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jamesb444 · 12 days ago

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terra incognita: the meeting (part i.)- bucky barnes

nerdy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader

summary. how does a nerd catch the eye of one of the cheerleaders? easy. don't bat an eye at her. 16k words.

cw. lowkey obsessed!reader, um bullying?? weird nerd... papal edicts.. and stuff. nothing is established in this (what's readers major? who knows. why is bucky taking STEM electives? who knows.) i don't even remember what happens in this part anymore.. no smut but honestly very cute.

a/n. this was sl hard to write?? ive never written a cutesy romcom inspired fic before??? literally kicked me in the butt everyday more than the hare did. how many times did i crash out to james and erin over this?? too much. and it's not even done yet. of all 65k words.. this is the only part i'm confident posting. side eyes self... i hate this.

dt. @54nboo thanks for proofreading and listening to me crash out over this almost everyday! @jamesb444 who i based nerdy!bucky off of. @/plumtartt who unfortunately deactivated but is the reason why i started writing college bucky (which led me to nerdy!bucky) in the first place, thank you plumtartt, i think of you a lot. and @buckyspup the best pup ever!!!

special mentions for my nerdy bucky lovers. @flockoff-featherface @herejustforbuckybarnes @mrgrungusthefrog @s4ge-gre3ns @neechan88 @onlineanyway @blowingbarnes @kiatjuddae @fleurbies @pinksplace @sergeantbarnessdoll @luvyoupxmimi

taglist. @demiebarnes @kararchives @1dluver13xx @devililithh @iownguns @loki-licious-945ad @ruexj283 @henrywinterreincarnate @biggestfangirl @buckybuckybuckysstuff @mrsalexstan @pretty-girl-rock-3 @riot-sounds @ambervanth @hiraethmae @btwbaureidrc @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @sweetserendipity65 @icwallittrashmagic @user27386 @buckysbaker @kittieboo @pixviee @moonyxxbarnes @rhythmnobleus @barnesonly @avgdestitute @star-yawnznn @thenedicouncil

masterlist | series masterlist | next part (in progress)

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the answer to mrs. petrovsky's question in forensics, is simple: water. moving water, specifically.

it disrupts lividity, carries away trace evidence, speeds decomposition, feeds the ecosystem. a weighted body in a deep, fast river?

statistically, it might never surface, or if it does, miles downstream, bloated and unrecognizable, just another piece of driftwood tragedy. the textbook had stated. adipocere formation possible... insect activity differs significantly...

"how do you hide a dead body?" the question hung. the intricate puzzle of it. the logistics. the chemical ballet of decay versus concealment.

you imagined cold, dark water, the silent journey downstream, the efficient recycling by catfish and bacteria. a clean disappearance. almost elegant in its finality. bury it wrong, lividity gives you away. leave it shallow, scavengers scatter the evidence. fire? ash retains secrets.

but water... water swallows. water forgets. you were mentally calculating river depths versus body mass, the ideal current speed, the decomposition timeline factoring in water temperature and dissolved oxygen levels, the sheer, practical efficiency of oblivion by drowning, long after the actual drowning occurred...

"HOLY SHIT, DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

that sentence brings you here, snapping you back to reality.

under the arms of one tyler jones. the name tastes like stale air. golden boy. star... something. quarterback? running back? it doesn't stick. not that it matters.

all that registers is the sheen of his perfectly styled hair catching the awful overhead glare, and his smile – a permanent, practiced accessory, as fixed and meaningless as the plastic trophies lining the display case you shuffle past.

his arm slung casually over your shoulders like you're another trophy. his voice is a stupid confident drone, talking parties, talking about himself.

it's... fine. predictable. like chewing flavourless gum.

his arm isn’t affection; it’s ownership. like a claim staked, anchoring you to his orbit like a moon trapped by a gaudy, self-absorbed planet.

you’re just another thing to display alongside his letterman jacket, the cut of his jaw, the effortless persona that makes the hallway part for him.

his voice washes over you again, yet you barely hear it – parties, scouts, completion percentages, his sixty-yard bomb, his precision, his inevitable glory. words flow like a river you’ve long learned to float upon, detached, numb. you don't swim; you barely drift.

your eyes skim the blur of passing faces – the performative laughter of cliques, the couples fused at the lips, the ghosts hugging the lockers, eyes vacant. it’s all just background noise painted in shades of institutional a beige, exhausting mural.

tyler’s monologue about coach’s drills, his throwing arm, the drooling state scouts… it might as well be static. white noise.

you focus instead on the squeak-squeak of sneakers, the clang of a locker door kicked shut. your mind drifts, a desperate escape pod launching towards the half-finished sketch in your notebook, the haunting melody fragment looping in your head, the vague, persistent ache of being… elsewhere. anywhere but here, pinned under this arm, drowning in the echo chamber of his ego.

"...so coach is running the triple option drill again," tyler's saying, his fingers tap an absent rhythm against your upper arm. "like, we nailed it tuesday. but no, gotta grind it into the ground, right? my throwing arm's gonna fall off before saturday." he chuckles. "not that it matters. state scouts are already practically drooling. saw them talking to coach yesterday after practice. my completion percentage last game? insane. it's pure precision. you saw it, right? that sixty-yard bomb? textbook."

you hum a low vibration in your throat.

tyler's vocabulary includes nothing but scouts, completion percentage, precision. they might as well be in another language.

"...and then after the game, steve's throwing that party at his lake house," tyler continues, oblivious. "gonna be huge. kegs, music, the works. you're coming, obviously. wear that blue dress, the one that– hey." his voice sharpens. the tapping on your arm stops. "you listening?"

the hallway noise seems to recede in your ears. you blink, pulling yourself back from the edge of wherever your mind had wandered. "hmm? yeah, tyler. lake house. sounds... big."

he frowns, a slight crease appearing between his perfect brows. he doesn't like being ignored. not even passively. his hand lifts from your shoulder. for a second, you think he's going to drop the arm entirely. relief is a tiny, fleeting spark.

but then, quick and jarring, he snaps his fingers right in front of your face.

snap.

the sound is intrusive, cutting through the ambient noise like a physical prod. disrespectful. dismissive. like summoning a distracted pet.

"hello?" tyler demands, his voice losing some of its easy charm, gaining impatience. "i'm talking about the party of the semester. pay attention."

you flinch. not embarrassment, exactly. more like irritation simmering under a layer of practiced tolerance.

you force your eyes fully onto his face, meeting his expectant, and annoyed gaze. "sorry," you hum, the word tasting bland. "got lost in thought for a sec. yeah, party. blue dress. i heard."

the tension in his expression eases, replaced by that familiar smile. the arm snakes back around your shoulders. "good. just making sure you're with me. wouldn't want you spacing out when i'm telling you important stuff." he resumes walking, steering you. "anyway, like i was saying, the scouts..."

and then you see him.

tucked against the tide of students surging the other way, a boy with dark hair falling into his eyes like a shield, a physics textbook clutched against his chest. he moves with a strange urgency, head down, shoulders hunched. not slouching, exactly, but... contained. a tightly wound spring compared to tyler's sprawling confidence. unlike the noisy chaos of the hallway, he radiates a quietness, shyness that makes everything around him seem suddenly two-dimensional and flat. his gaze is fixed on the scuffed floor, utterly oblivious to the currents of students, to tyler, to you clinging to him. intriguing.

"...and coach says if i nail that throw saturday, scouts from state are practically guaranteed to offer on the spot–" tyler's voice fades, a distant radio signal lost to static, as you watch the boy.

he's scrambling, weaving through gaps that barely exist between the other students, like he's invisible.

intelligence doesn't just show on him: he reeks of it. you see the worn spine of the textbook – advanced theoretical physics? – the smudges of ink staining his hands, his eyes, visible for a second as he glances up to navigate through the halls. the library ghost. the scholarship kid. the genius, supposedly. or trouble, some whispered.

he doesn't look up. he doesn't register tyler's presence, and he absolutely does not register yours. his world is the dense text and the clearest path ahead. and that path, in his focused haste, is about to intersect yours and tyler's dead-on at a congested locker bay bottleneck.

"whoa, watch it, man!" tyler says, louder than usual, his arm tightening around you.

he collides hard with tyler's shoulder, a solid impact that sends a shockwave through you, making you stumble side against tyler. tyler lurches.

the physics textbook hits the floor with a thwump, pages scattering open like they have wings. pens and pencils spread, rolling in every direction like startled insects.

your breath stops for a moment. this is it. the moment. you brace for that awkward pause, the mumbled pleasantries, tyler's laugh and good-natured clap on the back that would establish his dominance and diffuse the tension.

that doesn't happen.

the boy doesn't even glance at tyler. he doesn't flicker his eyes towards you, standing right there, your shoulder still pressed awkwardly into tyler's side. his entire focus crashes down onto the fallen book, his face draining of color, jaw clenched tight.

he drops to his knees with startling, panicked speed, long, fingers scrabbling across the floor to gather the scattered pens, to scoop up the splayed textbook and snap it shut with a decisive thud. his movements are frantic, efficient, and filled with the desperate need to vanish.

"sorry," his voice is hollow, devoid of inflection. it's not aimed at tyler. not aimed at you. just thrown into the air in the hallway, a meaningless sound to fill the space before escape. his voice is low and rougher than you expected, unused.

tyler regains his footing, the momentary shock replaced by amused condescension. "eyes up next time, yeah?" he chuckles, designed to draw attention. "wouldn't want you calculating the trajectory of your face into a locker. might mess up that big brain of yours."

he flinches. it's almost invisible – just a tiny tightening around his eyes, a fractional stiffening of his shoulders as he crouches. he grabs the last stray pencil, shoves it roughly into the spiral binding of his closed book, and pushes himself up in one motion. he keeps his head resolutely down, the dark hair falling forward as a perfect curtain shielding his eyes.

"sorry," he repeats. but it's emptier than the last time he said it. and he just... walks away with shoulders close together and eyes fixed on the floor. then he melts into the stream of students, like a ripple absorbed by the current.

he doesn't glance back, doesn't acknowledge tyler. he doesn't even spare the silent observer clinging to the quarterback.

not even a single flicker of attention.

nothing. absolute zero.

"fuckin' weirdo," tyler mutters, shaking his head with a mix of annoyance and superiority. his arm settles heavily back around your shoulders again. "always got his head in the clouds or buried in some equation. total space cadet. c'mon, we're gonna be late."

you let tyler steer you forward, but your head stays turned, your eyes tracking the dark head until it disappears around the corner. the predictable drone of tyler's voice – already back to scouts and throws – washes over you like a meaningless static.

but all you hear is the echo of that clipped, hollow sorry. all you see is that world-consuming focus that saw straight through you, the frantic scramble, the utter, complete lack of regard.

tyler's arm feels like dead weight, suffocating. the hallway is loud, drilling into your skull. and the quiet boy who paid you absolutely no attention just carved a strange, unexpected hole right in the center of your predictable, flavorless afternoon.

why? the question hums louder than the people, louder than tyler's ego.

why did that feel... different? why did nothing feel like... something?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the relentless drone of other students seems louder in this sterile communications classroom that smells of dust, and the chemical tang of dry erase markers.

tyler's heavy arm isn't around you here – thank god – he's business admin, considers anything beyond basic composition a waste of his valuable time.

you're slumped near the back, idly sketching spirals in the margin of your notebook while professor richards, a man whose enthusiasm for grammar borders on the pathological, drones on.

