them I was moving so I couldn’t borrow their book so they gave it to me as a gift.” Some of that was true and honestly, Remus was surprised he even shared as much as he did. This could start a deeper conversation that he wasn’t ready to have but just like you, Lily had a way of worming her way past his defenses.

“So you lied to them about moving? No wonder you’re so jumpy. Now you can’t show your face over there anymore.” Lily had the audacity to laugh. “Just lie and say you can’t move anymore and go back.”

“You don’t get it Lily. All I’ve done is lie to them. They think I’m an English literature student at Cambridge who has a normal life and only has shit clothes because I’m a broke college student. I lie to everyone so I don’t understand why this is bothering me so much but I can’t continue to pretend to be someone I’m not.” Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. This was quickly turning into a deeper conversation. “Lily, I really don’t want to talk about this right now. Can we just forget it?”

He could tell she wouldn’t be forgetting it any time soon but she nodded and told Remus she was going to use his bed to nap. And as she waddled off, his eyes filled with tears as he stared at the book laying next to him.

---

“I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.” Remus stared at the opening words of the book that was made of a young woman’s journal. God, it felt like he was intruding, reading something his eyes were never meant to see. The note you scribbled in the margin told him you felt the same but you had kept reading and Remus found himself doing the same.

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?”

“And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth.”

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.”

“I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.”

Remus slammed the book shut, hands shaking as the last words he read echoed in his skull. “I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.” He was going to be sick. As he got further into the book, he found more pieces of himself in this young woman. Loneliness, fear, jealousy. God, it was like someone took his deepest secrets and tossed them onto paper for anyone to read.

Like turning a light on in a dark room, Remus finally saw what he had been hiding for so long. He was alone. People loved him and cared about him and wanted to know him deeply but he lied. He kept pieces of himself locked away and allowed his friends to think they knew him totally but in reality, they only knew what he wanted them to know. He wanted them to know him; he wanted you to know him. That scared him the most.

---

James and Harry picked up Lily a few hours later and Remus was left alone with his thoughts. The way he saw it, he had two options. He could either take steps to fix his problems, starting with talking to you and telling the truth, or he could come to terms with his loneliness and live with it for the rest of his life. Just as he had decided he could handle being alone forever, his feet carried him out his front door and in the direction of the bookstore he had become so familiar with. Your book burned a hole in his jacket pocket, pushing him closer and closer to the store. If he didn’t find forgiveness he could at least get rid of the book that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Remus has never left a book unfinished but this time he thought he could live without reading the rest.

The bell chimed as he opened the door and without looking up, you spoke. “We close in five minutes. Is there something I can help you…” You looked up, question trailing off when you saw Remus in the doorway. “Did you finish the book already?”

Remus shook his head, setting the book on the counter as he approached. “No but I am returning it.”

“You didn’t hate it did you? I know it's a little weird reading someone’s personal journal but she was so smart and she said so many things we all think and feel.”

“No, no, I didn’t hate it.” Remus could feel the bile rising in his throat as the lie flowed off his tongue. He did hate it but only because it showed him the parts of himself he tried so hard to hide. “Actually, I had something I wanted to tell you.”

You held up a finger, keeping the confession on the tip of his tongue as he watched you cross to the front of the store, flipping over the sign so anyone passing by would assume it was closed. “Come on.” You locked the door and led him to the backroom much like you did earlier in the day. You sat on the couch and against his better judgement, Remus sat next to you. “What did you need to tell me?”

Remus fiddled with his fingers, picking at the peeling skin on his cuticles. How was he supposed to tell you he had told more lies than truths in the past few months he had known you? “I’m a liar.” Well, that was one way. When you didn’t speak, he continued. “I’m not a student at Cambridge. Really I’m broke, unemployed, and uneducated.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m also not moving.”

As the silent minutes ticked by, Remus’s cuticles looked worse and worse. “Why? Why did you lie to me?” You whispered, looking at your lap.

“I was scared for you to know me. I’m not desirable and I’m a grouch and part of me thought that if you knew me, you wouldn’t like me.” Was it true? Some of it but really there was more. Maybe a partial truth was better than a whole lie.

“Oh Remus. No, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve gotten to know you and I like what I’ve found. You may think you’re not desirable because you don’t have a job or education. You do have a great sense of humor and deep thoughts and a warm heart. You’re sweet and handsome and you listen to me. I can’t tell you how many guys I’ve known that never actually listen to me.” You reached over and grabbed his hand, keeping his fingers still. “I don’t like that you lied to me but I understand why you did it. I haven’t been completely honest with you either.”

Remus felt like he had been slapped. Was this how you felt?

“I don’t actually own this bookstore. I just work here. This sweet old man owns it and he can’t keep taking care of it on his own so I told him I’d help.”

“What a pair of liars we are.” Remus snorted out a laugh. You laughed along with him, clutching his hands. “Maybe we can start over?”

“Yes, please.” You smiled.

“My name is Remus Lupin. I’m unemployed and have basic education but I like you, and I’d like for you to get to know me, really.” He turned his body to face you, ignoring the other lies begging to come to the surface.

“Hi Remus, it’s really nice to meet you. My name is Y/N and I do not own this bookstore. I would love to get to know you, really.”

There were more secrets he had and they would come up later, he knew they would but he would have to work himself up to that.

---

One month. Remus got one month of pretending he wasn’t a lying liar who lies. The two of you were over at his apartment watching some muggle movie you liked when you noticed an owl tapping on his window. That was the beginning of the end.

Remus had begged Sirius to use a muggle phone to talk to him but Sirius insisted on making his poor owl travel across the ocean. You had been amazed to see an owl so close and so tame. Remus had to block the window with his whole body to grab the note without you seeing. He was going to deal with that pulled muscle for a week.

Only a couple days later, Remus was insisting he could pay for your drink and he pulled out a Knut instead. He tried to stuff it back in his pocket before you could see but he didn’t move quick enough. After a million questions and hurriedly paying for the drink with the right money, he ended up lying and telling you that his friend was making a fantasy novel and gave him a fake coin to check out. Remus claimed he had forgotten it in his pocket and meant to give it back last week. You ended up keeping the coin.

As the full moon approached, Remus acted like a jerk. He was short tempered and snapped far too often. He could hardly move some days and you tried to help him but it was so hard when all he did was push you away. He claimed a migraine and it was a partial truth but it didn’t explain it all. In fact, Remus saw the bewildered look on your face when James seemed to appear in the living room without opening the front door. James handed Remus the wolfsbane potion in a thermos and promised you it was some soup. He had never downed it as fast as he did that day.

The month wasn’t all bad though. Date night every Friday and he visited the bookstore almost every day and he brought you lunch. Remus did only bring you lunch once and when it was completely raw and probably would have killed you, he decided he would stick to visits without food. (He was not very good at cooking without magic.) The time spent together brought you both closer together and Remus was grateful every day that he gave in and got to know you and let you know him. And for once, Remus could see himself with you forever. But for one month, he was still a liar. The biggest part of himself was still hidden. For now at least.

The final straw happened when he took you to meet James and Lily’s daughter, Daisy who made her entrance to the world five nights ago. At first, Remus didn’t think it was a good idea but Lily was desperate to have more friends. He agreed to bring you but made the Potters agree to keep their magic a secret as he hadn’t told you his biggest secret yet. But with a newborn and a toddler, two days is a long time to remember something. Remus knocked softly and pushed open the door only to be greeted by the sight of dishes floating in the air and washing themselves, a broom sweeping the floor on its own, and little Harry flying around on a broom that hovered a couple inches off the ground. Remus shut the door as quickly as he could but judging the look on your face, you had seen it all.

“What… did you see… was that pan flying?”

Remus weighed the options in his head, much like he did a month ago when he was debating if he should come clean about the smallest lie. Only now, he was debating telling you the biggest lie he’s ever told you. It would be so easy to take his wand out and erase your memory but wouldn’t that go against everything he wanted? He couldn’t hide this from you forever.

He led you over to the curb and helped you sit down. He took a seat next to you and immediately, he started picking at his fingers. “A month ago, I told you I was keeping secrets from you and I did tell you the truth. I’m not moving and I’m not an English lit major. I did, however, keep some more secrets from you.” Remus took a deep breath, ignoring the way his body shook as he did. God he wanted to hurl. “I’m a wizard. What you just saw was magic.”

You watched him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry, what? I get that I read a lot but do you honestly expect me to believe that? There has to be some explanation for what happened in there but magic?” You stood, pacing on the sidewalk.

“Listen just, let me show you and we can go from there.” Remus grabbed your hand and pulled his wand out of his pocket. He had to do something to show magic was real but what? Magic was so normal to him but it had to be something well, magical. Remus looked around the block, checking the houses around him. He couldn’t see any eyes peeking through curtains but it was still too risky. “Come with me.” Remus took your hand and pulled you down the street to a small park and into a secluded area. The air was slowly beginning to warm but it was cold enough for the park to be empty and the perfect place where he can prove magic is real. Remus pointed his wand at a large rock only a few feet away from you. With a wave of his wand, the rock turned into a chihuahua, barking and spinning in circles.

You jumped, dropping Remus’s hand to step away from him. “That’s… that was a boulder. You turned a boulder into a dog? A real breathing, barking dog. You…that was magic.”

“I can do more.” Remus waved his wand again and a shower of rose petals burst from the tip, launching into the air and floating down around you. Before they could reach the ground, he waved his wand for a third time and the petals turned into small birds that took off into the surrounding trees. “I didn’t want to hide it from you but there are strict rules about exposing magic to muggles.”

“Muggles? What is that? A dog breed?”

“No,” Remus laughed. “That’s what we call non magic people. So you believe me then?”

You stared at him, throwing your hands in the air. “Are you kidding me? I just saw you make flower petals out of thin air and then turn them into birds. Of course I believe you.”

“And you don’t hate me for it?”

“No way. I’ve always believed there was magic hiding in the world and low and behold, it's in you and your friends. This is amazing. You have to tell me everything!” You grabbed his hand, jumping a little.

A weight fell off his chest but it was quickly replaced with a new one. He got over one problem but now an even bigger and scarier problem was taking its place. “Hang on. There is one more thing I need you to know about. Let’s sit.” Remus clutches onto your hand tightly, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he doesn’t have a hold on you. After this, you just might. He takes you over to a bench and chews on his lips.

“So, wizards are real. So are a lot of other magical things too. Centars, trolls, giants, unicorns, a whole lot of fun things.” Remus dropped your hands, rubbing his face; the feeling of his scars on his face made his heart drop to his toes.

“But?”

“But there are a lot of unfun things too. Trolls usually are not fun by the way. There are also vampires and dragons and… werewolves.”

You grabbed his hands off of his face, much like you did not long ago. “I’m guessing there’s another secret you haven’t told me yet.”

Remus nodded, his chest tight. “I’m a werewolf.”

Silence. God he hated it. Remus kept his eyes on his lap where your hands were clutching his. Slowly, your grip loosened before they fell away completely. The cold crept in through his hands and into his heart. Well, if this went badly, Remus would have to wipe your memory and hope you had no memory of him.

“That week you were really mean to me and James came out of nowhere. The scars. That’s all because you’re… a werewolf.”

“Yeah. Listen, I know it's a lot and I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore but I just really needed you to know.” Remus closed his eyes, willing the tears to stay trapped inside.

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” You quoted, carefully reaching out to touch his hand. “This is why you’ve lied as much as you have.”

“I’m a monster. I didn’t want to lose you but I think all these secrets mean I’m going to lose you anyway.” Remus sniffled, blinking away the tears.

“No.” His head snapped up so quickly he thought it was going to fall off.

“No?”

You laced your fingers with his, resting your forehead on his. “You’re not losing me. Maybe I’m in over my head and it might take a while to get used to this whole magic thing and werewolf thing but you aren’t losing me. From the first time you walked into the bookstore, I knew there was something special about you. I just didn’t know how special you would be.”

Remus smiled, tilting his head and bringing his lips down to yours. His mustache tickled your lip and as your hands came up to rest on his cheeks, you felt the scars under your fingers. You pulled away, running your thumbs over his cheeks, smiling at the warmth and soft pink color. “Now, I have so many questions, starting with unicorns. I need to know everything.”

Remus nodded, kissing you one more time before he told you all his secrets. It was then Remus decided it was nice to be fully known.

Taglist (Please let me know if you do not want to be tagged anymore or need to change anything. No hard feelings, I've been gone for a year)

@100gaysnails @weasleybuns @s1aaaaayyyyyyyt @steelthistle @Andy200700 @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @daisydark @creepybloodykitty2 @avatheveela @themarauderswife7 @Mintyme101 @islayhawkin @lovesanimals0000

[islayhawkin]

tower fics are so back baby

[islayhawkin]

Feeling insane about this

[islayhawkin]

STEVE ROGERS WOULD PUNCH THE SHIT OUT OF DONALD TRUMP!!!!!

[islayhawkin]

A Heart in Hiding

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Wet Dream, Angst-Hurt/Comfort, Allusions to Hydra's Trash Party, Medical Experimentation, Panic Attack.

Summary: Caught between the shadows of his past and an unexpected connection, Bucky wrestles with his demons and his growing feelings for a new Avenger.

Word Count: About 13.k.

notes: This is a revised version of Unspoken. It's been a while since I wanted to edit this story, and fortunately, I found the time to do it during the holidays. I hope you enjoy it.

The halls of the Avengers Tower felt different lately, with a new energy. Y/n had been living there for a few months now, being the newest addition to the group, providing support both in the field and at the Tower itself. Her mutation was a rare one: healing. It had proven invaluable in SHIELD's eyes long before she joined the Avengers, who welcomed her gladly when Fury introduced her to the team.

