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jaderabbitt · 19 days ago

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Lavender

Summary : The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

Pairings : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) with a sprinkle of Bob Reynolds x John Walker (Sentryagent)

Warnings/tags : Royal AU. Lavender Marriage AU, Medieval AU, Forbidden Love. Fluff, angst, domestic abuse, Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol and drug abuse, withdrawal symptoms. Death (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : For context, a lavender marriage is mixed-orientation marriage used to hide one or both partner's sexual orientation, in this case, it's Bob's. I have been way too Sentryagent lately lol. Enjoy!

You were eight years old when you met Robert Reynolds, the Viscount’s only son.

Your father, the King, had just finished praising the Viscount in front of the court. “A man of unwavering loyalty,” he said, “and discipline enough to raise a boy a family can be proud of.”

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes.

And you met his son that day.

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father — looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class.

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course.

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty.

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured.

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege.

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep.

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket.

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James.

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back.

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel.

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it.

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing.

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded.

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast.

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery.

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm.

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.”

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time.

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent.

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness.

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams.

Queen.

You were Queen.

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father.

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges.

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed.

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all.

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening.

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage.

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing.

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep drinking, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press.

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it.

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm?

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him.

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit.

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him.

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers.

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door.

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls.

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes.

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night.

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence.

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running.

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits.

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful.

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take.

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James.

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded.

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs.

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly.

The gown was next. Then the jewels.

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised, He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded.

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it.

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought.

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile, — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch.

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked.

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching.

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks.

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move.

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you.

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes.

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once.

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin.

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world.

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes.

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not.

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own.

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked.

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John.

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders.

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

-end.

992 notes · View notes

jaderabbitt · 2 months ago

Text

Marching Forward / A New Kind of Love (I)

warning!! slight thunderbolts* spoilers under the cut! this chapter is mostly just the gala + flashbacks, so nothing that people haven't already been writing for pre-release of the movie.

pairing: Bucky x ex-girlfriend/ex-widow!Reader tags: pre-established break-up, flashbacks, idiots still in love, idiots still in lust, angst, hurt+comfort, canon-level comedy, curvy!reader*, grownasswoman!reader, slightly bratty but funny reader

*I specifically wrote reader as having curves/meat on her bones because she's supposed to be around 30-35 by thunderbolts*. MILF era reader but subtract the child is upon us. I also generally head canon that Bucky would prefer a curvier woman bc she's soft and can take more iykwim warnings: suggestive content, dirty talking, mentions of death, mentions of hopelessness, slightly toxic relationship (will get fixed later also reader is kinda the toxic one), mentions of domestic abuse*, self-deprecation, reader is explicitly a woman, slight physical descriptors for reader but nothing drastic like hair skin or eyes, playing fast and loose with timelines

*reader was trained by the Winter Soldier in the Red Room, like in the comics. obv, he has laid hands on her bc he had to. reader also comments in a flashback that she expects Bucky to get mad and hit her, but he would never post!WS.

summary: after being separated for three years, you and Bucky finally see each other once more. lots of things have changed - but, have you?

word count: around 2.2k

note: see end of fic for footnotes!

It was a wonder that they let six-year-olds as small as Yelena play a sport. Most likely, it had something to do with the fact that you lived in a small town in Ohio—there probably weren't many six-year-olds around to sign up. The soccer team was interspersed with girls her age and a year above.

You and Natasha sat next to Melina on the field’s bleachers, watching Alexei coach what had to be the worst children’s soccer team in existence. There were a couple girls who just plain looked confused, as if they didn’t know how to play soccer—despite this being the team’s fourth game.

The sun beat down onto the field, making you squint and hold a hand over your eyes to see past the reflections off metal bleachers. You watched as your youngest sister crouched to catch the ball with her comically large goalie gloves on, ending up missing the ball by the tips of her fingers. The parents on the other team cheered and clapped, while Alexei had to try and damage control the disappointed parents and young kids on your side of the field.

You and Natasha fooled around, cracking jokes about the girl who had a mishap on the field last game. Melina had pinched your arm in condemnation when she overheard you two snickering about it.

It was days like these that you’d end up missing the most. You had many pains in your life, ones that you’d remember during witching hours of restless nights.

You could still feel Dreykov’s nasty hands gripping you to separate you from your sisters.

You could still remember how it felt to snap a neck for the first time.

You could still remember the betrayal you felt when Natasha defected, and left you and Yelena behind.

You could still remember the salted taste of your tears as you stood at her grave.

But the one that hurt most of all?

You could still remember the glisten of Bucky’s grey-blue eyes when you glanced back at him that last night in your shared apartment. He made no move to stop you from leaving, and there was a finality to that.

He had given up. On you, and on your relationship together.