"...and so, the semicolon," professor richards declares, tapping the whiteboard where the punctuation mark sits, lonely and misunderstood. "not a comma, not a period. a bridge. a delicate connector of independent yet related clauses. who can give me an example of its correct usage? come now, don't go shy on me."

silence. the usual suspects – the english majors who usually jump at any chance to showcase their vocabulary – shift uncomfortably. a pen clicks. nobody volunteers.

professor richards sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. "seriously? no one? think about it. two complete thoughts. linked by theme or contrast. the semicolon is your friend!"

a hushed debate two rows ahead fizzles out. you glance towards the front left corner, almost reflexively now. him. the boy from the hallway. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who sliced through communication theory like butter. hunched over his notebook, same as always. dark hair a curtain. pen moving. not notes on fucking semicolons, you'd bet. probably differential equations or the chemical composition of stardust. the nerdy boy. the one who doesn't see me.

your pencil hovers over a half-finished spiral. you watch the scratch of his pen, the tension in his shoulders as he concentrates.

professor richards paces. "alright, let's try this. imagine: 'the rain fell relentlessly; the streets became rivers.' independent clauses? check. related? absolutely! the semicolon elegantly links cause and effect. now, someone give me another original example. please?"

more crickets. punctuated only by the frantic scratching from the front left. professor richards runs a hand through his hair. "this is foundational, people! how do you expect to write compelling arguments if you can't master basic sentence structure?"

you almost feel sorry for him. almost.

your eyes are glued to that dark head, the brown cardigan stretched across his shoulders. he hasn't flinched or looked up. lost. predictably lost. you start to turn back to your spirals, a disappointment you can't quite name pricking you. maybe the communication theory thing was a fluke.

then, movement. not a frantic scramble like in the hallway. his left hand lifts from the notebook, rising just high enough to be visible. no flourish, no eagerness.

professor richards spots it. immediately. "mr. barnes! thank goodness. enlighten us."

barnes.

barnes doesn't stand. he doesn't even fully look up. he just speaks silently, calm as a matter-of-fact. "the experiment yielded unexpected results; further analysis is required before publication." he pauses, his pen still hovering over whatever complex universe he's mapping. "or, for contrast: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.'"

the silence changes. not stunned this time, but... relieved. impressed. professor richards beams, clasping his hands together. "perfect! precisely, mr. barnes. elegant, clear, demonstrates the linking function beautifully. both examples. excellent." he turns back to the board, energized. "you see? independent clauses, intimately related..."

but you're frozen again. pencil forgotten. your head tilts, studying his spine, the way his hand returns immediately to his notebook, resuming its work without pause. no pride. no glance around to see if anyone noticed. he just... knew. instantly. conjured two perfect, contrasting examples off the top of his head while clearly being light-years away in his own thoughts.

tyler's voice echoes, bragging about some meaningless touchdown: 'pure instinct, darling.'

this... this was different. a different kind of instinct. quiet intelligence radiating from that hunched figure.

how does he do that? why doesn't he care that he just saved professor richards lesson?

you stare at the stubborn fall of his dark hair, the set of his jaw just visible in profile.

the frantic, embarrassed boy who dropped his physics book is a distant memory. replaced by this... unsettling competence. this ability to surface, deliver perfection, and submerge again without a ripple. completely self-contained. utterly indifferent.

"hey!"

the sharp poke in your ribs jolts you. it's amelia, leaning so far over the shared desk she's practically in your lap. "seriously? again? are you, like, hypnotized by the nerd's cardigan or something? professor richards is gonna call on you!"

you blink, tearing your gaze away. professor richards is scanning the room, his gaze landing on the back rows. specifically, on you, caught mid-stare. heat floods your cheeks.

his voice calls your name. "since you seem... attentive. perhaps you can build on mr. barnes's excellent examples? give us another sentence demonstrating the semicolon linking two clauses expressing contrast? something original?"

your mouth goes desert-dry. your mind, a perfect, echoing blank. all you hear is that low, rough voice: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.' poetry hidden in grammar. your own thoughts feel like sludge. "uh..." you stammer, scrambling. "contrast... right. um... 'the cake looked delicious; it tasted like cardboard?'" it comes out more as a question than a statement.

professor richards sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "well, it is contrast. albeit... culinary. and technically correct, if uninspired. please try to engage with the elegance of the construction." he turns back, muttering about foundational skills.

amelia collapses back into her chair, stifling a giggle. "cardboard cake?" she hisses, kicking your ankle lightly under the desk. "what is wrong with you today? you were practically dissecting the back of that nerd's head with your eyeballs. again! seriously. since when does the library ghost get this kind of real estate in your mind?"

"nothing's wrong," you mutter, ducking your head. but your eyes flick up, irresistibly drawn back to the front left corner. to barnes. he hasn't moved a muscle. hasn't shifted. hasn't so much as twitched at your lame attempt. he's still hunched, pen scratching steadily across his paper, absorbed. completely unaware of your burning cheeks, your answer, your stare. completely unaware of you.

the heat in your face is embarrassment and something else, something hotter and more confusing.

he's everywhere. the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who answers impossible questions like they're nothing.

and he pays you no attention. absolutely none.

the question isn't just humming now; it's a drumbeat in your skull, louder than professor richards, louder than amelia, perfectly timed to the relentless scratch-scratch-scratch of his pen: why him? why does nothing feel like the loudest thing in the room?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the library is quiet, broken by the occasional rustle of pages, the tap of keyboards, and the low whispers.

it reeks of old books and dust motes dance in the afternoon sun through windows. you're tucked into an armchair, a history textbook open but mostly ignored on your lap.

your gaze, however, isn't on gothic architecture. it's fixed across the central aisle, near the math and science reference section.

him.

barnes.

perched on a chair at a study table, surrounded by a fortress of towering books. calculus, advanced physics, organic chemistry – spines are thick, you'd never pick up a textbook like that, the titles screaming complexity.

and he's wearing glasses. thin, wire-framed ones that somehow sharpen the focus already etched onto his face. they make him look... older. more serious. unbearably and undeniably smart.

he's leaning forward, elbows resting on the tabletop, explaining something to two nervous-looking freshmen hunched across from him. one points frantically at a page in a massive calculus tome.

"no, see," barnes's voice is quiet and somehow carries without disturbing the library hush. patient. utterly fucking patient.

"you're overcomplicating the substitution. look." his finger, ink-stained, traces a line on the page. "ignore the trig identity for a second. just let u equal the inside of the radical. then du is...?"

the struggling freshman blinks. "uh... the derivative?"

"exactly." a slight nod. no smile, but his tone isn't harsh. "so then the integral simplifies to...?" he waits, letting the kid think. the other freshman scribbles furiously, trying to keep up.

you watch, almot mesmerized. the tension from the hallway is still there in his shoulders, but channeled now. focused entirely on the problem, on guiding these lost kids through the mathematical maze. the embarrassment? gone. replaced by this quiet competence. you steal glances: the way his hair falls over his forehead, just brushing the top rim of his glasses. the leather strap of his overloaded messenger bag slung over the back of the stool. the movements of his hands as he flips pages in another reference book without even looking, finding the exact spot he needs.

how does he do that? he's not just smart; he's... present. completely immersed in helping them understand.

your pencil is forgotten in your hand. you trace the line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes behind the lenses.

he pushes the glasses up his nose with a knuckle. it's a small, unconscious gesture. interesting.

the sunlight catches the wire frames, glinting for a second. he doesn't fidget, doesn't look around. his world is the table, the books, the two students hanging on his every word. he pays the rest of the library, pays you watching from the shadows of the armchair, absolutely no attention. because he's just so fucking sure of himself.

"so then you integrate that," he continues, "and plug back in. see? the trig identity resolves itself naturally after the substitution. it's cleaner." one freshman lets out a relieved sigh. barnes just nods again, already scanning the next problem. "try the next one. same approach."

the fascination is a physical pull. you lean slightly forward in the armchair, the history text slipping slightly yet you don't even notice.

all you see is the focused curve of his back, the way his brow furrows slightly as he anticipates the students' next stumbling block. the authority. the complete lack of fucking ego. why is he even doing this? tutoring? for money? or just... because he can?

suddenly, the world explodes.

big, warm hands slam over your eyes from behind, plunging you into darkness.

a familiar, overpowering cloud of musky cologne envelops you – axe body spray and disgusting sweat. "guess who, beautiful?" tyler jones's voice booms, shattering the library hush.

laughter follows, not just his, but a couple of his football buddies lurking behind him.

you jerk, a gasp escaping you. your textbook tumbles from your lap, scattering pencils.

panic and intense irritation flood your system. "tyler!" you hiss, wrenching your head, trying to pry his hands away. "let go! what the hell?"

he chuckles as he leans over the chair. he doesn't remove his hands. "aw, missed me that much? knew you'd be hiding out in this dusty old place. c'mon, we're headin' to the quad. steve brought his new speakers, gonna blast some tunes. way better than this tomb." he gives your shoulders a rough shake. "my favorite distraction shouldn't be buried in books."

across the aisle, the low murmur has stopped dead.

you freeze, humiliation burning your neck and ears. you can feel eyes. the two freshmen are staring. and barnes. he's looked up. finally. his gaze, magnified slightly by the glasses are focused now – but not on you. directly at tyler's hands on your shoulders.

his expression is neutral. completely still. no anger, no surprise. just... observation. analytical observation. like you're another problem set.

"tyler, seriously," you grit out, finally managing to shove his hands away from you. you scramble to pick up your fallen textbook, avoiding looking directly at barnes's table but feeling the weight of it anyway. "i'm studying. go away."

tyler straightens, ignoring your protest. his eyes scanning the room dismissively until they land on the study table across the aisle. his smirk widens.

"well, well. look who it is. barnes!" his voice is deliberately loud in the dead silence of the library. "still buried in nerd books, huh? tutoring the fresh meat? hope they're paying you in pocket lint." only his buddies snicker.

barnes doesn't flinch. he just holds tyler's gaze for a beat, his own eyes behind the glasses assessing. then, without a word, he looks back down at the calculus book open in front of one of the freshmen. his finger taps the page. "equation three," he says, utterly unchanged. "apply the same substitution. now." he completely dismisses tyler. erases him.

the freshman jumps, startled back to work. tyler's grin falters for a nanosecond, replaced by a flicker of irritation at being ignored.

he recovers quickly, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against him before you can react. "c'mon," he says, too loud, too close for your liking. "enough hiding. time for some real fun. you look way too hot to waste in here." he starts pulling you bodily out of the armchair.

you stumble, trying to find your feet, your textbook clutched awkwardly to your chest. "tyler, stop. i'm not–"

"nah, you're coming," he insists, steering you firmly away from the armchair. "my treat. maybe get a smoothie after. keep her energized."

as tyler moves you towards the library doors, his arm like an iron bar across your back.

you twist your head, one desperate glance back over your shoulder. barnes is still at the table. head bent over the book again, pointing something out. he hasn't looked up. he hasn't watched tyler drag you away.

his world has already narrowed back down to the integral on the page. the interruption, the spectacle, you... already erased. already forgotten.

the heavy library doors swing shut behind you, cutting off the quiet, the smell of books, the sight of the wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. tyler's loud voice fills the hallway, talking about speakers and smoothies and other shit you don't care about.

but all you feel is the ghost of that analytical gaze. the utter indifference. the way nothing from him felt louder than tyler's entire performance.