Steve, ever the diplomat, had been the first to welcome her, offering his steady support with a warm smile and reassuring words. Natasha followed soon after, sharing subtle smirks and the occasional dry quip that made her feel like she belonged. Even Tony, in his typical way, wove her into his world of banter, bestowing her with nicknames almost the moment she walked through the door. The rest of the team? They warmed up quicker than she’d expected.

Except for Bucky.

It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, just... distant. She hadn’t taken it personally at first; he was Bucky Barnes, after all. The man known for his stoic glares, clipped words, and the heavy shadows of his past. Given everything he’d endured, who could blame him for keeping to himself?

In the beginning, their interactions were minimal, little more than practical exchanges during missions or brief moments in the common areas. A muttered “thanks” when she patched him up: a scrape on his nose here, a swollen cheekbone there. Silence charged with meaning when her hands worked carefully on his shoulder and chest, where the tissue around the metal arm often swelled or became irritated. She could feel his discomfort, both physical and emotional, though he never said a word. A shared half-smile over early morning coffee, when the world was still and sleeplessness bound them both. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it felt like the start of something.

Gradually, those fleeting moments began to take shape. He started lingering in the kitchen when she made tea, his quiet “Need help with that?” or “How was your day?” carried an unexpected softness. They began to talk, really talk. What started as cautious conversations grew into something deeper. Sometimes, he would seek her out, not because he needed anything, but simply to show her something: a stray white cat he’d spotted on a morning run, a book he thought she might like, or a new recipe he’d stumbled upon online.

For a while, they settled into an easy rhythm. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but it felt meaningful, a fragile connection that made her think something real might bloom between them.

But suddenly, everything changed.

At first, it was small: responses shortened to brief nods, his gaze slipping away when she spoke. The conversations dwindled. The moments of shared closeness became few and far between. His presence grew colder, his body language tighter, as though he was retreating behind the walls she’d thought he was beginning to lower.

It bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t the type to let things fester, but with Bucky, every instinct she had seemed to falter. How did you confront someone who had mastered the art of retreating? Had she overstepped? Done something wrong? Every time she tried to bring it up -softly, carefully- he deflected with a grunt, a short answer, or a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

And every day, the distance between them widened.

-----

Bucky couldn’t pinpoint when things changed with her. At first, he appreciated how she treated him: no pity, no coddling, just simple, genuine conversations that made him feel, for once like a person, normal. For the first time in years, he found himself wanting to talk to someone besides Steve.

He welcomed it at first, the way her smile lingered a little longer when he mumbled a response, the warmth in her eyes during their shared moments. Their conversations became something he looked forward to, something he craved. But as the weeks passed, something else began to stir inside him. Something terrifying.

It wasn’t just gratitude for their growing friendship. No, this was deeper, more intense. Attraction. Wanting. And the more he felt it, the harder it became to face her.

Because every time he allowed himself to think about her, the guilt crashed over him like a wave he couldn’t outrun. She didn’t deserve the weight of his past or the darkness he carried. He had been the Winter Soldier for too long, a weapon of destruction in Hydra’s hands, leaving behind a long trail of pain and death. The faces of the people he’d hurt, and the trembling voices of those who had begged or screamed haunted him, etched into his mind like scars that would never fade.

And then there was the abuse, the kind he never spoke about. It wasn’t just physical; Hydra had taken everything from him: his freedom, his identity, his will. His body had been theirs to use, to break, to control. Late at night, he could still feel the ghost of their hands, the cold, clinical way they had stripped him of his humanity. The thought of it alone made him sick.

How could he even begin to think about her in that way? She was light and warmth, a reminder of all the good he no longer believed he deserved. And Bucky? He was a mess of scars, guilt, and trauma he hadn’t even begun to unpack.

So, he did what he always did when emotions threatened to overwhelm him: he shut them down. He stopped talking to her, stopped letting her get too close. It was easier to be cold and act indifferent than to deal with the storm of feelings inside him. It was better for her to think he didn’t care than to see how broken he really was.

-----

Things started to grow awkward -tense, even- during their group meetings before the missions. What once had been only indifference from Bucky turned into something sharper. It started with a sarcastic comment here or there, muttered under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear. She tried to brush it off at first, assuming he was just being moody as usual. But when it became a pattern, when his remarks grew more pointed, more dismissive, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He had started suggesting in front of everyone, that she didn’t have to participate in certain missions.

"Maybe sit this one out," Bucky had said during the last briefing, his tone flat, eyes avoiding hers as he leaned back in his chair. "We don't need anyone getting in the way."

Her eyes narrowed, the heat of anger rising in her chest. She wasn’t new to dangerous missions and wasn’t some kind of rookie that everyone had to look after. And Bucky knew that. They all did. She had a support role, yes, but she had been in the field countless times before, proving her worth more than once not only to them but also to SHIELD. To have him throw those words at her -especially in front of the team- was humiliating. Infuriating.

"You don’t get to decide that, Barnes," she shot back sharply. "I’ve done just fine without your input."

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained cool. "Yeah, because healing a few cuts and bruises is the same as being in the thick of it."

Her fists clenched at her sides. "You think that’s all I do? Patch people up? I’ve been in more firefights than you can count, Barnes, and I’m still standing."

"That’s not the point," he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally looked at her, with a hard expression. "I’m just saying, you’re better off hanging back. Let the people used to the danger to handle it."

Her eyes flared, fists clenching at her sides as she stepped forward. "Excuse me?! Used to the… I’ll show you danger, you-"

Before she could finish, Steve quickly stepped in, raising a hand to calm the rising tension. “Hey, hey, let’s all take a breath here,” he said firmly, trying to diffuse the situation. “We’ve got bigger things to focus on right now.”

A silent exchange passed between everyone present, but no one intervened. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

And this had become their new normal. Meetings had devolved into subtle jabs and snarky comebacks, with Bucky seemingly intent on pushing her buttons, while she fired back with increasingly sharp remarks. Each time he tried to brush her off or suggest she wasn’t needed, she fiercely stood her ground.

He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t just about keeping her at arm’s length, it was fear. Fear of her getting hurt in the field, and, more than that, fear of how much he cared about the possibility. Every time she suited up for a mission, a painful knot twisted in his gut, one he couldn’t untangle no matter how hard he tried.

So, as a defense mechanism -more like a stubborn teenager than the grown man he was- he resorted to belittling her, hoping it would be enough to keep her out of harm’s way.

-----

Their sleeping quarters were close. Too close, sometimes.

One night, she was torn from sleep by the sound of muffled screams. Bucky. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard them, but tonight, they were louder, more desperate. She lay in bed for a long moment, listening to his struggle through the not-so-thin walls. She wanted to go back to sleep and tried to convince herself he’d eventually be fine. But the raw sound of his torment lingered in the mind, making it impossible for her to settle.

After an hour or so had passed, and although everything was silent now, she realized the sleep wasn’t going to come back. With a quiet sigh, she got up and padded down the hall to the kitchen. Maybe some tea -and a piece of the achtzig schlag she baked that afternoon, whom was she kidding- would help, as small comfort to chase away the unease from being waked like that.

But when she reached her destiny, she stopped short. Bucky was already there.

He stood by the sink, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, his broad back greeting her as she entered. His metal hand gripped the edge of the counter, while the other hung limply at his side with an empty glass loosely grabbed between his fingers. His head was bowed and his shoulders tense, as if the weight of the world rested there. She couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her presence, she could see his face reflected on the glass of the big window, but his gaze was fixed blankly on the sink, lost in whatever hell his nightmares had dragged him through.

For a moment, she hesitated. He barely spoke to her anymore, and when he did, he was a complete ass. But standing there, in the dim light of the kitchen, he didn’t look like his usual self. He looked... more than broken. Vulnerable. The heavy rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his fingers, told her he hadn’t escaped his nightmare, not entirely.

“Bucky,” she called softly, reverting to his nickname, the one she hadn’t used in weeks. He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring into the sink as though it might offer some kind of solace he desperately needed.

She stood there, debating if she should leave him alone, letting him find his own way out of whatever haunted him, or stay. Something in the way he stood there, utterly still, as if frozen in time, made her choose the second option. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her comfy cotton nightgown, and she stepped closer.

“Bucky,” she said again, a bit louder.

This time, his shoulders tensed, the only sign he’d heard her. Slowly, he turned his head, just enough to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. His face was a mask of exhaustion, and shadows were carved deep under his eyes. There was a flash of something in his expression, maybe surprise, maybe frustration, but it faded quickly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Bucky turned back to the sink, exhaling heavily as if it took effort to breathe. "You’re up late," he muttered hoarsely, breaking the silence. He didn’t look at her.

"So are you," she replied, keeping her tone light despite the tension in the air. She wasn’t sure what else to say. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but something told her he wouldn’t answer that. Instead, she moved to the stove, setting a kettle on to boil.

He remained silent, not moving from his spot. The awkwardness lingered between them, but she kept herself busy, preparing tea as if this was an everyday occurrence. Bucky stood there silently, while she pretended not to notice the storm brewing inside him.

She turned back to him as the kettle let out a soft whistle. “Want some?” she asked, holding two cups with a gentle smile. “I picked up a strawberry blend the other day. It’s really good.” The gesture was casual, the same as it had been just a couple of months ago, before everything started to shift.

For a long moment, there was no response. He stood there, staring into the sink as if he hadn’t heard her. Then, to her surprise, he gave a slight nod, the motion so subtle it almost wasn’t there. His eyes, still shadowed by whatever nightmares lingered from his sleep, flicked toward her but didn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

She nodded, poured the tea, and placed one mug on the counter in front of him before leaning against it, cupping her own mug in her hands.

“Strawberry’s a weird choice for tea, right?” she asked, trying to keep things light. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it kinda grows on you. Tony said it smelled like candy.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed on the steaming cup in front of him, and his jaw was clenched tight. She smiled softly, hoping to ease the tension. “Steve liked it, too. He said it reminded him of-”

“Shut up.” His voice was low and sharp with frustration. “Just… shut up.” He whispered again.

The words hit her like a slap, and her smile faltered immediately. For a moment, she just stood there, unsure how to respond.

“Right,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze. “I’ll... leave you to it.”

She started to turn, deciding it was better to give him space, but before she could leave the kitchen, his voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

She paused, mid-step, and slowly turned back. Bucky wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the cup of tea, his expression tight, conflicted.

“I... I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of discomfort, that this time it felt heavier. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. You don’t deserve-”

He finally looked up, and his blue eyes were clouded with something raw. “I... had a nightmare,” he admitted, the words coming out slowly, as if they were too painful to say aloud. “One of the heavy ones.” His voice cracked on the last part, and for a moment, he seemed smaller, haunted.

She shifted slightly, watching the tension in his posture, on the way his fingers gripped the edge of the counter as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. She hesitated, but the concern pushed her forward. “Do you... want to talk about it?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched instantly, the muscle twitching as his eyes flicked away from hers, focusing again on the cup of tea. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he might snap at her again. But instead, there was only silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that told her everything she needed to know.

The dream still clung to him. It wasn’t just a memory, it was something darker, something visceral. In the back of his mind, the flashback played like a twisted reel. He remembered the cold steel table beneath his back, the harsh, sterile lights overhead. The sensation of the reinforced restraints biting into his skin. Voices around him, detached and clinical, as faceless scientists in white coats discussed the "procedure." A sharp pain had torn through his body, worse than anything he had felt before, as they tested the limits of his tissue regeneration. They cut deeper with each slice, watching his flesh heal itself in real-time, timing the speed of recovery as though he was no more than a lab rat.

He could still hear the sound of the blade cutting through muscle and bone and the smell of the antiseptic mixing with the coppery tang of blood. No anesthesia, it wasn’t needed. Bucky’s grip tightened on the counter and she saw the way his whole body tensed, the flicker of torment in his eyes that he tried to hide behind his blank expression.

She took a small step forward. “It’s ok. You don’t have to talk about it,” she said softly, offering him an out without pushing him further.

She hesitated, lingering on the dark circles under his eyes, and the exhaustion that etched into every line of his face. He looked like a man fighting a battle he couldn’t win, worn down by nights that stretched too long and memories that wouldn’t fade. She bit her lip, debating, before taking another small step forward.

“I could help… if you want. With the nightmares.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, snapping his eyes to hers. He didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d pushed too far. The air between them grew heavier, thick with the weight of things left unsaid.

“I mean,” she added quickly, keeping her voice soft, “my powers... they don’t just work on physical injuries. I can soothe the mind too, if the person is willing. I could help you sleep.” Her words trailed off, unsure if this was what he wanted -or needed- to hear. She shifted slightly, glancing down before meeting his gaze again. “You look like you could use a break from it all, even if it’s just for a little while. You don’t have to keep carrying this alone.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at her. His posture was still tense, every muscle taut like he was bracing for an attack. She half-expected him to shut her down, to retreat behind that wall of silence and dismiss her with another biting comment. Instead, his expression softened ever so slightly, and the hardness in his eyes dimmed as he weighed her words. She saw the exhaustion behind the mask he always wore, the misery that had become his constant companion.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough and low when he finally spoke. “I don’t know if it’ll work,” he muttered. “Nothing’s worked before.”

Her heart clenched at his words, at the defeat in his tone. "We won’t know unless we try," she said softly, watching his reaction.Bucky’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. But then, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “Fine.” The word was gruff, a reluctant concession more than agreement. He glanced at her from under his brow, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks. "Just... don’t expect too much."