—————————

“If you do not succeed, then you have no purpose. The Red Room does not keep things without purpose.” ¹

Madame B’s voice rang through your mind like a scourge—an affliction, threaded deep through the hollows of your soul.

Purpose.

A simple word, but one which haunted your waking moments.

What purpose did you have in this life? An assassin, reared from birth, was all you’d ever be.

You had been given a short taste of what it would’ve been like, had you been birthed by a womb which cared. One where your purpose was to be a loving daughter and sister, who could do whatever she wanted with her life. Maybe, one day, you would’ve even been a wife.

Maybe, just maybe–

Your sister would still be alive. And, maybe, you wouldn’t have this cavernous, yearning hole within your being, swallowing everything you are.

“And where does that leave me, James?” You had finally broken. Your voice raised, a finger pointed accusingly at his chest. “I’m not like you. I’m not like Natasha was. I can’t pretend to be anything other than a killer wearing a hero’s face.” ²

You immediately regretted your choice in words when Bucky’s face fell. There was no anger, no frustration.

It was nauseating. You wanted him to yell back at you, to get furious. Hit you, even.

Instead, he looked at you as if you had just shattered his fragile heart– broken it into tiny shards that pierced from within his chest cavity.

“Is that how you see me?”

You escaped your subconscious in the backseat of a car service, digging your nails into the meat of your exposed thigh and leaving white scratch marks behind, soon to be raised welts. The dress you wore had a slit, cut high enough to show skin when you walked, but low enough to not be considered indecent. Your garter held an inconspicuous dagger on the inside of your thigh; you weren’t going to be caught without any sort of weapon, but even you weren’t bold enough to attempt bringing a firearm within reach of several government officials. The brush of the blade’s handle against the skin of the opposite thigh when you walked brought a consistent comfort, a subtle reminder it was there.

A figure, curved and matured with age, filled out the dress’ silhouette like a second skin. The ripples of fabric followed your body’s command as a stilettoed foot hit the pavement of the sidewalk. Adjusting the void of black wrapped around your skin and gripping your clutch tightly to your side, you let out an exhale that you didn’t realize you were holding. The car that had dropped you off had pulled away the minute you shut the door, and the nearest subway entrance was at least a ten block walk that you weren’t going to attempt in four inch pumps.

Alas, all arrows pointed to you being unable to escape what was sure to be an exhausting night.

The black-tie event had since been underway by the time you arrived. Though, you figured that may work better in your favor; not many people would be looking for a late entry to the party. Your stilettos clicked against polished marble, eyes scanning the room with a practiced gaze. Your glasses were set low on the curve of your nose, letting the false lashes you wore flutter against skin uninterrupted. The makeup you had applied suddenly felt heavy on your pores as you spotted the reason for your attendance.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine–what a mouthful–stood at the opposite balcony, seeming to be having a heated discussion with her assistant. Over what? That wasn’t your business. Your business with the Contessa began whenever she opened her mouth to give you your assignment, and ended whenever you completed the contract. You refused to associate with the avaricious woman more than was necessary.

And, so, you began to work your way over.

You barely made it halfway before an arm had shot out and pulled you into a side hall. Either your reflexes have dulled in your time away from the field, or the arm that gripped yours was inhumanly fast. You were hoping it was the latter–you aren’t sure you could translate your skills to other fields if you were losing your touch.

You struggled against the arm around your waist, which only furthered the strength of the grip. Your backside collided with the soft, lean muscle of a man’s front. You were truthfully attempting not to make a scene–there were a very many violent options that you had been trained in to break a hold like this, but you had been trying not to bring attention to yourself.

“Again,” you panted out, your ribcage surely bruised from being thrown around with ease likened to a child throwing a toy. The man in front of you didn’t care, however. Neither would an opponent in the real world. So, you once again assumed your position. The mechanical whirr of his silver arm echoed within the walls of the old Belarusian training room as he readied his stance.

You darted towards him, using your smaller stature to your advantage–he may have more advanced reflexes than a normal human, but his bulky mass and metal arm weighed him down. He had anticipated you to jump him head on again, so you knew you had to find a way to break his focus. As he reached out to grab you with his metal hand, you slid in between his spread legs. His arm instinctively went to grip your waist behind him once he felt your arms on his shoulders, so you used that to boost your momentum and twist your body up and around to his front. Your thighs closed around his head and squeezed, blocking his sight and hearing. As you brought an elbow up to slam down on his–quite frankly–hard head, you felt his hands reach up and grasp the curves of your backside. The boldness of the touch had shocked your system frozen. ³

A grunt left his lips, muffled by your crotch, and that was the only warning you received before the tingle of your spine communicated that gravity was approaching, and fast. You could only gasp for air as your back hit the training mat, stealing what breath you still had away.

The impact had loosened the vice grip of your thighs, but the Soldier’s body stayed in what you could only describe as a compromising position. His gaze locked onto yours, lips parted and breathing hot puffs of air into your intimate area, knees buckled underneath him, and palms still flat against your bottom. The black of his pupils nearly engulfed the blue of his irises–he looked ready to devour you.