the question screams inside your skull, drowning out everything: why does being invisible to him feel like the only thing worth seeing?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the next time you see barnes is on a friday afternoon. the sun beats down, like a spotlight on an empty stage. you're propped against the sun-warmed brick of the student union. your lukewarm smoothie's condensation slicks your fingers – tyler's obligatory offering, thrust into your hand twenty minutes ago before he'd peeled off towards the makeshift weightlifting pit near the gym entrance. predictable.

amelia chatters beside you. her voice a buzzing fly around your head, complaining about her bio prof's impossible grading, the unfairness of the lab report deadline. her words register as sounds, shapes, devoid of meaning. "...and then he had the nerve to say my methodology was 'lacking rigor'! lacking rigor? i spent hours on those slides..."

your eyes drift over the quad's frantic energy. a pickup soccer game churns near the oak trees, shouts echoing – "here!" "man on!" a group sprawls on the grass nearby, filled with laughter at something unseen. the sound is grating, and hollow. it all feels... distant. like watching a noisy movie through thick glass.

tyler's loud whoop cuts across the space as he slaps steve's back, muscles flexing under his sleeveless tee. performative. empty. the smoothie tastes like chalky fruit and melting ice. you take another sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to thaw the numb boredom in you.

this is it. the peak of your friday.

leaning against a wall, waiting for tyler to remember you exist so he can parade you around like a shiny accessory at whatever loud, pointless gathering comes next. the brick scrapes your skin again. you shift, feeling lethargic.

why does everything feel so... beige?

amelia elbows you. "are you even listening? this is, like, academic sabotage, i swear..." she trails off, noticing your vacant stare. "hello? earth to... wait, what's that?"

you follow her gaze, something other than apathy finally sparking.

across the sun-drenched quad, near the shadowed entrance to the old science building–a monstrosity of dark red brick and big windows. a small figure, hunched, glasses askew on a pale face.

the kid from the library, the one barnes was tutoring.

he's clutching the physics textbook to his chest. towering over him, filling the narrow space between the wall and a stone planter, is carter mullins. defensive line. tyler's occasional enforcer. built like a fridge stuffed into a too-small tee.

a sneer twists his face as he jabs a thick finger towards the textbook.

"think you're real smart, don'tcha, shrimp?" mullins's voice is a physical blow. "actin' all high and mighty with your fancy tutor?" he shoves the kid's shoulder, not hard enough to topple him, but enough to make him stagger back, his spine hitting the brick.

the textbook slips, thumping to the pavement. "heard you squealed to dr. peterson about the 'disruption' in the library. that true, maggot?"

the kid flinches violently, shrinking in on himself. "n-no, i didn't—" he stammers. "mr. barnes, he just—"

"barnes?" mullins spits the name like it's rancid milk. he barks a harsh laugh. "that freak? figures you'd be sucking up to the library ghost. what'd he teach you? how to be a bigger loser?" he shoves the kid again with a harder push that slams his shoulders against the brick. "pick it up. maybe eat it, might put some meat on those chicken bones." he nudges the fallen book with his sneaker.

amelia gasps beside you. "oh crap," she breathes, her bio woes forgotten. "mullins being a total dick again. seriously, someone should—"

but before she finishes, before the flicker of 'should you do something?' can even fully ignite into action (would you? could you?), he steps into the frame.

barnes.

he materializes from the darkness of the science building's archway, not running, but moving with that same contained urgency you've seen before, only now it's honed. no hesitation. no dramatic entrance. he walks straight up, inserting himself directly between mullins's bulk and the trembling kid pressed against the brick. not aggressively, not puffing up. just... occupying the space. a sudden, immovable wall built of quiet intent.

mullins, startled by the sudden presence, takes an involuntary half-step back, then immediately puffs up, his face flushing an even deeper red.

"well, well," he sneers, recovering. "look what crawled out of the stacks. come to rescue your little nerdling, freak?"

barnes ignores him. completely. utterly. as if mullins were a gnat buzzing near his ear. he bends at the knees, and picks up the fallen physics textbook. he brushes the grit and a stray blade of grass off the cover with a single swipe of his hand.

he turns, not towards mullins, but towards the kid, holding out the book. "go," he says, calm. not a suggestion. a command delivered with finality. "lab starts in five minutes."

the kid scrambles, snatching the book, his eyes wide behind his glasses, darting one last terrified glance at mullins before practically tripping over his own feet to vanish into the dark maw of the science building doorway.

mullins stares, dumbfounded by the sheer audacity of being ignored. then the anger erupts. "hey! i was talkin' to you, barnes!" he steps closer, deliberately invading barnes's personal space, his shadow swallowing the smaller figure.

he's almost a taller, twice as wide of pure muscle. "you think you're tough now? hiding behind books? your little pet squealed, and you're gonna answer for it!" spittle flies from his lips.

barnes finally looks at him. really looks. he doesn't crane his neck; he just levels his gaze, meeting mullins's furious glare head-on.

his hands hang loosely at his sides, but you see the faint, clench of his knuckles, the shift in his stance – not bracing, but grounding.

his voice, when he speaks, is low, but it cuts through mullins.

"he didn't report anything." a simple, factual statement. no embellishment. "you were loud. disruptive. security heard you. not him. leave him alone."

mullins blinks, momentarily thrown by the calm, by the absolute lack of fear, by the directness."or what?" he scoffs, trying to regain the upper hand, shoving barnes's shoulder. hard. "you gonna cry to the librarians? write me a strongly worded equation?"

barnes absorbs the shove. he doesn't stumble. barely rocks back. he doesn't retaliate nor does he doesn't flinch.

his expression remains unchanged. it's the same look he uses on a complex differential equation, dissecting the problem.

mullins isn't a person; he's an obstacle. a variable requiring resolution.

"or," barnes says, "i'll report the harassment. formally. with witnesses." his gaze flicks, just for a fraction of a second, towards your group by the union wall, towards amelia frozen beside you, towards the cluster of students who've stopped their soccer game, watching. then back to mullins, pinning him. "coach riley likes his starting lineup clean. doesn't he? zero tolerance policy. especially for... repeat offenders."

silence. the sneer melts off mullins's face like wax, replaced by shock, then pure, impotent fury with cold, dawning fear. the threat isn't physical bravado. it's precise. barnes knows the rules. he knows the leverage and he knows exactly where to apply pressure. he stands there, quiet, a stillness that feels infinitely more dangerous than anything else.

mullins's fists clench at his sides. he glares, his chest heaves, the veins in his neck standing out. he looks like a bull about to charge, wanting nothing more than to obliterate this presence.

but he hesitates. trapped by the logic, by the witnesses, by the utterly unreadable and calculating look in barnes's eyes. mullins lets out a frustrated, guttural growl, low and animalistic.

"you're dead, freak," he spits. "you and your little nerd squad. dead." needing the last word, needing to assert dominance, he shoves past barnes, slamming his shoulder hard against him, and stalks off, shoving through the small crowd that had gathered.

barnes watches him go for a single second. his expression stays stoic. then, as if flipping a switch, the tension eases, banked and stored away.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack. he doesn't look at the gathered students. he doesn't seek the approval, reassurance, or even acknowledgment. he doesn't offer a nod to anyone.

he just turns. his eyes sweep the pavement near where the kid had been, as if checking for a dropped pen or forgotten paperclip or anything at all. finding nothing, he walks towards the science building entrance. like he'd just finished a particularly satisfying tutoring session, not stared down a human wrecking ball.

you realize you've stopped breathing. the lukewarm smoothie is crushed and leaking cold, sticky liquid over your fingers. you don't feel it.

amelia is staring, open-mouthed, her bio prof woes are forgotten. "holy shit, did... did barnes just...?"

but you're not listening. your heart is a frantic against your ribs. you watch him disappear into the dark archway, swallowed by the shadows of the old building, just like he vanished down the crowded hallway, just like he submerged back into the depths of his notebook.

the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who mumbled a hollow 'sorry' and walked away. the one who answered impossible questions with effortless precision. the one who tutored with unnerving patience.

and now... this. protective, intelligent, utterly fearless, wielding logic like a weapon.

and still... he never looked around. never scanned the quad for reactions beyond that one brief assessment of potential witnesses. never saw you. standing frozen against the sun-warmed brick, watching him with your pulse loud in your ears. your expression caught somewhere between awe and something close to fear.

the sun is hot on your skin. the pop music thumps mindlessly. the group on the grass shrieks again. but you feel cold. deeply shaken.

the image of barnes, standing so still and certain against mullins's towering rage, burns behind your eyes, brighter than the afternoon sun.

the wall of indifference is still there, vast and impenetrable. but behind it... what terrifying depths? what reserves of strength, what razor-sharp focus, what unexpected courage? the fascination isn't just a siren song anymore; it's a seismic shift, cracking open the numb, beige boredom of your existence, pulling you relentlessly towards a mystery wrapped in silence, cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses.

why him?

the question isn't a scream now; it's the only sound left in the hollow silence of your world.

why does the boy who sees nothing make you feel like you're standing on the edge of an abyss, finally seeing something real?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sweat rivers carve itchy paths through the grime on your neck, plastering your practice top to your back. your legs feel like overcooked noodles after the fifteenth pyramid run-through. the final pose leaves your arms trembling, the fixed cheer-smile aching on your face like a bad fucking joke.

it reeks with the smell of hot grass, sunscreen, and exhausted bodies. around you, the squad collapses in a groaning heap.

"i swear coach is trying to kill us before homecoming," jenna whines, sprawling face-down on the scratchy turf. "my ankles feel like they're made of glass."

"try being a base," maria retorts, tipping her water bottle over her head, the water mostly missing her mouth and soaking her collar. "samantha, you were leaning so far left i thought you were gonna take us all down. launch up, not sideways."

"i was going up." samantha fires back, wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. "maybe if you guys actually pushed straight. felt like i was being shoved off a cliff."

"enough!" sarah's captain-voice slices through. she claps her hands. "water. stretch. breathe. we go again in three. save the drama for the judges, not me."

you sink onto the bleached grass beside jenna, pulling your knees up, resting your forehead on them.

the familiar soundtrack plays: maria and samantha's banter fading to grumbles, jenna's complaints about her homework, the thud of football pads from the adjacent field.

predictable. boring.

your mind, seeking escape, flickers back to the image that won't leave: barnes. not big, not imposing, just... there. standing firm against the mullins, then just... walking away. the question nagged, a loose thread in the tapestry of his weirdness.

amelia plops down beside you. she unwraps gum with a crinkle. "earth to space cadet," she chirps, blowing a small bubble. it pops. "still mentally dissecting barnes's thrilling lecture on semicolon usage? riveting stuff." she nudges you with her elbow.

you lift your head. "shut up, ames. just dying. slowly."

"uh huh," amelia is unconvinced. her eyes, perpetually scanning for gossip, dart across the field, past the bleachers, towards the chain-link fence bordering the main walkway.

suddenly, she freezes. her eyes widen, her jaw drops mid-chew. she grabs your arm, nails digging in. "ohmygod," she says. "don't. look. now. seriously. play it cool. but your super-secret nerd crush is doing a perimeter check. like, right now."

you blink, confused. "my... crush? tyler's over there," you gesture vaguely towards the distant football huddle where tyler's hair gleams under a helmet.