With that, he turned and led her toward his quarters.

Once the door was shut, she sat on the end of his double bed. "Alright. Lay down and rest your head on my thighs."

Bucky eyed her warily, tightening his jaw. He wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, this kind of intimacy. After a long moment, though, the exhaustion and lingering unease from the nightmare tugged at him too strongly. With a resigned sigh, he climbed onto the bed and lay on his side, hesitating briefly before resting his head on her thighs.

“There,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the soft fabric of her clothes. “Don’t think this means I’m letting my guard down completely.”

Despite his gruff tone, she could feel the weight of his weariness. His body was tense, but the warmth of her legs seemed to be doing its work already.

She began running her fingers gently through his hair. "That’s exactly what I need you to do," she whispered. "Don’t fight me, Bucky. Relax and let me take care of you."

He inhaled deeply, her scent filling his senses, calming him. The tension in his shoulders began to ebb away, though he stubbornly clung to a sliver of resistance. "I don’t need to be taken care of," he grumbled, even as his eyelids grew heavier.

“Whatever you say, hun,” she teased softly.

Bucky let out a low grunt, his eyes fluttering closed as her fingers traced soothing lines through his hair. The sensation sent calming waves through his body, unraveling his nerves one strand at a time. He didn’t have the energy to resist anymore, he was too drained from the nightmare, too tired of fighting his own mind.

"I’m not your hun..." There was a hint of amusement in his voice, despite himself. He buried his face deeper into her lap, inhaling her scent again. It was soothing, pulling him further from the chaos of his mind.

“Oh, shush,” she said, brushing the protest aside, still moving her fingers through his dark locks.

For once, Bucky complied. He fell silent, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat becoming the only sound in the room. The quiet, steady thump-thump echoed in his ears, an oddly comforting melody amidst the storm of his thoughts.

"Your heartbeat..." he murmured almost sleepy, "It’s kind of nice." The confession slipped out but for once, he didn’t regret it.

Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before resuming its gentle motion. “Oh? I’ve never heard that one before. Maybe because regular people can’t hear it without... closer contact.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Bucky’s lips at her remark, but he didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he allowed himself to lean into her touch, the soft strokes through his scalp lulling him into a state of calm he hadn’t felt in a long time. His hand drifted almost unconsciously to her thigh, tracing small circles over her skin.

She continued her gentle ministrations, pouring her power into the touch. Slowly, bit by bit, Bucky’s muscles softened, and the weight of his nightmares slipped away as her presence guided him somewhere safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel it. The calm. The peace. The quiet.

-----

After a while she sighed, exhausted from using her powers to push against the weight of his severe trauma. Now, she had to figure out how to leave without waking him. He was sleeping deeply, his mind finally at peace after months of restless nights. Yet, despite his slumber, he wasn’t entirely defenseless. His subconscious remained alert, picking up on the slightest changes around him.

As she carefully prepared to slip away, Bucky's eyes flickered open, revealing half-lidded blue irises clouded with drowsiness. Without a word, his hand reached out, as if instinctively sensing her intention to leave. His grip was light but firm, curling his fingers on her thigh with an unconscious possessiveness.

"Shhh," she whispered, wincing internally as she resumed running her fingers through his hair, hoping to soothe him back to sleep. She knew it was a lost battle; any attempt to leave would only rouse him further. Resigned, she reached for some unused pillows and cushions nearby, pulling them close as she reclined, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep while sitting up.

The rhythmic strokes of her fingers seemed to draw him back from the edge of wakefulness. Bucky nuzzled into her touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he settled back into a deep slumber. As she adjusted her position, using the pillows to support her back, he instinctively shifted with her, seeking out the warmth of her body. His arm wrapped loosely around her waist, pulling her closer as he mumbled incoherently in his sleep.

At some point, she fell asleep too, physically drained from using all her energy to ease his haunted mind. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to slumber was the weight of his head still resting on her lap, her hand gently tangled in his soft hair.

-----

Bucky stirred slightly in his sleep, brushing his nose against the soft fabric of her cotton nightie. Her scent filled the air around him, a mix of sweetness and warmth that seeped into his senses, pulling him deeper into the haze of his dreams. A low groan rumbled in his chest, reverberating through her thigh, dangerously close to her mound. His hand clenched reflexively, fingers digging into her leg without conscious thought.

In his dream state, his mind began to wander, unraveling the careful control he kept during his waking hours. Images of her flooded his thoughts, her curves, her laugh, the sense of safety she gave him. But beneath those tender, innocent thoughts stirred something he tried so hard to suppress: raw longing.

His breathing quickened as his subconscious registered the intimate contact, even as he remained lost in the depths of sleep. His hips twitched involuntarily, pressing his growing arousal into the mattress, seeking relief.

In his dream, she was there, waiting for him, glowing and inviting. He felt her softness under his hands, the curve of her waist beneath his fingers, and the way she melted into his touch. His lips brushed against her inner thighs, teasing, tasting, drawing out soft moans of pleasure that only made the fire inside him burn hotter.

In the real world, his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing against the mattress as his body sought relief. His chest heaved, and low, almost inaudible whimpers escaped his parted lips. Lost in the dream, he chased an elusive release, each shift and grind against the sheets a reflection of the ache deep within him.

And then, it all came crashing down.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as his breath caught in his throat. Reality quickly surged forward, sweeping away the fantasy. The warm weight of her hand still rested gently on his head and her fingers tangled in his hair. She was peaceful, her chest rising and falling steadily, blissfully unaware of the storm he had just woken from.

His body went rigid and a flush crept up his neck, as the remnants of his dream lingered in his mind. Worse than that, was the sticky mess staining his underwear.

Fuck.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he extracted himself from her lap, careful not to disturb her. He rolled off the bed and landed heavily on his feet, moving stiffly with mortification. His hand instinctively moved to his groin, tugging his underwear slightly to reveal the copious evidence of his release. A low curse escaped his lips as he took in the sight, and shame heated his face. Without a second glance, he padded to the bathroom, humiliated.

Minutes later she stirred, feeling her legs lighter, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The memories of offering to soothe Bucky’s mind with her powers came back to her, along with the feeling of being trapped, unable to leave without waking him. But now, as she blinked and stretched, she realized he was gone. Her back and neck throbbed from the awkward position she had slept in, so she slowly got up from his bed and took the opportunity to return to her own room, crawling into her bed to continue sleeping, unaware of the events that transpired before she awoke.

Meanwhile, Bucky remained in the bathroom, leaning heavily against the sink. A storm of guilt, shame, and relief swirled inside him. Guilt for what had happened so close to her, shame at the explicit nature of his dream, and relief that he’d managed to sneak away without waking her. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples, trying to shake off the lingering echoes of the fantasy that had caught him off guard so thoroughly.

------

They didn’t cross paths during the day, except late in the afternoon when Tony handed Natasha some VIP invitations to a charity event for her and Y/n. Bucky was sitting across the room on the couch, but his enhanced hearing made it impossible not to overhear. Natasha has found it amusing to join in a bachelorette’s auction at the event and, naturally, she dragged the healer into it to help raise more funds.

When she entered the room, Bucky couldn’t help but steal glances at her and the vivid memories of his dream came rushing back. The black dress with a low neckline -and were those mesh stockings?- did nothing to dissipate the discomfort.

Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, manspreading on the couch looking unsurprisingly grumpy. She walked over and plopped down next to him, leaning in slightly. “Hey,” she greeted chirpily. “I didn’t see you all day. Did you rest after our session? Any nightmares?”

Bucky’s frown deepened as he took in her revealing dress, and his gaze lingered for a second too long before flicking up to meet hers. “Well I actually had a nightmare.” he barked bitterly, narrowing his eyes as he turned away again.

“Oh Bucky, really?” she asked, absentmindedly resting her hand on his arm. “You seemed fine when I fell asleep... I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Fine? No, I wasn’t fucking fine,” he snapped. His eyes drifted down to the swell of her breasts, barely contained by the thin material of her dress, reigniting the memories of his dream and sending another wave of heat through his body. He scoffed, turning his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Maybe you thought you did something, but you didn't. It was a waste of my time,” he muttered under his breath.

She recoiled, and her heart stung at his words. She’d felt the connection, sensed the calm that had washed over him during their session. She truly believed she’d helped. His harsh tone caught her off guard, and the hurt was unmistakable in her voice as she stood up abruptly.

“Oh, I see. We’re on square one again, where you treat me like shit. You know what Bucky? I’m tired of this. I don't know what your problem is, but I don't care anymore. Go fuck yourself.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and stormed toward the private quarters area, leaving him there, sitting in stunned silence.

------

The time to go to the charity event had arrived, and she and Natasha were all dressed up with the final touches, ready to be auctioned off in the playful bachelor and bachelorette game.

Tony, ever the social butterfly, was already acting as the host, ironing out the final details of the evening’s festivities. Steve, the ever-reliable friend and gentleman, had offered to tag along to ensure everything stayed civil and vanilla. Sam showed up at the last minute, his trademark grin plastered on his face. He winked at her and Natasha, flirting playfully and joking about bidding himself.

She smiled at his lightheartedness, but her attention kept drifting toward the couch across the room where Bucky sat, even if he had started to act like an asshole again. He’d been silent since they exchanged those heated words, barely looking up from his spot. His broad frame seemed more hunched than usual as if the weight of the night ahead was pressing down on him.

Sam, ever the instigator, swaggered over to where Bucky sat, giving him a playful nudge. “What’s up, Tinman? You look like you're about to blow a fuse,” he teased, not missing the tightness in Bucky’s jaw.

He didn’t respond immediately, flicking his eyes briefly toward Sam before dropping back down. He was clearly in no mood for jokes, but Sam wasn’t one to back down that easily.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know about this,” he added, grinning. “I left you, like, four texts reminding you about the event. Figured you might want to leave the grumpy soldier routine behind for one night.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Yeah, I saw them,” he muttered under his breath. The truth was, the event had been gnawing at him all day. Seeing her walking in earlier, dressed to the nines, had stirred something deep and unsettling in him. Her sleek black dress with that low neckline, and those mesh stockings… he had barely been able to look at her without feeling a hot flush creep up his neck.

But it wasn’t just the sight of her that was bothering him. Something darker was creeping up from the edges of his memory, something happened a long time ago.

The room around him faded as a distant echo of laughter, sharp and malicious, filled his ears. He blinked, trying to shake it off, but the memories flooded back with unwanted details. He saw himself, chained and silent, paraded like an animal in front of an audience of Hydra’s elite. The “auction,” as they had called it, was a twisted form of entertainment where the highest bidder won him for the night. They'd done whatever they wanted to him. Their hands were rough and unforgiving, their words venomous. He’d been stripped of everything, even the ability to fight back. His mind replayed the worst moments, the feeling of hands on him, unwanted touches, and the physical pain when they decided to test his limits. Bucky remembered the smirks on their faces as they violated him in every way they saw fit, knowing he was powerless to retaliate. His body might heal, but his mind was left in tatters every time. He could still hear their voices, cruel and mocking, as they reminded him how easy it was to break him down, to own him.

Suddenly, he was back on the couch, his hands clenched into tight fists as his breathing quickened. His heart pounded in his chest, and he had to swallow down the bile rising in his throat. The memory of his dream from the night before twisted with these recollections, blurring the line between the past and present. Bucky had felt trapped then, just like he felt trapped now. And the thought of her being up there, in front of all those people, being "bought" for the night just for fun triggered him.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still. It was irrational, he knew that. But the line between the past and the present blurred too easily for him sometimes, and the fear -no, the shame- of what he had endured at Hydra’s hands refused to let him breathe freely.

Sam smirked, unfazed by Bucky’s short response. “Don’t sweat it, man. You can just sit back and watch me win a date with one of these fine ladies tonight. I’m feeling lucky.” He flashed an exaggerated wink at the women, earning a raised eyebrow from Nat in return.

Tony clapped his hands, signaling that it was time to start heading out. As everyone began moving, Bucky remained glued to his spot on the couch.

Completely oblivious to the turmoil inside Bucky’s head, Sam leaned casually against the back of the couch, a teasing grin tugging at his lips as he tried to coax his friend into joining them at the event. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, clearly seeing the tension but refusing to let Bucky sit it out. “What, you’re scared you can’t handle a little charity event?” he taunted, his tone light but with just enough edge to poke at Bucky’s pride. “Steve’s already going, and you know how much he loves playing the perfect gentleman. You really gonna let him be the only one representing the ‘old-timer squad’?” He smirked, knowing this tactic might work. “Thought you were tougher than that.”

Bucky huffed as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had to get over this shit, Sam won’t leave him alone, and… fuck, he had to man up.  “Fine,” he muttered under his breath, his voice was barely audible but enough for Sam to catch the reluctant agreement. “But don’t expect me to enjoy this.”

-----

The limo was packed, the air inside was thick with anticipation and, in Bucky’s case, a simmering sense of discomfort. She was squeezed up against the side of the car, her body brushing against his, while Sam sat across from them, legs casually sprawled out, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Well, look at us,” Sam said, stretching his arms out theatrically. “All dressed up for a fancy night out. Bucky, you clean up pretty well for a guy who spends most of his time brooding in corners.”

Bucky shot him a glare but didn’t bother to respond, focusing on keeping his breathing steady as her leg pressed against his. She had no idea how much that little contact was messing with his already frayed nerves. The warmth of her body beside him felt too familiar after what happened last night. He shifted slightly, trying to create some space, but it was impossible in the cramped space.