“Hey, hey!,” a low rasp grumbled in your ear, the sound of your name breaking you out of your stupor, “It’s me!”

You almost fought his grip even harder, now knowing who it was that held you. “Bucky, what the fuck!” You hissed, his grip finally loosening enough for you to break out and spin around to face your unwanted captor. His arms raised and his shoulders hunched in, he tried to make himself look smaller–or innocent, rather–in a placating manner.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “force of habit.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, using the hand not clenched around your clutch to rub at your temple; you knew you would have to have this moment eventually tonight, you just hadn’t thought it would happen immediately.

“You look…good,” were the words that came out of his mouth. He winced immediately after, as if kicking himself for saying it.

One brow quirked up, you couldn’t help the quip from leaving your mouth.

“You look…older. Is that grey I see in your beard?” You pretended to squint and pushed your glasses up your nose, as if you were trying to get a closer look. ⁴

He let out a huff–the closest you’d get to a laugh–and the side of his lips curled up a bit. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re not put on ice for years at a time.”

His brow furrowed suddenly, pointing at the glasses on your face. “What’s with the…?”

You let out a chuckle at that, the back and forth between you feeling natural. Like old times.

“Creature comfort,” you shrugged. ⁵

Your eyes roved up and down Bucky’s body, inspecting the changes. The way he clearly had been less rigorous with strength training, but his body clung to muscle mass naturally. “It’s a good look on you. I’d say you age like fine wine, but considering you’re probably older than most aged wines being sold currently, I think I might insult some vineyards.”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised at that, a smug smirk slowly lifting on his lips–

“That right?”

You could’ve sworn your heart skipped a beat as he leaned in closer, the notes of bergamot and cedar in his cologne suddenly becoming clear to your olfactory senses. You tried swallowing down the nerves growing in your throat, his eyes glancing down to the motion before slowly inspecting down your full figure and back up.

“You have no idea just how much you’re testing my restraint right now,” he murmured lowly, eyes hooded over as he looked down at you as if you were his prey for the night. Despite the added four inches from your stilettos, the bastard super soldier still towered over you.

“Bucky, I–”

“Ah, ah. You’re gonna turn that ass around, go do what you came here to do, and when you’re done, you’re gonna come back to my apartment with me and we’re gonna have a little chat.”

The commanding tone of his voice left no room for argument, but you found yourself testifying anyway.

“James, it’s been almost three years–”

You found yourself being manhandled, again, by your ex-boyfriend. He spun you around so that your back pressed against his chest again, his vibranium hand groping the swell of your ass. You had to bite down on your lower lip to prevent an embarrassing moan from escaping, watching people mingle around the hall without a notice or care in the world of what was happening just across the hall from them.

“And whose fault is that, hm?” He growled into your ear, “I haven’t seen my girl in three years. Not one call, text, or even a fucking email.”

“I’m not your girl anymore, remember?” You hissed out, rolling your eyes, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I haven’t been your girl since you let me walk out that door.”

“I didn’t let you do anything. You’re a grown fuckin’ woman and I respected your decision. If I were in the business of letting you do things, you’d be bent over that railing right now.”

“And become a scandalized Congressman? Is that truly worth it?”

“If it meant that I’d finally get a message through that thick fuckin’ skull of yours, then yes. I assassinated a U.S. President and still got voted in. A sex scandal could hardly scrape the bottom of the shit I’ve done.” ⁶

“Oh, please. You could’ve assassinated Hitler himself and there would still be a population of the American people who would try to get on your ass for having premarital sex.”

“Interesting foreplay this has been, I must admit–but you’re avoiding consequence by talking around the point.”

Well, shit. You were kinda hoping he hadn’t noticed.

¹ This is a line from “Sucker Punch” ! Dr. Gorsky fits the Red Room characterization so well imo.

² This was internal monologue from Bucky in Winter Soldier: Devil’s Reign.

³ This is my poor attempt at describing the move Black Widow does on Bucky after he gets activated by Zemo in CA:CW. I always thought it’d be fun to make it more heated, seeing as how intimate of a position it looks without the context of a fight.

⁴ In my headcanon (bc truthfully I don’t know if they’ve ever confirmed this?), Bucky’s body ages with Sebastian Stan’s. So he’d be physically around his early 40s by the time Thunderbolts* happens. He’d be physically in his late 20s in Winter Soldier flashbacks, mid 30s in FATWS ones.

⁵ Can be implied that Reader doesn’t actually need glasses; this is relevant for later. If you do need glasses, this will also still work; it would just imply that Bucky was used to seeing her with contacts in. Could also just be read as a “Clark Kent Effect” where people don’t recognize a spy with glasses lmaoo.

⁶ I love Bucky “I Assassinated JFK And Got Away With It” Barnes.

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