"not tyler, you oblivious disaster!" amelia hisses, leaning so close her minty breath hits your ear. she gives the most obvious jerk of her chin towards the walkway. "barnes. your resident library ghost. marching past!"

your head whips around.

and there he is. barnes.

trudging along the paved path outside the chain-link fence, maybe thirty feet away. head down, as always, eyes probably fixed on the cracked concrete. not tall, not broad like the football guys. his overloaded backpack, hangs low, making him seem even more stooped, like he's trying to fold into himself. he's wearing a faded, slightly-too-big maroon t-shirt, and dark pants. his glasses perch precariously on his nose.

he moves silently, utterly oblivious to the cheer squad sprawled nearby.

"huh," jenna murmurs, following your gaze. she squints. "who's the guy with the tragic backpack? looks like he's carrying bricks."

"that's barnes," you murmur. your eyes track his progress. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a push of his knuckle, his head dipping further.

"barnes?" maria wrinkles her nose, taking a swig of water. "that the guy everyone's whispering about? the one who mouthed off to mullins? doesn't look like much."

natasha romanoff, who'd been silently, impossibly holding a stretch nearby – one leg extended perfectly front, the other back, forehead resting calmly on her forward knee – lets out a soft snort. she doesn't lift her head. "that's bucky."

you freeze.

bucky?

the name feels... small. ordinary. completely mismatched with what you witnessed.

natasha slowly, fluidly unfolds herself from the stretch. she brushes invisible dust from her black shorts, her green eyes tracking bucky's hunched figure with an expression of pure, detached amusement.

"bucky barnes. yeah," she confirms. "he walks like that." she gestures vaguely, dismissively – the stooped shoulders, the gait, the backpack. "genius, apparently. full ride scholarship. perfect scores on everything, blah blah."

"genius?" jenna echoes, skepticism heavy in her voice. "doing what? inventing new ways to look stressed?"

"history," natasha says. a small, almost pitying smirk touches her lips.

"history?" you blurt out, the confusion mirroring everyone else’s. "but… the physics book? the tutoring? the equations?"

natasha shrugs. "yep. medieval european history, or something. something about… crusade logistics? treaty negotiations?" she waves a dismissive hand. "point is, he’s got the brain for rocket science but writes papers about, i dunno, grain shipments in the 12th century."

she pushes herself up smoothly from her stretch, brushing grass off her shorts. "and don’t let the whole ‘silent force of nature’ thing fool you." she meets your eyes directly, a knowing glint in hers.

"catch him off guard, actually try to talk to him about something besides decay rates or feudal obligations?" a small, almost pitying smile touches her lips. "kid turns into a total disaster zone. stammers. blushes. trips over his own feet. forgets how to form complete sentences. it’s kind of painful, actually."

you stare at her, then back at barnes – bucky – who’s almost reached the end of the fence line, about to disappear around the corner towards the library.

history? stammers? blushes?

it clashes violently with the image seared into your mind: the calm, logical force facing down mullins; the patient tutor; the boy who answered complex questions without blinking.

"no way," amelia breathes, fascinated. "he looks like he wouldn’t break a sweat defusing a bomb."

"appearances," natasha says simply, grabbing her water bottle. "he’s all sharp edges until you get close. then it’s just… awkward. really, really awkward." she takes a long drink, her gaze following bucky until he rounds the corner and vanishes. "smartest guy on campus, probably. socially? total train wreck. weird combo." she shrugs again, like she’s stated a simple fact about the weather.

"ew," maria makes a face. "seriously? blushes? no thanks. looks like he'd break out in hives if you smiled at him."

"exactly," natasha says, like it's obvious. "all that brainpower and zero chill. zero. weirdest combo." she shrugs again, finality in the gesture. "alright, cap. ready."

sarah blows her whistle. "basket toss sequence! positions! now! look alive, people!"

the squad groans, pushing stiffly to their feet.

you stand slowly, your eyes glued to the spot where bucky barnes had just shuffled around the corner, disappearing from view.

history. genius. scholarship. stammers. blushes. trips over air. the image of him facing mullins – smaller, hunched, but utterly still and certain – clashes violently with natasha's description of a flustered, tongue-tied mess.

the numbness is obliterated, replaced by a mix of confusion and a terrifying curiosity.

why history? why the disconnect?

and the most dangerous question, igniting like a spark in dry grass: what would happen if you tried? the thought sends a shiver through you, unrelated to the whistle or the impending toss. the field, the groans, the heat – fade.

all you see is the ghost of his hunched shoulders vanishing, and natasha's words echoing: human disaster. total nerd.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're tucked into your corner armchair, back safely against shelves of ancient philosophy texts. your textbook lies open before you, but the pages remain untouched. your pen rests idle beside it. because you're not studying. not even pretending very hard.

you're watching him.

bucky barnes. sitting at his table – exactly twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from you.

you've counted. repeatedly.

he's hunched so far over his book his nose is practically touching the page. glasses perched so low, his hair is a messy curtain, partially obscuring his face. a finger traces a line slowly back and forth.

his entire world is contained within the margins of that massive, leather-bound tome. probably something about medieval irrigation systems or the diplomatic nuances of a 13th-century truce.

history. the word still feels dissonant, wrong, when applied to the boy who dissected communication theory like a surgeon and faced down mullins.

he hasn't moved in forty-five minutes. not even a sigh. just that laser-focused stillness that you couldn't find anywhere else. the kind of focus that erases everything else. including you. especially you.

you shift slightly in your chair. he doesn't flinch. you clear your throat, barely a whisper. nothing. you drop your pen. it clatters on the floor, not even budging his attention. his finger pauses for a second, hovers over the word it was tracing, then continues its path.

utterly absorbed. completely oblivious.

why him? the question pounds in your skull, syncopated with the quiet ticking of the library clock.

why is he the only person on this entire campus who seems immune?

tyler sees you as arm candy. the squad sees you as part of the group. random guys see you as an object to stare at. but bucky barnes? you might as well be one of the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam beside him.

invisible. it's infuriating. it's the only interesting puzzle in your entire beige existence right now.

you trace the line of his hunched shoulders under the stupid cardigan. what's going on in that genius head? logistics? treaties? or maybe he's just thinking about how to make himself even smaller, fold further into the book, vanish entirely?

"earth to stalker. come in, stalker."

the voice, startlingly close, slices through your hyper-focused daze. you jump, your seat scraping loudly on the floor. heat floods your cheeks instantly.

natasha romanoff stands beside your sear, one hip cocked, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched impossibly high. she holds two steaming paper cups of coffee. she doesn't look amused. she looks... knowing. terrifyingly. her sharp green eyes flick from your burning face to bucky's hunched form across the aisle, then back to you.

"jeez, nat!" you hiss, scrambling to look busy, grabbing your pen and staring blindly at your untouched history notes. "don't sneak up on people! and i'm not stalking!"

"uh huh," natasha drawls, setting one coffee cup down in front of you with a soft thunk. she slides into the chair opposite. she takes a slow sip from her own cup, her gaze never leaving yours. "because sitting perfectly still for an hour, staring holes into the back of barnes's cardigan while your textbook gathers dust is definitely 'studying'. fascinating methodology. very... intense." she gestures vaguely with her cup towards your notes.

you slump, the fight draining out of you under her scrutiny. "i... was taking a mental break," you mutter, picking up the coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. "observing the... library fauna."

natasha snorts. "library fauna. right." she leans forward slightly, lowering her voice even though the only other person within earshot is barnes, and he's clearly on another planet. "so, barnes. again. what is it this time? trying to decode the secret of his perpetual stoop? charting the frequency of his glasses-pushing? or just mesmerized by the sheer gravitational pull of his nerd vortex?"

you take a gulp of hot coffee, wincing as it hits your tongue. "no! i just..." you flounder, gesturing helplessly towards his table. "look at him! how does he do that? it's been an hour, nat. an hour. he hasn't blinked, i swear. he hasn't moved. he's like... like a statue. a really focused, slightly crumpled statue."

"he's reading," natasha states flatly, taking another sip. "deeply. it's what he does. apparently, papal edicts from 1247 require intense concentration. who knew?"

"but why?" the question bursts out of you, louder than you mean to. "why history? he's got the brain for quantum physics. he tutors calc, nat! he took down mullins with words and a look.. and now he's..." you gesture again, frustration leaking into your whisper, "...immersed in the thrilling world of 13th-century tax law?"

natasha watches you, that small smile playing on her lips again. "still stuck on that, huh? the great bucky barnes contradiction." she sets her cup down, folding her arms on the table. "maybe he just likes old stuff. maybe he finds dead people less annoying than live ones. maybe," she leans in conspiratorially, "it's all a cover. maybe the history degree is just a front for his real work as a time-traveling spy."

you groan, giving her an unamused look. "oh because you'd know so much about spy work?"

"and you," natasha counters smoothly, "are transparent. you're fascinated. by the mystery. by the..." she searches for the word, her eyes flicking back to bucky, "...the disconnect. the guy who can verbally dismantle a linebacker but apparently turns into a puddle if a girl says 'hi'." she shrugs. "it's a puzzle. i get it."

"it's not that!" you protest, with your voice a little too loud. you glance nervously across the aisle. bucky hasn't moved. "i just... i don't get why he doesn't... see anything. anyone."

natasha's gaze softens just a fraction, a flicker of understanding. "some people," she says quietly, "live very deep inside their own heads. the outside world... it's noisy. complicated. messy. maybe books are simpler. maybe equations are cleaner. maybe history is... predictable." she taps a fingernail on your untouched textbook. "unlike people."

you follow her gaze back to bucky. he finally moves. not much. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a familiar knuckle-shove, his brow furrowing slightly. he doesn't look around. he doesn't even stretch. he doesn't notice natasha sitting opposite you, doesn't notice your stare.

the world outside his book simply... doesn't register.

"messy," you echo softly, watching him. the frustration is still there, but it's mixed with something else now. a strange sort of empathy? a deeper curiosity? what's it like in there?

natasha sighs, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. "well, fascinating as this live dissection of socially awkward geniuses is, i have actual studying to do. for a class that involves, you know, this century." she stands, grabbing her coffee. "try not to accidentally set him on fire, yeah? he might spontaneously combust." she throws you a final look as she walks away, leaving you alone with your coffee and your thoughts.

you turn back to your own book. the words still blur. something about numbers, words whatever. the one coherent thought is: bucky barnes.

you take another sip of coffee. your eyes drift back across the aisle, inevitably, because your eyes are traitorous. he's hunched, still focused, still utterly fucking unaware. a puzzle wrapped in a cardigans, hidden behind glasses and history books. and the quiet, persistent question in your chest asks, louder than before: what would it take to make him look up?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're sprawled face-down on your rumpled sheets, staring unseeingly at the textbook lying beside your pillow. the words bleed together—some dance of power you couldn't care less about right now.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of one, bucky barnes.

why? why was he the only one who didn't see you?

it wasn't a lack of attention; it was a total negation.

tyler saw you as arm candy, the football team saw you as an object. random guys in the dining hall tracked your movements, eyes following the curve of your hip, the swing of your hair.

but bucky? nothing. less than nothing. not a flicker of recognition, not a sideways glance. in his presence, you felt like air. like the worn carpet in the library aisle, something to be stepped over without a thought. you could've been shouting, waving sparklers, and he'd still be buried in his 13th-century grain ledger. oblivious. invisible.

you roll onto your back with a frustrated groan, pressing the heels of your hands hard against your closed eyes until coloured spots bloom in the darkness.

what was wrong with you? were you truly that forgettable? that insignificant? or was he just... locked away?

natasha's words echo around your skull: some people live very deep inside their own heads. but what did that fortress look like? was history his moat? were equations his drawbridge? was he simply... uninterested?

an impatient knock on your door – more a pounding than a knock – jolts you violently out of your thoughts.