“Aw, come on, Buck,” Sam continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking about coming along. I mean, it’s for charity, man. And if anyone here knows how to be charitable, it’s you.” His grin widened as he leaned forward. “Especially when it comes to these two fine ladies.”

Steve, who sat beside Sam, chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his attention to them. “He’s right, though,” Steve said warmly. “You both are amazing women, but tonight you’re especially lovely.”

She blushed under Steve’s compliment, offering a playful smile in return. “Thanks, Stevie. But really, all credit goes to Nat here for dragging me into this.”

Natasha smirked, lounging next to Bucky in a striking red dress. “You’ll thank me later when we clean house in that bachelorette’s auction.”

Bucky, meanwhile, was doing his best to avoid looking directly at her. The black dress was more than enough to set him on edge, the low neckline and mesh stockings flashing in his peripheral vision like a neon sign, reminding him of the dream that wouldn’t leave him alone. He clenched his jaw and stared out the window, trying to focus on the passing streetlights instead.

“You good back there, man?” Sam teased again, noticing his tense posture. “You look like you’re about to crack a tooth.” he leaned back, crossing his arms with a cocky grin plastered across his face.

Bucky clenched his jaw harder and flexed his metal fingers, the soft whir of gears barely audible over Sam’s incessant teasing. “Keep talking, Sam,” he muttered in warning. See where that gets you.”

Sam wasn’t letting up. “Oh, come on. I’ve seen that look before. That’s the ‘I’ve got feelings but don’t know what to do with them’ look.” His grin widened, clearly enjoying how riled up Bucky was getting. “You worried someone’s gonna outbid you tonight?” he teased, relishing the tension. “Not that you could, you know, since you didn’t even sign up to participate.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He shot Sam a dangerous look but swallowed the sharp retort burning at the back of his throat. Sam had no idea how close to the truth he was coming, and the last thing Bucky wanted was for anyone -especially her- to figure it out.

She caught Sam’s teasing and frowned, flicking her gaze toward Bucky. She couldn’t miss how his whole body had gone rigid like he was just one wrong word away from snapping. Then it hit her. Considering the way he had been treating her -distant and cold like she barely existed- the only plausible explanation for Sam’s comments... Was he into Nat?

The thought dug deeper than she expected, feeling a sharp pang in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. She tried to brush it off, but it nagged her. She hesitated, sinking her teeth into her lower lip before leaning in slightly. Her voice came out edged with reluctant empathy. “Don’t mind him,” she muttered, only for Bucky’s ears. “I’m sure Nat will be fine.”

Bucky’s head snapped to her, surprise flashing in his eyes before quickly turning into something darker, stormier. She had no idea what was going on in his head, and the fact that she thought all this was about Natasha hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“That’s not-” He stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain, not here, not now, and certainly not with Sam hanging on every word. He let out a slow breath “Just drop it, okay?” he answered gruffly.

She blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone. If he wanted to be difficult, she could meet him halfway. “Fine,” she replied coolly. “Not like it’s any of my business anyway.” She leaned back, crossing her arms as if to physically distance herself, her eyes focusing on the passing city through the window.

Sam, sensing the tension in the air, raised his eyebrows but -for once- chose not to stir the pot further. He shot a questioning glance at Steve as if wordlessly asking, What’s going on here?

Steve caught Sam’s look and responded with a subtle shake of his head, his lips pressed into a thin, knowing line. His gaze flicked between Bucky and her, then back to Sam, silently conveying the message: Don’t push it. There was understanding in Steve’s eyes, whatever was going on with Bucky ran deeper than just nerves or irritation. His expression was clear: Give him space.

-----

Finally, the limo of awkwardness reached its destination, pulling up to the entrance of the lavish event. The tension inside was palpable, and everyone seemed eager to escape the cramped space. As soon as the doors opened, there was a collective sigh of relief as they stepped out into the open.

She practically bolted out of the car, and Natasha followed her with a smirk, clearly more amused than bothered by the tense ride. “Bathroom break?” she suggested, raising an eyebrow to her, who nodded gratefully. Together, they made their way toward the entrance, heels clicking softly on the pavement as they prepared to retouch their makeup and shake off the tension.

Meanwhile, the guys lagged, hanging around the entrance for a moment before stepping into the crowd of finely dressed people. The venue was swarming with posh elites, champagne flutes in hand, chatting in clusters that screamed wealth and sophistication. Bucky stuffed his hands into his pockets with stiff shoulders as he surveyed the sea of unfamiliar faces, feeling out of place and more than a little on edge.

Sam, ever the social butterfly, immediately started mingling, flashing his charming smile at a passing couple. "Nice place," he muttered to Steve, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing waiter. "Think Tony outdid himself this time?"

Steve gave a small nod, scanning the room for any sign of trouble, though it was more habit than genuine concern. “Yeah, it’s impressive,” he replied, though his attention drifted toward Bucky, who had slowly gravitated to the crowd's edge, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere.

“Don’t disappear.” Sam called out, clapping him on the shoulder as he joined Steve in surveying the room. His grin was teasing, but light-hearted enough to let the tension from the limo ride dissipate.

Bucky just rolled his eyes, staying quiet but sticking close to the group as they moved into the crowd. He wasn’t in the mood for mingling, but he’d already made it this far.

The event officially kicked off with Tony taking the stage, with his usual confident grin plastered across his face. He grabbed the microphone and began his speech with his typical charm. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an evening of generosity, glamour, and, let’s be honest, some good old-fashioned fun,” he announced, flashing a playful smirk. “Tonight’s about raising money for a great cause, but it wouldn’t be a true Stark event without a bit of spice, right?” The crowd chuckled, their champagne glasses shimmering under the soft lighting as they eagerly awaited the night’s entertainment.

Meanwhile, Natasha and Y/n emerged from the bathroom, looking radiant and refreshed. As they walked back toward the main hall, Tony’s voice echoed across the room. “And now, for the part you’ve all been waiting for: our very own bachelor auction! The first of the two events we have tonight! Get your wallets out and let’s start bidding, people! Remember, it’s for charity, but hey, you get to take home a prize for the night too,” he said with a wink, his tone playful but persuasive.

Nat looked at them, unimpressed. “I don’t know why the guys didn’t want to join, they would’ve wiped all wallets with only a wink”.

The stage lit up, and the male candidates for the auction stepped forward, each one more enthusiastic than the last. Tony, never one to miss a chance to stir up excitement, started hyping them up. “Look at these guys! We've got muscles, brains, and a whole lot of… charisma.” He pointed to one of the bachelors. “Ladies, I hear this one’s an excellent conversationalist... and check out those thighs! Perfect for sitting on, am I right?” The crowd erupted into laughter, but there was already a buzz as bids began flying.

She had been chuckling softly at Tony’s ridiculous commentary when she caught a glimpse of Bucky out of the corner of her eye. Something was off. He was standing rigidly, his jaw set in a hard line, and his gaze was locked onto the stage but somehow distant, as if he wasn’t there. His seemed pale, drawn tight in a way that made her stomach twist with concern.

As he stood there with his arms crossed, a sudden wave of nausea hit him. It started with the sound of Tony's playful words, the laughter in the crowd, and the sight of the men being paraded in front of eager eyes. All of it melted together into something darker, something far too familiar.

Without warning, his mind transported him again back to the past. The dim, suffocating atmosphere of one of the sickening Hydra parties. He could feel the cold bite of chains against his skin, the way they had displayed him like an object, barely clothed, barely human. He had been the prize, the thing to be won, over and over again, with leering eyes and depraved hands deciding his fate. The room around him started to warp, blurring as his vision tunneled. His heart rate spiked, and his breath quickened, chest tightening painfully.

Bucky’s grip on his own arms grew stronger, his metal fingers pressing into the flesh of his opposite arm so hard that he was bruising the enhanced skin. He tried to remind himself where he was, tried to tell himself that this was different. But the flood of memories was relentless, dragging him down into the depths of his trauma.

He could feel it, the sensation of being used, of having no agency. The faces of those who had taken pleasure in his pain flashed before his eyes. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and his body started trembling. Sweat prickled along his brow as his surroundings closed in on him, the chatter and laughter of the event fading into a distant, haunting echo.

Suddenly, the present broke through just enough for Bucky to realize he couldn’t breathe. Panic was closing in on him like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter. The telltale signs of an impending panic attack flared: his heart hammered in his chest, and the room seemed to spin out of control.

He pushed himself off the column. His movements were sharp, almost desperate, as he weaved through the crowd like a wounded animal seeking refuge. His breath was shallow as his steps quickened. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to escape the noise, the eyes, the memories. The room was suffocating, and every second spent in it felt like another piece of his soul was being ripped away. He made a break for the exit, his jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth hurt, but his mind focused on one thing: getting the fuck out.

Before she could fully register it, she saw him push off the column. His normally composed demeanor was nowhere to be found. Bucky’s face was contorted, and the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. He was unraveling, right there in front of everyone.

Her own breath hitched as she watched him cut through the crowd with increasing urgency. His retreat was too quick, too desperate, and she felt a sudden, overwhelming tug of alarm.

Something was wrong, really wrong.

Without thinking, she stepped away from Natasha, focusing on the exit he had disappeared through. Her anger faded into the background, replaced by an unshakable need to make sure he was okay. There was something in the way he had bolted, something haunted. She speeded up, her heels clicking loudly against the floor as she headed toward the doors, scanning the surroundings, hoping she could find him before he disappeared completely. Maybe it was instinct or something else entirely, but she couldn’t let him go through whatever it was alone, not again.

Eventually, she pushed through the heavy ballroom doors, leaving the noise of laughter and clinking glasses behind her as she stepped into the quiet night air. The sudden shift in the atmosphere was jarring, the lively event inside faded into a dull hum, barely audible as she found herself standing in a meticulously manicured topiary garden. Tall, artfully shaped hedges loomed around her, casting long shadows under the moonlight, the only light coming from lanterns lining the stone pathway. She quickened her pace, rounding one hedge and then another, hoping to glimpse him. But the garden stretched on, and after a few minutes of searching, her stomach sank. Was he gone?

She bit her lip, frustrated and worried as she stood still for a moment, closing her eyes to listen, trying to tune in any sound beyond the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur from the party. Nothing. The garden felt too large, too quiet. She sighed and started retreating inside when a movement caught her eye.

Just off to the side, almost hidden beneath the shadow of a thick, overgrown bush, she spotted a dark shape. Her heart stuttered as she stepped closer, the form coming into view. There, huddled in the dirt, with his back pressed against the stone wall, was Bucky. He looked utterly wrecked.

His blue suit was smeared with the mud formed in the recently watered soil, as though he’d been sitting there for a while. His hair, previously pulled back neatly into a bun, was disheveled, with loose strands clinging to his forehead and others tangled and tugged free as if he'd been pulling at it in desperation. His hands were fisted in the damp earth by his sides, and his shoulders were slumped in defeat. He didn’t move as she approached, didn’t even acknowledge her presence. It was as if he had retreated into himself, blending in with the shadows like he wanted to disappear entirely.

Her breath caught. If there were remnants of her initial anger, they melted away entirely now. What was left in its place was pure concern. She had never seen him like this, so broken, so raw.

“Bucky?” she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she knelt, hesitating just a foot away. He didn’t respond, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and his breaths kept coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Her heart clenched. He was hiding not just physically, but emotionally too. He retreated into that dark place, one she had seen before, but never like this.

“Hey…” she tried again, with a gentle tone, trying to reach him through the fog of whatever nightmare gripping at him. “Bucky, it’s me.”

For a moment, he did nothing. He remained hunched, with his knuckles white from where his fists were clenched in the mud. But then, slowly, he blinked, and his gaze shifted ever so slightly toward her. The look in his eyes was a mixture of panic and shame, as though he didn’t want her to see him like this.

“It’s… I’m fine,” he croaked, though his voice betrayed the lie. He wasn’t fine. He was far from it.

She inched closer, hovering uncertainly, wanting to reach out but unsure if he’d pull away. “You’re not,” she said softly, locking her eyes on his. “You’re not fine, Bucky.”

He swallowed hard, his throat worked against the emotion he was trying to keep down. “Just… leave me alone, please,” he muttered, his voice thick with strain, like it took all of his strength to form the words. “I don’t… I can’t-” His breath hitched, and he turned his head away, curling inward even more as if trying to shield himself from her gaze.

Her heart ached. She couldn’t leave him here, sitting in the dirt, drowning in whatever demons had resurfaced tonight.

Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against his hand. He flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away. Encouraged by the slight opening, she gently took his hand in hers, squeezing just enough to ground him.

“I know maybe I’m not the number one person you want to be with right now, but I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice firm but soft.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and his fingers twitched in her grip. He looked down at their joined hands as if struggling to process the kindness in her touch. He didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders slowly began to loosen, the rigid line of his back slightly relaxing.

She stayed quiet, giving him the space to come back from whatever dark place his mind had taken him to. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She could feel the weight of his unspoken turmoil pressing down on them both, but she didn’t let go, even when the minutes dragged on.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bucky let out a ragged breath. His voice, when it came, was low and hoarse. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

Her lips pressed together. She could hear the self-loathing in his tone, the way he seemed to think he was a burden, something she shouldn’t have to deal with. “I couldn’t just leave you like that,” she said gently. “Not when I knew you were hurting.”

He winced at the word, like it physically pained him to admit that she was right. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his eyes darting away, staring blankly at the ground.

“I don’t have to,” she countered, tightening her grip on his hand, as a quiet reassurance. “You don’t need to explain anything. I just…” She hesitated, then sighed softly. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone. Because you’re not.”