"yo! you decent? we gotta roll!" tyler's voice, tinged with annoyance, cuts through your room.

tyler.

your stomach plunges like a stone. cold dread washes over you. you'd completely, utterly forgotten. the party. steve's stupid party. you were supposed to be tyler's dazzling accessory tonight, draped on his arm while he held court in your stupid blue dress.

you hadn't texted, called, or given it a single thought past the initial reluctant agreement days ago. every neuron had been hijacked, obsessed with the boy who rendered you invisible.

shit.

panic surges.

you scramble upright, heart hammering against your ribs. a glance in the mirror above your cluttered dresser confirms the perfect sick-day aesthetic: hair, face bare and probably pale from dwelling in the light, wearing an ancient, oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts.

perfect.

you dive back onto the bed, yanking the rumpled duvet up to your chin just as the door swings open without waiting for an answer.

"hey—whoa. jesus." tyler freezes in the doorway, his perfectly sculpted stupid golden brows knitting together in pure distaste. he recoils slightly, as if the air in your room might be contaminated. stupid. "you look like hell took over. the fuck happened?"

you summon every ounce of pathetic energy you possess. a weak, shuddering cough rattles your chest. you press the back of your hand dramatically to your forehead, letting it tremble slightly.

"feel worse," you croak. "fever. chills all day. throat feels like i swallowed glass. think... think i caught that stomach thing going around?" you add another pitiful cough for good measure, turning your face weakly into the pillow. "might be contagious."

tyler takes a step further back into the hallway, staying firmly on the threshold. he's dressed to kill – tight, designer black tee showing off his gym-honed arms, pristine white sneakers that probably cost more than your textbooks. his frown deepens into a scowl.

"seriously? you're sick? now?" he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, messing the careful styling. "steve's gonna be majorly pissed. this party's kinda a big deal, babe. you were supposed to be my plus-one." his tone is accusatory, like your sudden illness is an inconvenience solely aimed at him.

another cough, deeper this time, wracking your shoulders. you let your eyes water slightly for effect.

"sorry," you gasp out, sounding genuinely miserable, which, honestly, you kinda are, just not for the reasons he thinks. "really sorry, ty. wouldn't... wouldn't wanna get anyone else sick. especially not... scouts." you inject a note of self-sacrificing concern.

"yeah, no, totally," tyler agrees quickly, visibly relieved at the out. he glances down the hall, clearly already thinking about the party.

you shake your head weakly against the pillow, keeping your face half-buried. "just... need.. sleep. gallons of sleep. maybe... maybe just text me later?"

"right. sleep." he nods, already shifting his weight towards escape. then he pauses, a thought striking him. his expression clears, replaced by a look of practical solution. "hey, actually... since you're out... you think amelia would wanna go? as my plus-one instead? she's always up for a party, right?"

the question lands like a small pebble in your gut. can he bring amelia? like you're a faulty accessory to be swapped out for a functional one.

you force your muscles to relax, your voice to stay weak and flat. "uh... yeah. sure. ask her. she'd probably love it." the words taste like ash.

"perfect!" tyler's grin is instant, relieved, dazzling. "cool. thanks, babe. feel better, yeah? try not to, like, die or anything." he gives a careless wave, already turning away. "later!" the door clicks shut firmly behind him before you can even muster another cough.

silence crashes back into the room. you wait, counting the frantic beats of your own heart echoing in your ears until his loud footsteps fade completely down the hall. then you bolt upright, kicking the suffocating duvet off with a frustrated scowl.

that was... efficient. cold. transactional.

he hadn't offered to get medicine, hadn't felt your forehead (not that you wanted him to), hadn't even pretended concern beyond the minimum required to absolve himself of guilt.

you were a cancelled plan, easily replaced. amelia was next on the roster. the simplicity of it, the sheer lack of depth, was almost breathtaking.

you flop back against your pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. tyler's world was so surface-level. predictable. shallow. but bucky..

you squeeze your eyes shut, conjuring him instantly: the intense hunch over his book, the glasses slipping down his nose, the way his entire being seemed focused inward.

why couldn't he see you? was his world so rich, so complex inside his own head, that the outside truly didn't register? or was there something else? the question burned hotter than tyler's indifference.

your phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, shattering the heavy silence. you fumble for it. a text notification from amelia:

okay spill. did u fake a dramatic terminal illness to escape tyler's bro-fest tonight or what? because i just got the weirdest text from him

you groan, giggling and typing back with thumbs that felt clumsy:

yep. full plague performance. complete with death rattle cough. he bought it wholesale. then asked if he could bring you instead. like swapping out a faulty phone charger.

amelia's reply is almost instantaneous, a cascade of texts:

LMAO OMG

ofc he did. tyler's emotional depth is a puddle after a light drizzle

swapping out his accessory! classic!

well, too bad for him i have a hot date with my econ textbook and a pint of ben & jerry's. told him i was 'washing my hair' (code for: not being your stand-in)

but speaking of weird sightings...

guess who i just passed walking into the library. ALONE. at like, 9 pm on a friday night. like a total nerd.

your breath catches in your throat, your heart giving a sudden, hard thump against your ribs. you didn't need to ask. the answer was written in the sudden stillness of your room, in the way your eyes flew back to the shadows dancing on your ceiling.

bucky. at the library. alone. on a friday night.

the numbness, the sting of tyler's dismissal, evaporated. replaced by a surge of something terrifying, and impossibly compelling.

the invisible boy was within reach. and the question wasn't just why anymore. it was how. how to make him see.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of bucky barnes.

the library. of course. where else would bucky barnes be on a friday night? buried in papal decrees or lombard league logistics while the rest of campus pulsed with music and cheap beer.

a reckless idea sparks through you, fizzing through the numbness left by tyler's indifference. you shouldn't do it. you know damn well you shoupdn't.

go. there. right now.

catch him off guard. see what happens.

make him see you.

the dare natasha unknowingly issued days ago screams in your head: what would happen if you tried?

you push yourself upright, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs.

it's insane. impulsive. terrifying.

but the alternative – lying here, dissecting your own invisibility while bucky decoded 13th-century tax law – feels infinitely worse.

you scramble off the bed, shedding the oversized sleep shirt like old skin. what do you wear to ambush a library ghost? something... normal.

not tyler-date-night flashy. not cheer-practice casual. you yank on whatever outfit you can that doesn't scream for attention. something that helps you blend in.

you pause at the door, hand on the knob.

what are you doing? this is borderline stalker-ish. he'll probably just ignore you, buried in his book. or worse, stammer and flee like natasha predicted.

but the image of him facing mullins pushes you forward. you need to know which version is real.

that's when you found yourself walking across campus and into the library. it's nearly deserted inside. a lone student near the periodicals, a librarian quietly at the far desk.

and then, there he is.. twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from your usual fortress, you spot him. bucky.

he's already ensconced at his usual table by himself. head buried so deep it's a wonder he can breathe in that book. the backpack rests on the floor beside him, straps slack.

he's muttering softly, finger tracing a line on the page with concentration. completely absorbed. utterly unaware of the vast and quiet space around him. the sight tugs an absolutely involuntary smile to your lips.

human disaster, natasha called him. yet... there was that... something. which bucky would you meet?

taking a deep, silent breath, you walk towards your usual corner table. not directly to him. that would be too much. you slide into your familiar seat, back to the shelves, facing the main aisle – and him. your own untouched book feels like a flimsy prop.

you open it, stare blankly at feudalism, but your entire focus is locked on the hunched figure across the way.

he hasn't moved, hasn't sensed your presence. he's a world or two away.

minutes tick by, measured by the slow sweep of the second hand on the large wall clock. you pretend to scribble a note. you rub your eyes. you stifle a fake yawn.

he remains a statue, only the slight movement of his tracing finger indicating life. how to start? just walk over? "hey, remember me, the invisible girl you bumped into and ignored?" panic starts to prickle. maybe this was a terrible idea.

then, as if sensing your internal crisis, he moves. not much. he carefully marks his place with a leather bookmark, closes the massive book with a thump, and pushes his chair back. he stands, stretching slightly, his back giving a soft pop. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a familiar knuckle-shove.

and then, instead of heading for the exit or the stacks, he turns. shuffling steps carry him down the main aisle, his head already tilting down, eyes seeking the next book in his hands.

he's heading... straight towards your table. towards the empty chair opposite yours. lost in whatever logistical nightmare of the 12th century demands his immediate attention.

he doesn't look up. not at the tables, not at the lone student, certainly not at you. his trajectory is unerring.

your heart does a funny little flip-flop, lodging itself somewhere in your throat.

this is it. the moment natasha unknowingly prophesied. what would happen if you tried? no more planning. just... reaction.

he bumps the edge of your table with his hip. not hard, but enough to jolt him back to this world. the massive book in his hands slips. it doesn't just fall; it seems to leap, hitting the worn carpet with a thump that sounds like a gunshot in the hush.

bucky freezes.

pure, unadulterated panic floods his face, draining the color only to replace it instantly with a scorching red wave.

his head snaps up, eyes wide and startled behind the skewed glasses, scanning the disaster zone – the fallen book, the table, the legs of the chair he'd bumped.

his gaze finally skitters upwards, landing somewhere near your shoulder, then darts away instantly, fixing on the fallen book like it's personally betrayed him.

"oh god. sorry. so sorry. clumsy. really sorry," he stammers out, the words tumbling over each other in frantic rush, and breathless.

he drops to his knees beside the table, movements jerky with nerves. "didn't see... the table. the book..." he fumbles, fingers suddenly clumsy, trying to gather the pages he'd dropped. "stupid... just... sorry."

you watch him, the frantic, blazing blush climbing past his ears now, the way he refuses to make eye contact, focusing desperately on the leather cover as if it holds the secret to vanishing.

it's not just awkward; it's... painfully, endearingly adorable.

the protector of the quad, reduced to a flustered, stammering mess by a bump into a library table. the contrast is irresistible, dissolving your own nervousness into warm amusement.

natasha, you were absolutely fucking right.

leaning forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. "hey," you say, cutting through his muttered apologies. "it's okay. really. the table's survived worse, i promise. it's practically battle-scarred."

he flinches slightly at your voice, his head snapping up again. this time, his gaze actually meets yours – startled, blue eyes magnified behind the lenses. filled with pure, undiluted terror.

he looks utterly trapped, like a bunny in headlights. he swallows hard.

"i... uh..." he starts, then stops. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a knuckle, a nervous tic you're already cataloging as endearing. "still. sorry. shouldn't... walk and read. obvious hazard." he gestures vaguely at the book, then winces, biting his lip in nervousness as if the gesture itself was too much.

you chuckle softly. "hazardous reading? sounds like my kind of history." you nod towards the volume he's now clutching protectively to his chest. "that looks... intense. what's sucking you in so hard you forgot tables existed? siege engine maintenance? tax collection disputes?" you raise an eyebrow, leaning into the absurdity natasha had described.

he blinks, surprise momentarily cutting through the panic. he looks down at the book in his arms, then back at you.

"uh... no. not... not siege engines. this time." he takes a shaky breath, but the stammer eases by a fraction as he talks about the book – his safe harbour. "it's... uh... it's about the administrative correspondence between the papacy and the lombard league. mid-13th century. specifically, the logistical challenges of..." he trails off, his blush flaring when he realizes he's rambling about something utterly obscure to someone who probably doesn't care. "it's... boring. probably." he finishes, looking down.

"logistical challenges?" you echo, tilting your head. "like, how many carts of turnips you need to feed an army of diplomats? or how to stop your messenger pigeons from getting eaten by hawks?" you wiggle your eyebrows slightly, pushing the absurdity further, trying to coax out that dry wit.

a strangled sound escapes him. the flush deepens – disbelief? reluctant amusement? "turnips?" he repeats. he pushes his glasses up again, the nervous habit returning. "uh... more like... securing safe passage guarantees across contested alpine passes. and... and ensuring the fidelity of notaries carrying sensitive documents." he pauses.

then, glances down at another quick look at your face, searching for mockery but finding only curiosity, "pigeon theft... was... was actually a documented concern, though."

you grin, delighted. he'd taken the bait. sort of. not really a bait.

"see? not boring. dangerous pigeons and treacherous mountain passes. sounds way more exciting than my feudalism notes." you tap your own much thinner, neglected textbook. "so, bucky barnes, guardian of library aisles and defender against rogue birds..." you pause for effect, enjoying the way his eyes widened slightly at the use of his name. "...are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna sit down? that chair was aiming for you before you assaulted the table."

his eyes widen comically. he stares at you, then at the empty chair, then back at you. the red on his face is now a full-blown crimson from his neck to the tips of his ears. "you... you know my name?" he breathes, sounding utterly bewildered, like the concept of someone knowing his name was alien.

"small campus," you shrug, though your own pulse is doing a salsa. "names get around. especially when someone stands up to carter mullins like it's no big deal." you hold his gaze, letting him see the genuine respect in your eyes. "sit. before you drop the lombard league again. that carpet can only take so much."

he hesitates, looking genuinely torn between running away and the terrifying, scary prospect of sitting. he glances towards the escape route down the aisle, then back at the chair, then at your face – your teasing, the lack of pity, the challenge.

he takes another shaky breath, the book still clutched tightly. slowly, and very awkwardly, he unfolds himself and sinks into the chair opposite you, perching on the very edge like it might eject him.

he carefully places the heavy book on the table, aligning it precisely with the edge, a meticulous act that you immediately pick up.

"uh... thanks," he mumbles, staring fixedly at the book's cover. "for... not minding the... the book assault." he risks another glance at you, then away. "and... you are...?" the question hangs with his palpable nervousness.

"me?" you smile, leaning back slightly in your chair, enjoying the flustered intensity radiating off him, the crack you'd made in his fortress of focus. it was exhilarating. "oh, i'm just the person whose table you almost destroyed with papal politics. you know, trouble." you let the smile turn mischievous.

fuck. fuck. fuck. that was a terrible joke. you almost wince inwardly, letting it all spill and scaring him away but you say, "seems fitting, considering the chaos i seem to cause." that was even worse.

bucky barnes stares at you, his mouth slightly open, painting his entire face a spectacular shade of red. he looks utterly, adorably wrecked. terrified. the silence stretches. the invisible girl had landed. and the quiet boy was finally, and gloriously, looking.

bucky barnes stares at you across the scarred oak table, his mouth still slightly agape. wrecked. like you'd just told him the library was on fire and his precious lombard league correspondence was the kindling.

he seems incapable of speech, of movement, of anything except radiating pure, undiluted panic mixed.

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the delighted laugh bubbling up again. it's almost too much. the quiet boy who faced down mullins, reduced to a trembling, flustered mess by a little teasing.

natasha's words echo: human disaster. she wasn't wrong. but seeing it firsthand? it's strangely... exhilarating. adorable in its intensity.

he finally manages to snap his mouth shut, swallowing hard enough that you see his adam's apple bob. his gaze finally settles somewhere near your left shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. "t-trouble?" he echoes, it's barely above a whisper, cracking on the second syllable. he clears his throat. "that's... uh... that's not... i mean... your actual name? or...?" he trails off, looking mortified he even asked.

you grin, leaning your elbows on the table. "depends who you ask. tyler jones probably has a few choice names for me right about now." you watch his reaction carefully.

his brow furrows slightly behind the glasses. "tyler jones?" he repeats, the name seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. "the... football kid?" there's no recognition in his tone regarding you and tyler, just a vague awareness of the campus golden boy.

he genuinely doesn't know. the invisibility wasn't an act; he simply hadn't registered your existence in tyler's orbit at all.

"the very one," you confirm, your smile turning wry. "stood him up tonight. hence the plague act." you gesture vaguely at your own decidedly non-sick appearance – the complete lack of plague symptoms. "barely glanced my way before asking if he could bring amelia mccann instead."

bucky blinks. "amelia... natasha's friend?" he asks, connecting dots in a way that clearly doesn't involve you. then his eyes widen slightly, as if realizing the implication of tyler swapping dates. "oh. that's... uh... inefficient." he states it plainly, like commenting on a poorly designed logistics route. then he seems to realize how that might sound. "i mean... not that you're... inefficient... just... his method was..." he flounders.

you burst out laughing, a soft, genuine sound that seems too loud in the quiet corner. "inefficient? that's one word for it. 'shallow', 'predictable', 'kind of a jerk' also spring to mind." you shake your head. "don't worry, barnes. i'm not offended. mostly relieved i don't have to pretend to enjoy steve's terrible punch while tyler talks about his throwing arm."

a tiny flicker of... something... crosses his face at your casual use of his last name. amusement? surprise? it's gone too quickly to decipher.

he focuses intently on aligning the corner of his massive history tome perfectly with the wood grain. "steve rogers's punch is notoriously diluted," he murmurs, almost to himself. "statistically likely to contain more fruit flies than actual fruit juice." he risks another glance at you. "so... you... came here? instead? to... study?" his gaze sweeps your conspicuously empty notebook and textbook.

"well," you drawl, tapping your pen against the blank page of your own history book, the one about feudalism that suddenly seems incredibly dull. "i intended to study. truly. crusades. treaties. all that riveting stuff." you sigh dramatically. "but then... papal politics and treacherous pigeons proved far more distracting." you nod pointedly at his book.

he stares at you. blinks. then, incredibly, a small smile touches the corners of his mouth. gone almost before it fully forms, replaced by another blush, but you saw it. a crack in the panic fortress.

"the pigeons were a significant variable," he concedes,

a hint of dry humor warming his voice. "carrier reliability impacted message transmission times by an estimated seventeen percent during the lombard-papal disputes of 1248." he pushes his glasses up again, a gesture that's becoming endearing. "it... uh... complicated the peace negotiations."

you lean forward, resting your chin back on your hands, your own smile wide and genuine. "see? fascinating. way better than my baron so-and-so oppressed his serfs chapter. tell me more about these unreliable pigeons, bucky barnes. did they have favorites? were there rogue hawk factions? pigeon espionage?"

he stares at you, but the sheer terror in his eyes is receding, replaced by a dazed sort of bewilderment.

she's... interested? in lombard league carrier pigeons? she's smiling? at me? he takes a slow, breath, his gaze dropping to his book, then flicking back to your face.

the silence stretches, but it's different now. not with panic, but with something fragile, and incredibly new.

the invisible not-so-invisible girl had not only made the quiet boy see her; she'd made him smile. and maybe, just maybe, she'd found something infinitely more interesting than tyler jones could ever be.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

saturday morning sunlight streams through the large windows of the campus diner, the 'golden griddle,' casting warm stripes across sticky vinyl booths and the lingering scent of maple syrup and frying bacon.

there's the lazy weekend chatter of students nursing hangovers or fueling up for game day.

you're squeezed into a booth with amelia, jenna, and maria, picking listlessly at a stack of slightly-too-soggy pancakes.

your mind, however, is worlds away, replaying last night's library encounter on a loop: bucky's startled eyes behind his glasses, the blushing, the sound he made when you teased him about pigeons, the way he'd finally, hesitantly, sat down...

amelia kicks your shin under the table. "hello? pancake planet to space cadet. you just stare at those like they hold the secrets of the universe or something?" she chuckles, drowning her own waffles in a lake of syrup.

"huh? oh. yeah. sorry." you spear a piece of pancake, forcing it into your mouth. it tastes like cardboard. all you can taste is the memory of bucky's flustered voice.

jenna sighs dramatically, scrolling through her phone. "tyler posted like, twenty stories from steve's last night. looks like it was actually decent for once. steve must've sprung for the good jungle juice this time. pity you missed it, sickie." she glances at you, not unkindly, just stating a fact.

"yeah," you mumble, pushing syrup around your plate with a fork. "pity."

the thought of tyler's loud party, the sticky floors, the performative energy... it feels like a different lifetime compared to the hushed intensity of the library corner.

the bell over the diner door jingles. natasha slides into the booth beside amelia, effortlessly displacing air. she's wearing dark jeans, a simple black tank top, and an expression that could curdle milk. she doesn't bother with greetings, her sharp green eyes locking onto you like lasers.

"so," natasha says. her voice deceptively calm, the kind that makes you think oh no. "the plague. fascinating recovery. miraculous, even." she flags down a passing waitress. "black coffee. strong."

you freeze, the fork halfway to your mouth. "uh... yeah. lots of sleep. did the trick." you try for a weak smile.

natasha accepts the coffee mug the waitress slams down, takes a slow sip, her gaze never leaving yours. "lots of sleep. right." she sets the mug down with a click.

"see, here's the thing. tyler texted me last night, all pissy because his best shiny accessory was malfunctioning. said you were 'deathly ill'. practically on your deathbed." her tone is flat. "being the concerned friend i am," she lays heavy sarcasm on the word, "i swung by your dorm around... oh, ten? maybe ten-thirty? figured i'd drop off some actual meds, maybe make sure you hadn't actually kicked the bucket tyler was so worried about."

your blood runs cold. you stare at her, the pancake suddenly a lead weight in your stomach. ten-thirty. right around the time you were sitting across from a blushing, stammering bucky barnes in the library.

"imagine my surprise," natasha continues, "when i knocked. no answer. i figured, maybe passed out. so i used my key." she raises an eyebrow. "your room. empty. bed made. no sign of plague victim zero. just... gone. vanished." she leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"so. care to explain the miraculous resurrection? or the spontaneous dorm-room evaporation act? because the timeline's a little... messy."

amelia's eyes widen over her waffle. jenna and maria stop eating, forks hovering, staring between you and natasha. the diner noise seems to fade.

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "i... uh..." you flounder, your mind racing.

lie? make up an emergency? but natasha's gaze is like an x-ray. she'd see right through it. nobody can lie to her.

"i felt... better. suddenly. needed air. went for a walk." the words sound feeble even to your own ears.

"a walk." natasha deadpans. "at ten-thirty pm. while supposedly dying of the plague. fascinating choice of convalescence." she takes another slow sip of coffee. "where'd this... invigorating walk take you? the quad? the river path? maybe..." she pauses, letting the silence stretch, "...the library?"

you feel the heat creeping up your neck, mirroring bucky's infamous blush. you stare down at your plate, unable to meet her knowing gaze. "maybe," you mutter, pushing a piece of pancake around.

"the library?" maria echoes. "on a friday night? while faking sick to ditch tyler? what the hell for?"

"oh, i think we all know what for," natasha says smoothly, a triumphant smirk plays on her lips. she leans back, crossing her arms. "trouble. details. now. did the library ghost materialize? did he stutter? did he spontaneously combust when you spoke? i need data points."

the nickname 'trouble', the name you'd given bucky last night, hits you. physically. jesus christ.

amelia gasps, slamming her hand on the table. "no way! barnes? you went to the library to stalk barnes?!" her voice is loud enough that a few heads turn towards them.