Bucky’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting some internal battle. The vulnerability in his eyes was stark, a raw edge she wasn’t used to seeing in him. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She frowned. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve, Bucky. Not when you have people who care about you.” Her tone softened as she met his gaze. “And I care about you. So, I’m here. Whether you like it or not.” Without waiting for him to respond, she lowered herself onto the dirt beside him, her dress immediately catching the mud, smearing across the delicate fabric, and her legs. Little branches snagged at her hairdo, but she didn’t care.

Bucky clenched his jaw at her words. After all the terrible things he'd done, he didn’t deserve her -her kindness, her care. How could anyone care for him after what he’d been made to do? But what mortified him more was how he’d been with her recently, pushing her away, when he knew his feelings for her were growing too strong to handle. He had been cold, cruel even, thinking it would be easier to keep his distance.

But here she was, not giving up on him. He felt his chest tighten with a tangle of guilt and longing. He didn’t deserve this.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the comfort her presence brought him. Slowly, he felt his body ease, his rigid frame relaxing slowly as her warmth seeped into him. His shoulder brushed hers, hesitantly at first, then stayed. This time, he didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to.

The warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, all felt soothing. He let himself be pulled into the comfort she offered, no longer caring if his attraction to her showed. It wasn’t like he could hide it now, or cared, anyway.

His trembling fingers, rough and scarred, brushed against her leg, just a light, accidental touch, but enough to send a shiver up his spine. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but he did. And this time, he didn’t retreat.

Bucky’s breathing slowed and deepened, and his chest started to rise and fall in sync with hers. His head dipped slightly, not quite resting on her shoulder, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. His fingers shifted again, this time curling just slightly around her thigh. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it felt monumental to him. For once, he wasn’t recoiling, wasn’t hiding behind walls of shame and guilt. He was just… there, with her, feeling what he felt, even if he couldn’t say it out loud.

He glanced up at her again, and his blue eyes met hers. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look away. His gaze lingered, searching for something, understanding, acceptance, maybe even something more. And what he found there, in her eyes, was enough to make the knot in his chest loosen just a little bit more.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t push him. And in that silence, in the simple act of being there for him, Bucky felt something shift inside him. Without thinking, he let out a soft sigh,  as his body shifted again, and he finally dipped his head to rest it lightly on her thighs. The movement was tentative as if he were bracing for her to pull away, to break the fragile moment. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She stayed right there, solid and steady, grounding him once again.

When he fully rested his head, her fingers found his hair almost instinctively, gently threading through his disheveled locks. The touch was soft, soothing, and familiar, much like the night before when she had used her healing powers to ease his nightmares. But this time, she didn’t channel any of her energy into him, at least, not yet.

For a few minutes, she simply caressed his hair, her fingertips brushing lightly against his scalp, tracing calming patterns. Bucky’s tense muscles began to relax further, and his body sank into the comfort of her touch. It was grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

After a while, her fingers paused in his hair. Her voice was soft, hesitant but caring as she asked, “Do you want me to…?” There was no pressure in her words, only a quiet offer, giving him the choice.

Bucky was silent for a long moment, his body still against her, but the tension returned to his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. He knew what she meant, what she could do for him if he let her. He shook his head once, slowly, almost reluctantly. “No,” he whispered, “I… I need to feel this,” he added, his voice rough but steady. “I can’t run from it every time.” It was difficult to say, but he meant it. Then, she let her hand continue to stroke his hair softly, offering comfort in the simplest way possible. She respected his decision, knowing how much strength it took for him to face these demons on his own terms. “I’m still here,” she whispered, while her touch never faltered. “If you ever need me.”

Bucky didn’t respond with words, but he relaxed against her once again, his body yielding to the quiet, unspoken understanding between them. Even without her powers, the weight of her presence was enough for him to hold on.

-----

Eventually, the quiet that had settled between them started to fade, replaced by the creeping awareness that they couldn’t stay huddled in the garden forever. The world beyond their little bubble -the event, the people, the expectations- slowly edged its way back into their consciousness.

She shifted slightly, pausing her fingers in Bucky’s hair as she glanced around. The faint buzz of the distant crowd could still be heard from the ballroom, and the glow of lights from the building cast long shadows across the topiary.

“We should… probably get out of here,” she whispered reluctantly, breaking the comforting silence.

Bucky didn’t move immediately. His head still rested on her lap, as if he could will the world away for just a little longer. But eventually, with a low sigh, he pushed himself up, raking a hand through his tousled hair. “Yeah. We can’t… be seen like this,” he muttered, gazing at the mud-streaked ruins of his suit.

She glanced down at herself and grimaced. “I look like I’ve been rolling around in the dirt with you,” she teased softly, brushing at her dress, though the stubborn stains refused to budge.

The topiary garden felt worlds away from the glittering ballroom, but their predicament remained clear: how were they going to make it back to the compound without being seen? They exchanged a glance, an unspoken acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all, just as the crunch of footsteps on gravel reached their ears.

They barely had time to react before Sam appeared from behind a meticulously trimmed hedge, coming to an abrupt stop in his tracks when he saw them. His eyes widened, taking in the sight of both of them covered in dirt, hair wild with sticks on it, and rumpled clothes. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, leaning against the nearby wall as his smirk grew wider by the second. “Well, well, well,” he drawled out, clearly enjoying the scene. “Looks like somebody took ‘blending in’ a little too seriously.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't even wanna know what y’all were up to, but good luck explaining that to the rest of the team.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Sam held up a hand. “Nope, no explanations needed. You two look guilty enough as it is.” He winked and gestured behind him. “But seriously, you might wanna get out before Steve or Nat see you. Unless you wanna be the talk for the next month in the compound.”

Bucky cursed in frustration, rerunning a hand through his already messed up hair, making it even worse. Beside him, she winced internally, knowing they looked like a pair of absolute messes.

“Sam, got any ideas for getting us out of here discreetly?” she asked with a groan.

Sam didn’t miss a beat, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Discretion? Yeah… you two in the bushes covered in dirt totally screams discretion.” His grin widened as he glanced between them. “But sure, I can help. Just let me figure out how to sneak out two people who look like they’ve been rolling around in the mud like… well, you know, two horny teenagers.”

She felt her face heating as she shot a horrified look at Sam. “No, that’s not-” she started, but his laughter cut her off.

“Oh, c’mon, I’m just messing with you,” he said, winking at her. “But seriously, you two need to work on your subtlety if you’re gonna sneak off for some ‘alone time.’”

If looks could kill, Sam would’ve been obliterated on the spot by Bucky’s death glare. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice was a dangerous growl. “Shut it, Wilson. Unless you wanna be the next thing that ends up in the bushes.”

Sam just raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright! Chill, Tinman. I’m just saying, you gotta work on your cover story for when you walk back in looking like that.”

She wanted to disappear into the ground, mortified. But Sam, as always, had an answer. “Tell you what,” he said, slapping Bucky on the back. “I’ll create a distraction. You two sneak around the back, and I’ll make sure no one’s looking when you head out.” he shook his head, clearly relishing the moment. "But I gotta say, this is one hell of a way to ditch a party," he quipped, waggling his eyebrows mischievously. "mud wrestling, hm?"

She groaned, burying her face in her hands while Bucky shot him a withering glare, muttering another string of curses under his breath.

“Next time, let’s stick to indoor adventures, shall we? He added, flashing a grin. Before either of them could respond, Sam turned on his heel. "I'll think of something," he called over his shoulder, already planning his grand distraction.

------

The night was still and the distant hum of the city was barely audible as Bucky and her walked along the deserted road. The event had been settled on the outskirts, far enough from the city that they had no choice but to hoof it for a while. Neither of them had spoken since Sam’s grand distraction allowed them to slip out unnoticed, both too absorbed in their own thoughts.

He walked a few steps ahead, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller.

The silence stretched on, heavy but not uncomfortable. Eventually, she huffed softly, the heels she’d stubbornly kept on finally becoming too much. Without a word, she stopped, bending to slip them off. "God, that’s better," she muttered, dangling the shoes by their straps before picking up the pace again to catch up with Bucky.

His gaze focused on her for a moment -disheveled, dirty, barefooted-. She was a mess, and the tension in his chest twisted painfully, and the guilt crept into his mind again, not only because of how he had treated her but also from what transpired that night.

Without saying a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and gently placed it around her shoulders. Her skimpy dress had been fine for the party but wasn’t doing much to protect her now.

She looked up at him, with a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she accepted the jacket, sliding her arms into the oversized sleeves. The fabric was heavy, enveloping her in warmth, the sleeves hung so long that only the tips of her fingers peeked out. As she adjusted the jacket, she took in his scent, subtle notes of cedar and leather. It was distinctly Bucky, and she liked it.

“It’s warm... thanks,” she murmured. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but enjoy the comfort of his presence wrapped around her, even if only through the fabric of his jacket.

He kept his gaze straight ahead. After a beat, finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry you missed the event because of me,” he said softly.

Her steps faltered slightly, tightening her fingers around the sleeves. She hesitated before speaking, biting her lip as a bitter truth spilled out. “I’m sorry I’m not Natasha.” Bucky’s head whipped toward her, and for a moment, his guard slipped. She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “I should’ve sent her after you, instead of following you myself.”

Bucky frowned. That was the second time she brought up Nat. “Where did you even get that idea?”

She sighed, as her insecurities pushed her to finally explain. “Well, because of what Sam said on the limo. About you being all grumpy because you couldn’t bid in the auction.” She hesitated, and her voice wavered slightly. “I thought he meant... you wanted to bid on Natasha.”

Bucky cursed under his breath, with barely contained frustration. “Why the hell would you think that?”

She quirked a brow, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “What else was I supposed to think? You’ve been treating me like the plague, Bucky. Like you couldn’t stand to be around me.” She uncrossed her arms and ran a hand up and down through the strap of her dress, exhaling in frustration. “And then, when Sam made that joke, it just… fit, you know? it was obvious he was talking about Nat.” She glanced away, as if admitting it aloud somehow made her feel even smaller.

Bucky’s tensed his jaw, and a storm brewed behind his eyes as he stepped closer to her. “That’s not what’s going on. Not even close.”

“Then what is going on?” Her voice wavered as her hand fell to her side.

His hands clenched and unclenched, wrestling with the words he’d buried for so long. Fuck it. "It’s not Natasha," he said finally. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

She blinked, caught off guard. “Me?” The word came out barely above a whisper, soft and disbelieving. Her heart raced, pounding so loud she was sure he heard it.

Bucky’s gaze held hers, full of rawness as if saying the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. "Yeah, you," he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. "Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you? I… I didn’t know how to deal with it."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first, her heart still pounding hard as she tried to find her voice. “Honestly? From where I’m standing, I kind of thought you couldn’t stand me with the way you’ve been acting.”

Then, deciding she’d had enough of this back-and-forth, she gathered her courage. "Would it help," she began in a softer and more vulnerable tone "if I told you I like you too?"

Bucky froze. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. His eyes flickered with a mix of emotions; hope, fear, and something close to desperation.

“I...” He dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to answer that.” He paused, dropping his gaze to the ground before slowly lifting back to meet hers. “Part of me wants to tell you that’s what I’ve wanted to hear... for so damn long. But the other part...” His fists clenched at his sides. “I’ve got so much... so much shit I haven’t even begun to unpack. And I don’t wanna drag you into it. I’m damaged goods, and you deserve better than I can give. Shit, probably the only thing I can do right now is only take.

She stayed quiet for a moment, watching him wrestle with his emotions. Then she shook her head.  “I’m a grown woman, Bucky, and I’m very capable of making my own decisions. I’ve decided... I want to give us a try if you are ok with that.”

His expression shifted as he stared at her, “I don’t know how to do this.” he whispered. His heart was pounding, torn between fear and longing. He hesitantly hovered his dirty hand between them, and when she reached out and took it, the tension in his chest eased. “I can’t promise… I’ll be easy to deal with,” he added, so low his voice was barely audible.

“I’m not asking for easy, Buck,” she replied, gently squeezing his hand. “I’m asking for you.”

Something shifted in his chest. He felt the weight of all his fears and doubts, but her touch made it seem lighter somehow, like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he thought. Slowly, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it reached his eyes, softening the lines of exhaustion and pain that usually darkened his features. “Okay, let’s…” he murmured. He stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them, locking his eyes on hers. Her hand was still in his, warm, grounding and suddenly, without thinking -no more doubts, no more hesitation- he decided to man up.

In one swift, unguarded moment, he leaned in. His vibranium hand cupped the side of her face, brushing her cheek as he tilted her chin up. He paused just a heartbeat, his breath mingling with hers, before closing the distance. His lips found hers, soft but insistent, a kiss that spoke of everything he’d been too afraid to say. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was something deeper, something that tasted of hope, of taking a chance.

When they finally parted, his forehead came to rest gently against hers, their breaths still mingling in the cool night air. Neither of them spoke, the silence was more comforting than any words could be. His thumb absentmindedly brushed her cheek, and she leaned against his caress.

For a while, they just stood there, forehead to forehead, until Bucky felt her body tremble slightly against him. He frowned, realizing that despite his jacket draped over her shoulders, they were still out on a desolate road in the middle of the night, and she was dressed for a gala, not a walk through the cold. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, glancing down at her bare feet and legs showing under the hem of his suit.

“Nah, I’m fine,” she started, but her teeth chattered slightly, betraying her words.

Bucky raised a brow, unconvinced. “Come on, climb on my back,” he said, turning around and squatting slightly as if to make it easier for her.