"shhh!" you say, mortified, shrinking into the vinyl booth. "it wasn't stalking! i just... went to study! and he happened to be there!" the lie is pathetic. even to you.

"study," natasha scoffs. "with your pristine textbook? please. try again. what happened?" her voice is sharp, and demanding.

under the combined weight of their stares, your defenses crumble. you take a breath, the memory flooding back, washing away the panic.

"he... walked into my table," you admit. "dropped his massive history brick. he.. looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, and blushed so hard i thought his ears might catch fire. he stuttered. a lot. like crazy and apologized about a million times."

"oh my god," amelia chuckles, leaning forward. "classic barnes disaster mode. then what?"

"i... talked to him," you say, "teased him a little. about his book. about papal politics and... messenger pigeons."

natasha's smirk solidifies into a genuine, if slightly predatory, grin. "did he engage? or just short-circuit?"

"he... he did. well he did both. at first," you say, a note of wonder creeping into your voice. "he actually talked back. about alpine passes and... notary fidelity? and pigeon theft being a real historical problem. he even... almost smiled. once."

jenna wrinkles her nose. "pigeon theft? notary fidelity? god, that sounds painfully boring. why would you even—"

"shut up, jenna," natasha cuts her off without looking away from you. "then what? did he run screaming?"

you shake your head, meeting natasha's gaze. "no. i... i told him to sit down. he did. eventually. perched on the edge of the chair like it was electrified." you pause. "he asked who i was. he had no idea. like... genuinely no clue who i was, even though we've bumped into each other, like, a dozen times."

natasha nods, understanding dawning. "the invisibility shield finally dropped. and?"

"and... i told him he could call me trouble. as a joke.. i, um, panicked." you feel your own cheeks warming now. "then he just... stared. like i'd grown a second head. then blushed even harder. and... that was kind of it. we just sat there for a minute. it was... quiet." you shrug, feeling suddenly shy. "then i left. he was still sitting there, looking shell-shocked, when i walked away."

the table is silent.

amelia looks like christmas came early. jenna and maria exchange bewildered glances, clearly unable to comprehend the appeal. natasha just studies you silently, at first. then she lets out a soft huff, almost a laugh.

"trouble," she repeats, shaking her head slightly. "fitting." she takes a final sip of her coffee. "so. the mysterious plague victim wasn't dying. she was launching a covert op on the library cryptid. and apparently," her gaze sharpens again, "it was successful. you cracked the shell. very minimally."

"was it worth ditching tyler and giving me a minor heart attack when i found your room empty?" natasha asks, her tone dry without malice.

you think of bucky's wide, startled eyes, his laugh, the way he'd carefully placed his book on the table. a small, genuine smile spreads across your face, pushing aside the embarrassment.

"yeah," you say, not meeting any of their gaze and playing with your pancakes. "it was worth it." finally taking a real bite of pancake. it still tastes like shit, but you don't care.

your mind is already drifting back to the library, to the empty chair opposite yours, wondering if bucky barnes, history nerd and pigeon theft expert, was lying in his bed right now, thinking about trouble too.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you fall into step beside natasha. the late morning sun is warm on your shoulders as you head back towards the dorm quad.

the campus walks are quieter now. the usual weekday is energy replaced by a lazy saturday hum.

groups lounge on the grass, frisbees sail through the air, the distant thump of music drifts from an open window. the awkward interrogation at the diner hangs in the air between you, softened by syrup and natasha's surprising lack of further grilling.

for a few blocks, you walk in comfortable silence, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing on the pavement.

natasha seems content, observing the campus scene with her usual detached amusement. you steal glances at her profile – an absolute mystery. the question has been burning since she dropped that nickname like a grenade in the booth.

"so," you start, trying to sound casual, kicking a loose pebble. it skitters ahead on the path. "the library cryptid. barnes."

natasha doesn't look at you, but a faint smirk touches her lips. "mm. the blushing disaster. what about him?"

"just..." you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. "back at the diner. you called me 'trouble'. that's... that's what i told him to call me. last night. when he asked my name." you glance at her, searching her expression. "how'd you know that before i even told you?"

natasha keeps walking, casually. too casual. "lucky guess? seemed fitting. you caused enough chaos last night, vanishing like a phantom from your deathbed." her tone is teasing.

"come on, nat," you press, a little more insistently this time. "it was really specific. 'trouble'. i literally just made it up on the spot when he looked like he was about to bolt. how could you possibly guess that?"

she shrugs. "maybe i have a sixth sense for the kind of nonsense you'd pull. 'trouble' suits the whole... for reckless library ambush spy." she finally glances at you. "or maybe barnes isn't as tight-lipped as he seems. maybe he talks in his sleep. to his textbooks."

you snort. "highly doubt that. he looked like he'd rather swallow his own tongue than tell anyone about... well, about anything involving another human being, honestly." you pause, remembering his panic. "especially about some random girl accosting him in the library."

"accosting?" natasha raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "strong word. sounded more like you rescued him from a rogue history book and a table."

"semantics," you wave a hand dismissively. the suspicion is coils tighter. "but seriously. how? did you... talk to him? after? did he say something?" the thought of bucky recounting the encounter to anyone, let alone natasha, seems wildly statistically improbable.

natasha laughs a dry sound. "talk to him? about feelings? or social interactions? please." she shakes her head. "bucky barnes communicates in footnotes and historical primary sources. actual conversation? especially about something that probably short-circuited his entire nervous system?" she gives you a sidelong look. "doubtful."

"then how?" you stop walking, forcing her to stop too. you face her on the sun-dappled path. "nat. it's bugging me. it was too spot-on. it felt like... like you knew."

she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable for a long moment. the playful mask is still there. she doesn't look away, but she doesn't offer an explanation either.

"maybe," she says slowly, gaining a touch of something almost... nostalgic? "maybe i just know him better than most people realize. known him a long time. long enough to predict the kind of thing that would leave him stammering and blushing like a schoolboy who just saw his first... well." she catches herself, the nostalgic hint vanishing, replaced by her usual dry wit. "let's just say i've witnessed the barnes disaster protocol in action more times than i care to count. 'trouble' causing him to malfunction? classic barnes reaction. predictable, really." she starts walking again, forcing you to follow.

"known him a long time?" you prompt, falling back into step beside her. longer than college? high school? childhood? "like... how long?"

"long enough," natasha deflects smoothly. "there's a guy who gets flustered way too easily. who trips over air when surprised. who probably spent half the night replaying that library encounter in his head, analyzing every word you said like it was a treaty clause."

the image makes your own cheeks warm slightly. "you make him sound like a lab specimen."

"observational data," natasha corrects breezily. "years of it. lets me make... educated guesses. like 'trouble' being exactly the kind of playful grenade you'd lob into his meticulously ordered world." she glances at you, her smirk widening. "and judging by the ridiculous grin you've been trying to hide all morning, it landed perfectly."

you can't help but smile back. your suspicion still sticks there, but softened by natasha's explanation. it almost made sense.

her observation, her history with him... whatever that history was. she hadn't denied knowing him well. very well. well enough to predict his reactions with unnerving accuracy. well enough to know nicknames given in a private, flustered moment. maybe she'd spoken to him?

"so," you say as your dorm building comes into view, "this 'long time'... does it involve knowing if he actually likes pigeons? or was that just historical fact regurgitation?"

natasha laughs. "oh, he definitely finds carrier pigeons fascinating. logistical marvels, apparently. efficient, for their time. whether he likes them personally?" she shrugs, pushing open the main dorm door.

"doubt he's given it much thought. he probably categorizes them under 'historical transportation assets'." she holds the door for you – a secret knowledge she wasn't quite ready to share. "but ask him yourself, trouble. see if you can get a straight answer out of the walking encyclopedia."

she heads down the hall towards her room, leaving you standing in the lobby, the echo of her laugh and the unspoken weight of that 'long time' hanging in the air.

you knew she knew bucky. intimately. the how and the how long were still locked away, but the suspicion was solid now: natasha romanoff and bucky barnes had a past. a deep one. and it explained everything, and nothing, all at once.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the late afternoon sun beats down on the practice field. it's wednesday and sweat stings your eyes as you hit the apex of a basket toss, maria and jenna's hands solid under your boots.

the descent is usually smooth and automatic, but today... your focus snags.

a flash of dark hair glimpsed near the science building fence? a trick of the light, probably.

but the distraction costs you.

your left foot lands slightly off-center on the base's interlaced hands, your ankle twisting inwards with a sickening, sharp pop.

pain, white-hot and immediate, lances up your leg. you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, swallowing the gasp that wants to escape.

don't show it. don't stop.

you force your landing smile wider, locking your knee, absorbing the impact through sheer willpower.

you hit the turf, stumbling only slightly before throwing your arms up in the final pose. "alright!" sarah calls, oblivious. "good height, samantha! bases, solid catch! reset in two!"

you limp-step back to the starting position, trying to make it look like a casual adjustment. the pain throbs with every heartbeat. jenna frowns. "you okay? landed kinda funny."

"fine," you grit out. "just caught my heel weird. no biggie." you bounce lightly on the balls of your feet, testing the ankle. it screams in protest. you ignore it.

you manage the next few runs through adrenaline and pure stubbornness, masking the limp, channeling the pain into sharper motions.

by the time sarah blows the final whistle, your ankle is a swollen, an angry knot inside your sneaker, sweat dripping on your forehead from the effort of hiding it.

and the blessed coolness of your dorm room feels like sanctuary. you've barely collapsed onto your bed, wrestling with the laces of your sneaker as you finally pry it off, when the door swings open without a knock. natasha.

"heard you took a tumble," she states, her eyes zeroing on your propped-up leg, the sock already damp with sweat, the ankle visibly swollen even through the fabric.

she carries a plastic bag from the campus store – ice packs peeking out the top. "jenna said you 'landed funny'. looked more like you face-planted into awkwardville from where i was watching."

you flinch, both from her sudden appearance and the observation. "watching? since when do you watch cheer practice?" the question comes out sharper than intended, laced with the suspicion that's been simmering since the talk after diner – the 'trouble' nickname, the 'long time' she knew bucky. was she watching him? did she know he sometimes cut through the field perimeter?

natasha drops the bag on your desk. "since i was heading back from the lab and saw a certain someone attempting to defy gravity with a distinct lack of grace." she pulls out a flexible blue ice pack and a thin kitchen towel. "scoot over. let me see the damage you're pretending doesn't exist." her tone is quick, no-nonsense, but there's an underlying thread of... concern? or maybe just clinical interest.

you hesitate, the suspicion warring with the throbbing pain. "it's fine, nat. really. just twisted it a little. i'll ice it." you make a move to take the ice pack.

"don't be an idiot," she snaps, gently but firmly pushing your hand away. "you're favouring it like you've got a peg leg. let me." she doesn't wait for permission. sitting on the edge of the bed, she carefully peels your sock down. you suck in a breath as the air hits the swollen skin. the ankle is already purpling, puffy around the bone.

"yikes," the redhead says, her fingers surprisingly gentle. "definitely sprained. you need to stay off this for a bit, ice it twenty minutes every hour, elevate it." she wraps the ice pack in the thin towel, her movements efficient, practiced. "hold this." she places the cold bundle against the worst of the swelling, your hand instinctively pressing it down as the cold bites through the towel, a welcome counterpoint to the heat.