“What?” she blinked, shaking her head. “No way, I can walk.”

He shot her an exasperated look. “I’m not asking, doll. It’s cold, and you’re barefoot. Besides,” he added with a teasing smirk, “I could probably run five miles with you on my back without breaking a sweat.”

She let out a reluctant laugh, still feeling self-conscious. “I don’t know, Bucky…”

“Seriously? I can bench-press a car, and you’re worried about a piggyback ride?” His grin widened, confidence oozing from his voice. “Come on, let me show off a little, after all the crap I put you through."

She hesitated but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Okay, fine,” she sighed, giving in. “But if you drop me…”

“I won’t,” he cut in with a grin, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Scout’s honor.”

With a roll of her eyes, she finally climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his hands gripped her legs effortlessly. His warmth surrounded her instantly, and as she rested her chin on his shoulder, she felt her tension slowly melting away. Then a thought hit her, and she glanced down at her muddy legs. “Your shirt…” she muttered, a little hesitant. “It’s going to be a mess.”

Bucky didn’t even slow down, letting out a low chuckle, and his voice was a deep rumble she felt against her chest. “You think I care about the shirt?” He glanced over his shoulder, with mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Your thighs are around my waist. Pretty sure I’ve got more important things to think about.” She couldn’t help but blush at his cheeky remark and hid her face on his nape.

As they walked, Bucky’s steps slowed faintly, his gaze was fixed on the path ahead, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “You really sure about this?” he asked softly. “Sitting in the mud with me while I’m falling apart… that’s not the kind of life I want for you.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder again, tightening her arms slightly around him. “I stood with you in the mud because I wanted to. No one forced me. And if that’s part of being with you, then I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid of your mess.”

Bucky stayed silent momentarily, letting her words sink into his mind. His heart clenched, torn between the comfort of her closeness and the nagging doubt that never fully left him. “You say that now,” he muttered, “But it’s not always gonna be just mud. There’s… stuff I don’t even know how to talk about.”

She tightened her arms around him, brushing her lips against his ear. “Then don’t talk about it yet,” she replied softly. “Just... let me be here. Let me decide what I can handle.”

His throat tightened. The weight of her words felt both heavy and freeing, a strange contradiction he wasn’t sure how to process. “I’ve spent so long trying to push people away,” he admitted, “I don’t even know how to let someone in anymore.”

Her lips curved into a small, soft smile against his neck. “Good thing you’ve got time to figure it out, Buck. I’m not in a hurry.”

The path ahead was uncertain, messy, and strewn with shadows, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt that maybe he didn’t have to walk it alone.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[islayhawkin]

Meet Me Halfway

Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff,  angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

You were a tracker.

Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool. 

So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.

[islayhawkin]

just started watching Frieren...

speaks in a sorta monotone way

hyperfixates on magic to the point where collecting odd spells is a hobby of hers

doesn't like certain forms of touching (specifically headpats)

struggles with making connections to others, is currently working on it after the deaths of two of her comfort people

because of her hobby of collecting odd spells, she can spend days, even years on one single mission (i.e spending months looking for a seemingly defunct flower that bloomed in Himmel's hometown to plant around his statue

Frieren is a fucking Autistic Legend

[islayhawkin]

💜🤍

[islayhawkin]

GUYS I FIGURED IT OUT

Clint in the vents and that’s his whole personality because he wasn’t fleshed out in the movies → Ava in the walls and that’s her whole personality because she wasn’t fleshed out in the movies

Thor eating poptarts and overusing proper words because English isn’t his first language and he’s the comedic relief → Alexei eating Wheaties and overusing proper words because English isn’t his first language and he’s the comedic relief

Natasha pranking and laughing at everyone from the sidelines because fanon decided she’s just silly like that → Yelena pranking and laughing at everyone from the sidelines because canon decided she’s just silly like that

Bruce being a sweet, soft-spoken, unassuming guy but also the most fucking unhinged monstrosity if you catch him on a bad day → Bob being a sweet, soft-spoken, unassuming guy but also the most fucking unhinged monstrosity if you catch him on a sad day

Steve being handed the de facto title of goody two shoes leader despite being the LAST person on board with this → Bucky being handed the de facto title of goody two shoes leader despite being the last person on board with this

Tony being a big-mouthed asshole that’s secretly haunted by his past mistakes which involved publicly supporting the US military via PR stunts as a weapons manufacturer → John being a big-mouthed asshole that’s secretly haunted by his past mistakes which involved publicly supporting the US military via PR stunts as a weapon himself

[islayhawkin]

People don’t want romance they want to be in a qpr with their favourite fictional characters

[islayhawkin]

We are SO back

rip 2012-2014 tumblr, you would have LOVED thunderbolts*

[islayhawkin]

耳をすませば / Whisper of the Heart 1995,dir. Yoshifumi Kondō

[islayhawkin]

This makes me so happy every time this happens

when you just finished one of the most beautiful fics ever written and you see that the author has a masterlist full of other fics

[islayhawkin]

Protector

Paring: Simon Ghost Riley x f!reader

Warnings: torture, canon typical violence, protective ghost, mentions of past trauma, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 6.5k words

Synopsis: You and Ghost were captured and tortured...

This is based on this post that I made a while ago. Basically "touch her and I'll kill you" trope.

EDIT: Here's part 2

“…Get up!”

“…Fucking get up!”

The voice seemed familiar. It was rough, low and resonated in your head. Furious but hidden beneath it was a desperate plea.

Searing hot pain resonated from the back of your head and though your eyes were open you couldn't see a thing through the bright light that burned into your eyes. Something hot rolled down your face and the back of your neck as you stared into the blurry light trying to discern what was going on.

You couldn’t move a muscle, not even your fingers as an intense coppery taste fell into your mouth. It hurt to breathe against the cold floor, your chest and sides collapsing into you causing you to wheeze.

You blinked almost in slow motion. Unable to let your eyes shut despite the pulling weight you felt as if you were going to sink into the floor and fall asleep. You were tired and so cold yet you couldn’t even shiver without feeling pain electrocute you.

“You hear him?” A gruff voice, almost muffled but cold and condescending, called out to you as you felt a nudge on your side. You winced but that’s all you could do as you stared up at the shadow in front of you. “He wants you to get up."

Another voice just as cold said something in a different language you couldn't comprehend in your state. They argued back and forth while you tried to find the familiar person.

You squinted through the light to try to discern who was in front of you. Your vision was too blurry from pain and tears but no matter how many times you blinked them away you couldn't see. It made your heart race but the heavy beating hurt against your chest more than it should.

A swift kick to your gut knocked the wind out of you before you could cry out in pain. You gasped for air as tears ran down your face and more blood filled your mouth. The kick left sharp pains inside your abdomen and every moment you couldn't take in a breath, the more it hurt.

Hands grabbed onto your arms and yanked you off the ground, ignoring the cries you let out as they dragged you across the floor. You were thrown onto a chair and winced when you felt your restraints dig into your sore wrists and ankles as they tightened them around you again.

A hand grabbed you jaw and squeezed, causing you to wince again as you were forced to look ahead of you.

“She’s up now.” The man snickered and your attention moved in front of you. “This is what you wanted, yes?”

Your captor was talking to a man who was tied to a chair in front of you. Now that the light was partially out of your eyes and gravity allowed your tears to be blinked away, you could see.

The man across from you looked unfamiliar. His blond hair was stained with red and his face was bruised with blood as well. Despite that he seemed to have much more strength than you did since he was able to sit up straight when you couldn’t even hold your own head up.

Your eyes widened when you realized that was your lieutenant. That was Ghost.

You were seeing Ghost without his mask.

“Just tell us what we want and you can stop this.” Your captor gestured to your face.

Ghost glared at the man who held your face but said nothing. You couldn’t see how angry he was, how much hatred there was in his eyes and if looks could kill then both of you would’ve been free by now.

Blood dripped from your mouth and your captor let go of you by shoving your head away. He growled something under his breath as he walked away from you. You wanted to see what he was going to do but you didn’t have enough strength to lift your head up. You were glad for that however because almost immediately you could hear the man beating Ghost.

You wished you could tune out the sounds but you couldn’t. Every grunt and labored breath hit your ears, threatening you with an experience you had just been through.

You gathered all the strength you could muster and tried to struggle against your restraints but it wasn’t even enough to make them dig into your skin. You wheezed again and when those few seconds of fighting left you, you were hit with intense exhaustion.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you passed out.

~

Ghost’s chest heaved up and down as fresh blood ran down his face. He wasn’t sure how long his face had been used as a punching bag but he preferred it over being used as a cutting board instead. He would prefer to be anywhere else but in a concrete room, in a building that Price was struggling to find, however that was the risk that came with the job.

A simple recon mission had turned into getting captured by Russian weapons dealers. They weren’t exactly the hospitable type considering his nose was broken and he was missing a few fingernails.

He wasn’t new to torture but this had to be the worst torture method he had been through.

Ghost looked up at you and felt his entire world shatter.

If he hadn’t seen your eyes searching for him, he would’ve thought you were dead. You were covered in blood and bruises of all colors. Your clothes were tattered from having knives carved into your skin and he could see a few burn marks that would surely leave nasty scars. You had lost so much blood he was surprised you were still alive but so grateful you were holding on.

You weren’t supposed to be in here with him and there was no denying that it was his fault you were.

You both had been captured at the same time, a mistake from you both but he took the sole blame for it as your lieutenant. You were separated and Ghost assumed that they were at least keeping you locked up without touching you while they tried their hardest to get information out of him.

He assumed they were just going to keep trying, they were going to continue to beat the living hell out of him and he was going to say nothing to them. But he was proved wrong when they quickly realized they were getting nowhere with him so they brought you in to try to beat it out of you too. And then Ghost made the stupid mistake by opening his mouth and telling them to stop.

It took one word from him to seal your fate. One word and you became their favorite toy to beat, cut and harm in every possible way just to get Ghost to talk.

You were being used against him and as much as he wanted to deny it, to say he was an operative who knew how to handle these situations and was disciplined beyond the nines, it was working.

Every scream, every cry you let out broke down his defenses and it became harder for Ghost to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to tell them everything and that was scary for more than one reason which made him feel sick.

Scary because if they got the right info out of him, he could jeopardize the lives of many and become even more of a failure than he already was in this moment. Scary because if he was willing to break to end your suffering for the sake of both of you, he had to come to terms with how he truly felt about you.

And right now he couldn’t.

Ghost stopped himself by telling himself that once he gave them the info they needed, both of you were going to die. It was enough to keep his mouth shut until the next round of torture came.

All of the torture and pain for you was going to end soon. There was a spot on his restraints that was hidden from the weapons dealers that he had been working on since he had been strapped down. He could feel it start to become loose enough he could break his hand free, he just had to wait for the right moment.

“Sergeant.” He called out to your limp form with a raspy voice before he spit blood onto the floor.

You didn’t respond. You were out cold and his chest hurt more if it was even possible.

This past round of torture had been especially cruel and long. The weapons dealers had been relentless in their beatings, going so far as to toss you on the ground to kick you as hard as they could until you were coughing up blood.

“You better not fucking die on me.” He tugged on his restraint and never looked away from you. “That’s an order.”

It was a feeble attempt to make himself feel better. He worked against his restraint, staring at the bruises on your skin and the blood dripping from your face onto your clothes.

He thought about how you were going to be so much more damaged after this. Your smile was going to be absent from your beautiful face, your laughter would no longer grace his soul, you probably wouldn’t even give him those little touches he thought he hated. They had hurt you so much more than he ever wanted to think about and that made him pissed.

Ghost broke through it with ease. Adrenaline and rage coursed through his veins as he wasted no time ripping the rest of his restraints off. When he was finally free he shot up from his chair and nearly collapsed on the floor.

He was in worse shape than he wanted to believe.

Black spots dotted his vision and his aching muscles weighed him down enough that he had to hold onto the chair to keep himself from falling. His head pounded furiously which made it difficult to even blink as he found himself short of breath even though he had only stood up from the chair.

Everything hurt but he couldn’t let that stop him. He needed to be strong for you. He could rest when you were safe.

He pushed off the chair and kneeled in front of you. His eyes jumped all over you, trying to make sure you weren’t actively bleeding out before he gently cupped your face with shaky hands.

“Sergeant.” His voice was softer than usual as he held your face. “Come on, wake up.”

When Ghost moved your head ever so slightly you woke up with a slight jump. You immediately began to breathe quicker, thinking that a new round of torture was going to start before he spoke.

“It’s me.” He assured you and watched your eyes finally open. He always thought he was blessed by the universe when you looked at him but now he truly felt like the luckiest man to see them after all you both had been through. “It’s Ghost.”

“Ghost…” You rasped out, wincing from the pain as you relaxed now that he was in front of you.

“I’m here.”

He kept a hand on your cheek as he began to undo your restraints, one of his fingers pressed against your weak pulse. You weren’t bleeding out but a few more beatings like the one you had just endured and you’d be gone from him. He had to be quick and extremely careful when breaking out of here.

“I’m getting us out of here.” He explained in a low tone as your wrists became free but you didn’t move to get up. “We’ll have to move quick. I can’t fight and carry you at the same time, think you can walk for me?”

Ghost was prepared to have to carry you if you said you couldn’t. He’d come up with another plan instead of fighting his way out of there.The idea of moving sounded horrible to you, he could see it in your eyes, but you nodded as you gripped the chair tightly to prepare yourself to stand up.

He grabbed your arms as gently as he could and was going to help you up when he heard movement outside of the room.

“Fuck.” He gently set you back down in the chair and held your face so you were looking at him. “Stay.”

He moved away from you, and took position beside the door and listened to the approaching footsteps with bated breath. The silence in his ears was only broken by the loud beating of his heart as he braced himself for a fight he was determined to win.

When the door opened, his eyes narrowed. All of the torture he endured turned into anger but all of the torture you endured turned into blinding hot rage. He barely had enough self control to wait for the man to even enter the room before he began swinging.

The man let out a shocked yelp as Ghost’s fist connected with his face. He had no time to react when he grabbed the man by the shirt and flung him in the wall, pinning him against it as he rammed his fist into his face relentlessly.

Ghost was seeing red. He kneed the man in the stomach and caught his arm when he tried to fight back, ignoring the loud crack that came from it when twisted it as hard as he could. He didn’t care when the man screamed in pain, in fact he almost relished in it before he managed to wrap his arms around the man's neck and started to choke him.

He easily could’ve snapped it. The fight would’ve been over but he didn’t want it to end that quick. He wanted this man to suffer for putting his hands on you, almost wishing he could return the damage but there was no time for that.

The man went limp and Ghost threw him on the ground. He was breathing heavily as he snatched the knife he had from his back pocket.

The man deserved worse.

“Still with me, sergeant?” He rushed back over to you and when you nodded he carefully wrapped his arms around you. “We gotta go.”

You tried not to scream, but a groan left your throat as pain flushed over you when he pulled you up. Your chest heaved up and down as your vision went black, and you fell against Ghost. You felt his protective arms hold you up and close to him as you waited for your vision to come back. You could hardly stand on your own but you gripped his forearms for dear life while you forced yourself to stay strong.

“I’m okay.” You didn’t sound convincing as you tried to push away from him but he wouldn’t let go.

“No.” He bent down and wrapped his arm under your knees before you picked up with ease despite the screaming pain in his muscles. “I’ve got you.”

You were unnaturally cold in his arms. He held you close to his chest to try to warm you up. His heart skipped a beat when you wrapped your arms around him and hid your face in the crook of his neck. He adjusted his hold on you, trying his best not to hurt you as he did, and made his way towards the door.

He hoped that no one had heard the struggle and when he glanced at the body on the ground, it took a lot of self control not to kick it.

“Your mask…” Your weak voice was close to his ear and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

He hadn’t even thought about his face being exposed. He didn’t care if anyone saw his face at this moment, the only thing on his mind was getting you out of there.

Ghost peered out of the door down the dimly lit hall. He wasn’t sure how big the building was but luckily for the both of you no one seemed to be around. That didn’t make him feel any less on edge, in fact he was more on edge since he didn’t know the layout of the building or the routine any of its inhabitants had. For all he knew, someone could be coming around the corner and you’d both be screwed.

He stepped out in the hallway, keeping his attention on both sides as he stayed close to the wall. He moved close to the ground, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered as he turned around a corner.

“Stop.” He interrupted and felt more anger rise in him “I don’t want to hear any of that. Not now or when we get out of here.”

“Sorry…”

Noise from down the hall made him stop. His heart started to race and he quickly raced back to the corner, hiding behind it as he listened to the approaching chatter of two guards.

His eyes frantically searched for a room to hide in before he noticed what looked to be like a supply closet. He swung the door open and stepped inside, struggling to shut the door before they rounded the corner. He got it to close to a crack before he heard their voices closer than ever.

He stilled and held you closer to him. He felt your arms wrap just a little bit tighter around his shoulders as you both tried to breathe quieter. In the silence of the supply closet he could hear just how bad your wheezing was and it only gave him more motivation to get out of there as fast as he could.

He hoped neither one of your lungs were going to collapse before you made it out.

The chatter from the guards slowly began to disappear but he waited. He didn’t move a muscle even after the guards were long gone from the hallway. He wanted to be sure that no one else was going to show but for the first time since he had been subjected to torture he was able to catch his breath.

The pitch black closet and the silence within gave him a sense of security. He was fine with listening to your breathing in his ear as he shut his eyes for just a moment, just to find some peace.

You must’ve felt the same since your hold around him loosened and your breathing had gone steady. He held you closer to him, making sure you were still secure in his arms.

“They hurt you.” You whispered, causing him to open his eyes.

You were pointing out the obvious but he could hear the worry in your voice especially when your thumb caressed a cut on his neck.

“I’ve been through worse, don’t worry about me.” Ghost assured you as he pushed the closet door open with his foot. “You should see yourself.”

You grunted maybe out of pain or exhaustion when you were reminded of the serious state you were in. Your eyes were barely able to stay open as he maneuvered through the halls again.

“Thought you were dead.”

“Hurts too much for that.”

Ghost clenched his jaw tightly, making a mental note that when you both got out here to find the fuckers. He would request a solo mission when he got off leave just for the purpose of finding the other weapons dealer. They may have been able to capture him this one time but they made the mistake of not killing him before he got out.

He quickened his pace down the hall, hoping to find some sort of indication of where he was going. There were no signs, the walls were so empty that he wondered if maybe he was going in circles. He huffed and hoped that wasn’t the case.

A yell echoed off the walls, not too far from where he stood, and he instinctively tightened his grip on you. You winced and he wanted to apologize but he was now on high alert as he listened to the angry voices that were impossible to tell where they were coming from.

He was an expert at this. It was his job to sweep the halls and be prepared for everything, to know when someone could be next or when he was approaching an enemy. His hyper awareness of his surroundings was second nature and yet he had gotten into this situation and he was struggling to put those skills back into use.

He was distracted by his aching muscles and screaming wounds that stained his dirty clothes. His mind raced with trying to keep track of where he was and keeping you safe.

You were taking up most of his mind too. He was trying to not hurt you, to jostle you around and make your wounds worse while trying to hightail it out of there so you could get the help that you needed. He was being too kind to your wounds in a situation like this, his military training of just getting the person out and dealing with the aftermath completely gone from his mind.

There were too many things on his mind and he wasn’t able to control it like he usually did.

It was going to get you both killed, but he couldn’t do it and that’s how he knew he needed to get out there quick. He wasn’t in any shape to be doing this yet if he had waited any longer then you both could’ve died as well. Overall, the situation you both were in was the worst case scenario that no one wanted to be in while working this job.

“Need you to hold onto me and not let go.” Ghost told you and though you had been doing that already, he wanted to make sure you were going to do it when he would need to run away.

“Okay.” You said through gritted teeth as his fingers dug into a particularly sore spot on your side.

Once you tightened your hold around him, enough to where it made him flinch from the pain, he began to jog down the hallway. Despite his quick movements and being as massive as he was, his footsteps were still light enough that it would be difficult to hear him.

He hoped that at some point he would come across a window or a room he could stop in to look for information. He couldn’t keep going around the base full of enemies who would most likely kill on sight blind. Every moment he spent wandering through the halls he was taking a gamble with death.

His ears heard it before he could register it.

Footsteps from around the corner, fast ones that came up onto him far too quickly for him to turn and run the other direction. He barely had time to react when three men rounded the corner.

One of the men didn’t hesitate to slam his fist into Ghost's jaw even after they were startled by seeing him. Ghost stumbled back and tried to hold onto you but the man practically ripped you out of his arms to throw you on the ground.

He was pushed back into the wall, becoming disoriented by the barrage of punches to his sore head, unable to throw any punches back himself.

You were trying your best to fight one of the other guards who had trapped you on the floor underneath as he laid waste to you but your injuries made it extremely difficult to do anything, all the while the other man carefully watched.

Ghost managed to get one good punch to the man jugular before he pulled the knife out of his pocket. He stabbed it through the man’s neck, jamming in it as far as he could while he choked on his blood, before he threw him on the ground.

He didn’t hesitate to throw the knife at the man on top of you, hitting him right in the neck.

With the last of your strength you pushed the guard off you and sliced the knife across his throat.

“Y/n!” Ghost called out to you when he watched you go limp before he turned his attention on the other man.

He saw red again when he realized it was the other weapons dealer. He clenched his fists and charged towards the weapons dealer. He noticed the gun that was pointed at him but he was too focused on the hidden look of fear in the man's eyes as he sprinted towards him.

The weapons dealer pulled the trigger and hit Ghost in the thigh, but that didn’t stop him. Nothing but a bullet to the head was going to stop him from his determination to kill the man in front of him.

Ghost grabbed the man by the wrist to twist it and the gun went off in his ear. He wasted no time to punch him as hard as he could, the ringing in his ears spurring him on. He slammed his fist into his face as hard as he could, feeling his knuckles crack from the force.

He lifted his good leg and kicked the man’s knee cap in, causing them both to fall to the floor. The weapons dealer tried to roll out from under him but Ghost grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the concrete repeatedly to stop him.

He was feral, blinded by rage, harming the man in front of him not out of survival but out of passionate revenge. Memories of your screams made him go crazy as he wrapped his hands around the weapons dealer neck. Every cry replayed in his mind along with the image of your damaged body causing him to squeeze hard while the man struggled underneath him.

If Ghost could see himself he would be unrecognizable. Your pain had resurfaced an old evil within him that hadn’t seen the light of day since he adopted his new name. It brought the monster that was obsessed with violence and the death of anyone who dared to lay a harmful hand on him or the one he loved.

There was a reason why this side of him had been put out of commission. He hated the scalding hotness that raced through his veins, the tightness in his throat, and the way he felt out of control. It was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

The weapons dealer’s body went limp. It took a moment for Ghost to realize he was dead but when he saw that he was no longer writhing underneath him, he released his hands.

Ghost was breathing heavily as he stared down at the dead body underneath him. His vision blackened and whitened, hot liquid running down his leg and staining his dirty pants with fresh blood. He felt dizzy from the blows to his head and the rapid blood loss which made it hard for him to get up from the floor.

He clenched his teeth, almost breaking them as he crawled his way to you. He bit back any groans as he came up to you, placing his fingers on your pulse.

It was weak, almost non-existent, but still there. That was enough to keep him going.

He cradled your head with hands that had just committed atrocities so gently. He stared down at the blood pouring out of your nose and the new bruises that were already forming. He hoped for your sake that your face wasn’t broken.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He assured you even though you were unconscious. He carefully pulled you into his arms again and held onto you securely. “Gonna get you out of here. Gonna patch you up, make you okay.”

His words were slurred and he was blabbering. The blood loss was getting to him and he knew if he didn’t try to move now, both of you were going to die.

Ghost braced himself, taking a deep breath and stood up on shaky legs. He couldn’t hold back the groan of pain that ripped through his throat. He took shallow breaths, his skin getting sweaty and cold before he resumed down the hall as if nothing had happened.

He limped down the cold, ugly hallways and left a trail of blood in his wake. Every step felt like the bullet wound grew bigger, ripping his skin apart until there was nothing left.

He didn’t care. The only thing on his mind was you.

You. Just you.

Your poor state. Your conscious body as it hung limp in his arms, covered in dirt, blood, grime. Hours, days worth of pain that would never go away that would forever soil your mind and body with scars. You could be dead in his arms, having bled out internally and he wouldn’t know until he got out of there.

“You’re okay.” He mumbled to push those thoughts away. “You’re okay…”

Ghost kept repeating it to himself like a mantra. It helped him keep the little amount of strength he had to keep you in his arms when he heard rapid footsteps echo off the halls again.

He was prepared to run or try to at least. He was prepared to fight until he was shot through if it meant you would somehow survive.

“Simon!”

He knew that voice. The rough, commanding voice belonged to Price and he had never been happier to hear him bark out his name. He felt like he could breathe again as he stopped in his tracks.

He was lucky that Price had finally found them and he wondered if maybe that’s what spurred on the sudden yelling from the base. Honestly he didn’t care at the moment. You were getting out of that hell hole and neither of you had to ever step foot back in it. He nearly collapsed as he heard his team’s footsteps get closer but he held on as he swallowed thickly.

He blinked the blurriness from his eyes and looked ahead of him seeing the rest of the task force armed to the teeth rushing towards him.

“Take her.” That was the first thing he said to them as they approached him and he held you out.

Gaz quickly took you from his arm, holding you close to him before he raced down the hall following behind Price who was already commanding a plan to get out of there.

Ghost watched after them, missing the comforting weight of you in his arms and finding himself much lighter without you. He wished he had the strength to carry you himself but he could hardly walk forward without stumbling which prompted Soap to wrap his arm around his shoulder.

Soap took most of his weight as they both walked down the hall.

“Johnny.” He weakly said as his vision began to spin, his fingers digging into his shirt.

“I got you L.t.” Soap assured him as he pushed forward.

Ghost suddenly felt too heavy to walk anymore. All of his strength was gone now that he didn’t have to worry about you. You were safe and now he could finally go to sleep. His vision went spotted with black dots before his knees buckled underneath him.

“Ghost!”

~

Ghost woke up with a start. The first thing he noticed was the dull ache he felt all over his body, the brunt of it taken away by what he could only assume were heavy pain meds.

“Morning.” He looked to his right to see Soap sitting on a chair next to his bed with a small smile. “How you feelin’ L.t?”

“Ask me later.” His voice was hoarse and his throat was scratchy, causing Soap to hand him a glass of water with a chuckle.

He drank the water, finding that as soon as it touched his mouth he was incredibly thirsty. He chugged it, finding that even though it wasn’t cold it was the most refreshing thing he had in months.

When he was finished Soap took the glass from him and refilled it from a pitcher that sat on a table next to his bed. He handed the glass back to him and watched with slight worry as he began to chug it again. While he did he looked at the room around them..

He was lying in a hospital bed. The usual hard mattress and uncomfortable blankets were anything but that as he felt himself sink deep into them, finding a safe warmth in them. He was connected to various machines that beeped in tandem with his heart while his body was covered in stitches and sterile white bandages.

His hand was already in a cast and his leg was propped up on a fluffy pillow.

He was in the infirmary back on base. He was safe from harm.

“You're a beast, you know that?” Soap said as he took the glass back when he was finished. “Breakin’ out and running through the base with a bullet in your leg.”

“Had to. If I didn’t, we might’ve died-”

His heart stopped. His eyes searched around the infirmary frantically as he attempted to get out of bed to go look for you but Soap put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Easy. She’s okay.” He assured him before he jutted his chin across from him.

Ghost looked over and his gaze softened immediately.

You were sleeping in the bed next to him. You were hooked up to the same machines as him but you were bandaged up a lot more. He watched your chest rise from your steady breathing, finding himself mimicking it as his shoulders relaxed. You looked peaceful and deep in sleep, most likely from copious amounts of pain meds the doctor gave you.

He laid back on the bed, his eyes never leaving you.

“She was in worse condition than you.” Soap began as he eyed you both. “Broken ribs, other bones, major concussion, internal bleeding. Been sleeping ever since we picked you both up.”

Ghost swallowed thickly. He couldn’t even begin to describe the pit that formed in his stomach as he watched you. As much as he wanted to rationalize that the guilt he felt wasn’t warranted, his mind wouldn’t let him get rid of it.

He had almost indirectly killed you. He wouldn’t forgive himself if that had happened.

“How long?” He mumbled and heard Soap let out a deep sigh.

“About a week.” Soap said and he shook his head.

“Fucking hell…”

It had certainly felt longer than a week. Those long hours of torture and the short periods of recuperation between them had felt like an eternity. He remembered how every hour that passed by had been a month. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Soap had told him that, but knowing that so much damage had been inflicted on you both in a matter of a week made the pit in his stomach worse.

He couldn’t imagine how long it felt for you.

The physical toll this was going to take on you would hopefully clear up and not become long term but he knew your mental would most likely take the biggest hit.

“Price is puttin’ both you on leave for a while.” Soap caught his attention and he looked back at him. “He won’t admit it out loud, but he’s worried.”

“Guess that’s expected.” Ghost huffed and shut his eyes for a moment. Even though he knew it was the right call, considering the extent of the injuries you both had suffered, he absolutely hated the idea of having to stay on base, or worse, go back home. He would be forced to take it easy, to not do anything strenuous which meant he would be stuck doing absolutely nothing. It was the perfect opportunity for him to think too much.

He couldn’t hide himself in his work like he normally did. Hell, he probably wouldn’t be able to hide himself in any of the hobbies he had that he rarely participated in.

A heavy sigh left his chest and he rubbed his eyes. He would have to deal with the hell he was going to put himself through, he was used to it, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

“Here.” Soap tossed one of Ghost’s spare masks on his lap. “Figured you might want it.”

Ghost picked up the mask and looked at the black material. It was just one of his simple balaclavas and in any other moment he would’ve put it on so at least he felt some sense of security in the midst of all of this. However when he glanced at you, something in him told him to wait.

“Thanks, Johnny.” He watched as his friend gave him a small smile and patted him on the shoulder.

“Get some rest, L.t.” Soap stood up and pushed the chair out of the way.

Ghost watched him leave before he turned his attention back to you. You were the only thing he really wanted to look at in the infirmary, finding that you distracted him from the annoying beeps of the machines and the sterile walls that surrounded you both.

This wasn’t the first time that Ghost had found himself watching you as you slept.

Most of the time his attention was elsewhere when you both were on missions. He always took first watch on missions that spanned more than one day since he struggled to fall asleep as quickly as you. His eyes would wander to you when nothing in particular was happening and he was immensely intrigued by your ability to seemingly sleep peacefully no matter the situation.

He almost envied you. It took a while for him to take control of his thoughts when he laid down to sleep and yet the moment you shut your eyes you were gone.

Even now you seemed to be the most comfortable he had seen you in a week or even a month.

It was most likely the meds, but that didn’t stop the sense of comfort he felt as your chest rose and fell slowly.

Ghost toyed with the mask in his hand. His eyes bounced around your relaxed face and he let out a soft sigh that made him sink further into the mattress. He wanted to be awake when you woke up, but his eyelids started to get too heavy for him to keep open.

You had that effect on him and you didn’t even know.

In his sick, twisted mind he hoped he had the same effect on you. He hoped that he gave you a similar comfort and safety that you gave him despite the fact that he was a ruthless killer. Even after all he’d done in the enemy’s base, the cold blood murders he committed, he hoped that somehow you were happy to have him around you.

He was sure the moment you woke up he would too. And when he did he would make sure that you knew you were safe.

He always would.

A/N: Part 2? Also this is way longer than I had expected lol

[islayhawkin]

Ahhh i love this!!

D&D!141: Classes and Races

I spent way too much time on this and ended up putting too much effort into their character stats.

This is post is about their class, race and any other information that pertains to that. There will be a lot of dnd words, rules, and things that some people might not be familiar with. I will try to explain as best as I can but feel free to ask questions!

Backstories will be posted eventually.

Of course, I have to tag @gold0kapi who has drawn some amazing tiefling!soap that spawned this mess. i loved your drawings very much <3

Captain John Price

Price is a variant human fighter.

Variant humans gain one more prophecy in a skill, get to choose a feat and two of their ability scores increase by one (i haven't rolled their stats). It makes sense for him to be variant human going off of who he is in CoD.

Feat: Alert

You gain a +5 bonus to initiative.

You can’t be surprised while you are conscious.

Other creatures don’t gain advantage on attack rolls against you as a result of being hidden from you.

Background

Variant Noble - Knight: A knighthood is among the lowest noble titles in most societies, but it can be a path to higher status.

Class: Level 10 Fighter

Fighting style: Archery

You gain a +2 bonus to attack rolls you make with ranged weapons.

Second Wind

You have a limited well of stamina that you can draw on to protect yourself from harm. On your turn, you can use a bonus action to regain hit points equal to 1d 10 + your fighter level

Battle Master

To a Battle Master, combat is an academic field, sometimes including subjects beyond battle such as weaponsmithing and calligraphy. Not every fighter absorbs the lessons of history, theory, and artistry that are reflected in the Battle Master archetype, but those who do are well-rounded fighters of great skill and knowledge.

Maneuvers

Commander's strike

Parry

Precision attack

Rally

Riposte

Maneuvering attack

Distracting strike

Evasive footwork

Proficient Skills

Intimidation

Persuasion

Perception

Survival

Insight

History

Languages

Common

Elvish

* A lot of people who play dnd call this boring and generic but I think it fits Price in the grand scheme of things because he's so powerful and influential that he doesn't need to be anything other than human. He is a testament to the human desire to never give up.

Simon Ghost Riley

Ghost is a Fallen Aasimar multiclassed fighter and rouge.

A fallen aasimar is as aasimar who was touched by dark powers as a youth or who turns to evil in early adulthood can become one of the fallen-a group of aasimar whose inner light has been replaced by shadow

Necrotic Shroud:

Starting at 3rd level, you can use your action to unleash the divine energy within yourself, causing your eyes to turn into pools of darkness and two skeletal, ghostly, flightless wings to sprout from your back. The instant you transform, other creatures within 10 feet of you that can see you must each succeed on a Charisma saving throw or become frightened of you until the end of your next turn

Background:

Soldier - War has been your life for as long as you care to remember. You trained as a youth, studied the use of weapons and armor, learned basic survival techniques, including how to stay alive on the battlefield.

Class: Multiclassed fighter and rogue

Level 7 fighter

Fighting style: Archery

You gain a +2 bonus to attack rolls you make with ranged weapons.

Second Wind

You have a limited well of stamina that you can draw on to protect yourself from harm. On your turn, you can use a bonus action to regain hit points equal to 1d 10 + your fighter level

Champion

The archetypal Champion focuses on the development of raw physical power honed to deadly perfection. Those who model themselves on this archetype combine rigorous training with physical excellence to deal devastating blows.

Improved critical

Beginning when you choose this archetype at 3rd level, your weapon attacks score a critical hit on a roll of 19 or 20.

Remarkable Athlete

Starting at 7th level, you can add half your proficiency bonus (round up) to any Strength, Dexterity, or Constitution check you make that doesn’t already use your proficiency bonus. In addition, when you make a running long jump, the distance you can cover increases by a number of feet equal to your Strength modifier

Level 2 rouge

Sneak attack

You know how to strike subtly and exploit a foe’s distraction. Once per turn, you can deal an extra 1d6 damage to one creature you hit with an attack if you have advantage on the attack roll. The attack must use a finesse or a ranged weapon.

Cunning action

Starting at 2nd level, your quick thinking and agility allow you to move and act quickly. You can take a bonus action on each of your turns in combat. This action can be used only to take the Dash, Disengage, or Hide action.

Proficient Skills

Survival

Perception

Stealth

Athletics

Intimidation

Languages

Common

Celestial

Thieves cant

*Note that fallen aasimar do not have to be evil

John Soap MacTavish

Soap is Tiefling Artificer

Tieflings are derived from human bloodlines, and in the broadest possible sense, they still look human. However, their infernal heritage has left a clear imprint on their appearance.

Hellish resistance

You have resistance to fire damage

Hellish rebuke

You point your finger, and the creature that damaged you is momentarily surrounded by hellish flames. The creature must make a Dexterity saving throw. It takes 2d10 fire damage on a failed save, or half as much damage on a successful one.

Darkness

Magical darkness spreads from a point you choose within range to fill a 15-foot-radius sphere for the duration. The darkness spreads around corners. A creature with darkvision can’t see through this darkness, and nonmagical light can’t illuminate it.

Background

Guild artisan - You are a member of an artisan's guild, skilled in a particular field and closely associated with other artisans. You are a well-established part of the mercantile world, freed by talent and wealth from the constraints of a feudal social order. You learned your skills as an apprentice to a master artisan, under the sponsorship of your guild, until you became a master in your own right.

Class: Level 8 artificer

Magical tinkering

You've learned how to invest a spark of magic into mundane objects. To use this ability, you must have thieves' tools or artisan's tools in hand. You then touch a Tiny nonmagical object as an action and give it one of the following magical properties of your choice

Artillerist

An Artillerist specializes in using magic to hurl energy, projectiles, and explosions on a battlefield. This destructive power is valued by armies in the wars on many different worlds

Eldritch canon

You've learned how to create a magical cannon. Using woodcarver's tools or smith's tools, you can take an action to magically create a Small or Tiny eldritch cannon in an unoccupied space on a horizontal surface within 5 feet of you. A Small eldritch cannon occupies its space, and a Tiny one can be held in one hand.

Arcane Firearm

You know how to turn a wand, staff, or rod into an arcane firearm, a conduit for your destructive spells. When you finish a long rest, you can use woodcarver's tools to carve special sigils into a wand, staff, or rod and thereby turn it into your arcane firearm.

Spells

Cantrips

Fire bolt

Thunderclap

1st level spells

cure wounds

faerie fire

absorb elements

feather fall

shield

thunderwave

2nd level spells

heat metal

magic weapon

aid

scorching ray

shatter

*at level 9 he can cast fireball...Price is scared

Proficient Skills

investigation

arcana

insight

persuasion

Languages

common

infernal

celestial

*tieflings can come from a fully human household. The tiefling gene can skip generations before it shows. Tieflings are made because of a pact struck generations ago infused the essence of Asmodeus—overlord of the Nine Hells—into their bloodline. In the players handbook, tieflings are often looked down upon.

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Gaz is an Elf ranger

Elves are a magical people of otherworldly grace, living in the world but not entirely part of it.

Fey Ancestry

You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put you to sleep.

Trance

Elves don’t need to sleep. Instead, they meditate deeply, remaining semiconscious, for 4 hours a day

Background

City Watch - You have served the community where you grew up, standing as its first line of defense against crime. You aren't a soldier, directing your gaze outward at possible enemies. Instead, your service to your hometown was to help police its populace, protecting the citizenry from lawbreakers and malefactors of every stripe.

Class: level 8 ranger

Fighting style: Defense

While you are wearing armor, you gain a +1 bonus to AC.

Favored enemy: Undead

Favored terrain: Urban

Horizon Walker

Horizon walkers guard the world against threats that originate from other planes or that seek to ravage the mortal realm with otherworldly magic.

Detect portal

At 3rd level, you gain the ability to magically sense the presence of a planar portal. As an action, you detect the distance and direction to the closest planar portal within 1 mile of you.

Planar warrior

At 3rd level, you learn to draw on the energy of the multiverse to augment your attacks.

As a bonus action, choose one creature you can see within 30 feet of you. The next time you hit that creature on this turn with a weapon attack, all damage dealt by the attack becomes force damage, and the creature takes an extra 1d8 force damage from the attack.

Ethereal step

At 7th level, you learn to step through the Ethereal Plane. As a bonus action on your turn, you can cast the Etherealness spell with this feature, without expending a spell slot, but the spell ends at the end of the current turn.

Spells

Level 1 spells

hunters mark

ensnaring strike

protection from good and evil

2nd level spells

misty step

healing spirit

magic weapon

Proficient Skills

perception

insight

stealth

athletics

Languages

elvish

common

dwarvish

*this also seems pretty generic but I believe it fits him best. He is sort of the hero in the series.

And that's all! I hope you guys like what I've written. Tell me what you guys think because I'm curious!

Tags: @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @argella1300