"thanks," you mumble, leaning back against your pillows, closing your eyes for a second as the cold begins to numb the edges of the pain.

"you need to be more careful," natasha says, she's not looking at you; she's meticulously adjusting the towel around the ice pack. "distracted much? thinking about papal politics and treacherous alpine passes?"

your eyes fly open. she's teasing, but it feels loaded.

is she referencing bucky? implying you were distracted by him?

you watch her profile, focused on her task. absolutely impossible to read. like always. "just... off my game today," you deflect, looking up , studying the cracks in your ceiling plaster.

natasha shifts slightly. "saw tyler earlier," she says casually, changing the subject. "over by the student union."

you grunt. "shocker. tyler exists."

"mm," natasha hums. "existed with a very blonde, very giggly sophomore art history major practically glued to his side. emma, i think? looked like they were sharing a very large, very sugary smoothie." she glances at you sideways, gauging your reaction. "arm candy duties officially reassigned, i see. efficient."

a wave of... nothing washes over you. no jealousy, no anger, not even mild irritation. just a faint sense of relief, like shedding a too-tight jacket.

"good for them," you say, your voice flat. "hope emma enjoys the thrilling discourse on completion percentages and scout evaluations."

natasha raises an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes this time. "that's it? no righteous indignation? no lamenting the fickleness of jocks?"

you shrug, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your ankle. "why? he was using me. i was tolerating him. it was... predictable. boring. zero sum game." you adjust the ice pack. "emma's welcome to it. hope she likes being an accessory."

natasha studies you for a long moment. you could never guess what's going on in that big redheaded brain, behind those green eyes.

the suspicion about her and bucky coils in your gut again, making you hyper-aware of her proximity, the efficiency of her movements that felt too practiced for just basic first aid.

was this how she took care of him? did he trip over his own feet often enough for her to become an expert in sprains?

"interesting," natasha finally says. "the great tyler jones, relegated to 'predictable' and 'boring'. quite the downgrade from golden boy status." she leans back slightly. "so, what's upgraded? what's suddenly so... captivating?"

you meet her eyes. the challenge is there. the question hangs in the space bridged by one bucky barnes between you two.

is she asking about your feelings? or fishing for information about bucky?

your own suspicion flares. maybe you're getting defensive. "maybe i just realized there are more interesting things to focus on than inflated egos and cheap cologne," you say, keeping your tone light but firm. "like not destroying my ankle before homecoming."

natasha holds your gaze for a beat longer. not triumphant, not mocking. almost... approving?

"priorities shift," she concedes, standing up smoothly. "keep the ice on. elevate. no heroics tomorrow." she heads for the door. "and trouble?" she throws the nickname over her shoulder, making your heart skip. "try not to let your new 'interesting things' make you quite so clumsy next time. some of us have better things to do than play field medic to lovestruck cheerleaders."

the door clicks shut behind her. you stare at it, the cold from the ice pack seeping deep into your ankle, but it's nothing compared to the chill of uncertainty spreading through you.

lovestruck? did she know? suspect? and that parting shot... was it a dismissal, a warning, or just natasha being natasha?

the mystery of her connection to bucky barnes felt deeper, more tangled, than the ligaments throbbing under the ice. and the only thing more painful than your ankle was not knowing where you stood with either of them.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sunday afternoon sunlight streams through the high windows of 'freshmart'.

the only noise is quiet chatter of weekend shoppers, the squeak of cart wheels, the muffled thump of produce being bagged.

you're hovering by the apples, trying to decide between gala and honeycrisp. your mind is blissfully blank for the first time in days. your ankle throbs dully under the supportive brace natasha insisted you wear, a reminder of yesterday's cheer-induced stupidity. you reach for a honeycrisp, testing its firmness.

then you feel it. a prickle on the back of your neck. the distinct, unnerving sensation of being watched. not tyler's possessive stare, not the casual glances of strangers. this feels... focused.

you slowly turn your head.

across the wide aisle, by the towering pyramid of oranges, stands bucky barnes.

he's frozen mid-reach, one long hand suspended over a navel orange.

but he's not looking at the fruit. he's looking straight at you. his glasses catch the light, but behind them, his blue eyes are wide, fixed on yours with an unnerving directness. no book shield. no backpack hunch. just... him. seeing you. truly seeing you. that focus he usually gives to equations or lombard league treaties is now entirely trained on you.

the honeycrisp almost slips from your fingers. you clutch it tighter.

he saw you first. he initiated the eye contact.

the invisible girl was... visible.

an involuntary smile spreads across your face. the nervous flutter in your chest isn't fear; it's pure, giddy anticipation.

game on, barnes.

you don't look away. you hold his gaze, letting your smile widen just a fraction.

you see the exact moment the intensity flips. the observation shatters. pure, unadulterated panic floods his expression. his eyes widen impossibly further behind the lenses. he snatches his hand back from the oranges like they've burned him. the flush starts instantly, a creeping tide of red rising from his neck, staining his cheeks.

he looks like he's been caught defusing a bomb, not selecting citrus.

he tears his gaze away, staring fixedly at the pyramid of oranges as if their perfect spherical geometry holds the secret to his escape.

his hand flexes at his side, and takes a jerky half-step back, bumping his cart. it rattles loudly.

you can't help it. you chuckle softly. pushing your own cart, you steer it towards him, closing the distance. the squeak of the wheels makes him flinch.

"fancy meeting you here, pigeon police," you say, teasing, stopping your cart parallel to his near the oranges. you lean casually against the handlebar, the honeycrisp still in your hand. "researching the agricultural exports of the mediterranean circa 1250? or just stocking up on vitamin c for the next siege?" you raise the apple slightly, giving it a little wiggle.

his head snaps towards you, then away, then back, his gaze skittering like a startled bird. he pushes his glasses up his nose that usual frantic knuckle-shove. "i... uh... no siege. just... oranges." the blush deepens. "vitamin c. important. for... cellular function."

"cellular function," you echo, nodding solemnly as you fight another smile. "crucial stuff. wouldn't want your historical analysis hampered by scurvy." you tilt your head. the way he's practically vibrating with nervous energy. it's adorable. painfully so. "though, you look a little... flushed, barnes. sure you're not coming down with something? maybe caught a draft in the archives?"

he flinches, his hand flexing again. "no! i'm... fine. just... warm. the store is... very... illuminated." he gestures vaguely upwards at the buzzing, bright lights, avoiding your eyes. "bright. lots of... photons."

"photons," you repeat, unable to suppress the grin now. "definitely hazardous. almost as bad as rogue pigeons." you take a small step closer. "speaking of hazards... how's the lombard league holding up? recovered from its close encounter with the library floor?"

he stares at you, momentarily thrown by the shift in topic. "the... the book? it's... structurally sound. minor... page displacement. negligible." he swallows hard, his gaze flickering down to your cart, then to your face, then quickly away.

"you... you're..." he gestures vaguely towards your ankle brace, peeking out below your pants. "injured?"

you glance down, surprised he noticed. "oh. this? cheerleading mishap. tried to defy gravity without proper clearance from the physics department." you shrug. "just a sprain. natasha's playing field medic." you watch his face carefully as you drop natasha's name.

a flicker of something complex crosses his features – recognition, maybe a hint of something old returning, quickly buried under another wave of flustered panic. "natasha? she's... efficient. medically." he pushes his glasses up again, a nervous tic in overdrive. "good. that's... good."

"efficient is one word for her," you agree dryly, still watching him. the way he reacted to natasha's name... the suspicion coils tighter. you decide to push, just a little. "she seems to know you pretty well. predicted you'd be flustered by... well, by trouble."

bucky barnes freezes. completely. the blush doesn't just deepen; it goes supernova. his eyes lock onto yours, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. "she... she said that?" his voice is a strangled whisper. "she... called you... that?"

"mmhmm," you nod, popping the honeycrisp into your own cart. "right before she accused me of being lovestruck and clumsy." you lean back against your cart handle, enjoying the sheer spectacle of his panic. "seems she has a pretty good read on you. and on me, apparently."

he looks like he's short-circuiting. his mouth opens, closes. he stares at you, then at the oranges, then back at you. "i... uh... natasha... she..." he stammers, utterly lost. "she knows... things. observes. too much. sometimes." he takes a shaky breath, forcing words out. "trouble... it... it fits." the admission comes out in a haste. he looks like he wants to crawl under the orange pyramid.

your heart does a little flip.

he said it. trouble.

the nickname you gave yourself that still makes you want to wince inward, now spoken in his flustered voice. it sounds different. better.

"fits, huh?" you echo. "glad you approve, pigeon police. though, between the two of us, you seem to be generating most of the heat in this particular aisle." you gesture playfully at his crimson face.

a strangled sound escapes him – a nervous laughter. he ducks his head, running a hand through his already messy dark hair, making it stick up wildly. "photons," he mutters again, almost to himself, a desperate grasp at scientific explanation. any other explanation. "and... inefficient air circulation."

you laugh. "right. photons and poor hvac. definitely the culprit." you push your cart forward slightly, stopping right next to his. "so, bucky barnes, expert on citrus, photons, and lombard league logistics..." you pause, meeting his gaze, holding it despite his instinct to look away. "...what other essential supplies does a scholar need? because frankly, watching you panic over oranges is way more entertaining than my grocery list."

he stares at you. terrified. exhilarated. that intensity is gone, replaced by pure, adorable social chaos.

but beneath the panic, in the way his eyes stay locked on yours for that fraction of a second longer, you see it again – that spark. the one from the library. the one that makes the risk, the teasing, the absurdity of flustering bucky barnes in the produce section, completely, utterly worth it.

#terra incognita ── 💌

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jamesb444 · 12 days ago

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I want bucky to tell me he's old enough to be my father and fuck me like im made for him

this is definitely some sort of au... i cannot see mcu bucky doing this considering i got kinda dark with this. i need him. i need this old man. i need him in my GUTS NOW. i have to give a warning for dark!bucky.. though this is consensual on both sides. rough, degrading, objectification, age-gap, dumification, dacryphilia, biting, rough fingering, daddy kink. minors dni

"you know how old i am, sweetheart?" bucky says, almost mumbling. he dragged his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down just hard enough to sting a bit. to remind you of his strength.

"old enough to be your goddamn father. twice over, maybe." his eyes bore into you, demanding acknowledgment of the chasm between your innocence and his experience. "you feel that gap, little girl? feel how deep it runs?"

you whimper, instinctively squirming under the weight of him pinning you down. it’s futile. he doesn’t yield an inch. his other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

"that scare you?" he breathes against your ear. "or does it make that sweet little cunt weep? does it make you wet, knowin’ a man like me… a man who’s seen things, done things… could take you apart? could ruin you for anyone else?" his lips brush your earlobe, like a mockery of a kiss. "could ruin you just for the fuck of it?"

you shake your head, denial trembling on your lips, but your body betrays you. your thighs press together, seeking friction and relief from the ache he’s stoked in you. he tsks.

"fuckin' liar," his knuckles, trails a path of fire over the fragile wings of your collarbones, stopping just above your breasts.

"i can smell it on you, baby. reeks of it. pure, desperate want. you like this? like bein’ small? like bein’ put right where you belong? like knowin’ these hands, don'tcha?" his free hand flexes near your face, "could snap your pretty neck or cradle it. could snap you in half like kindling if i had the mind."

his hand slides lower, past the hem of your shirt. he cups your cunt roughly through the soaked panties. all you can give him in response is a shocked gasp. "fuck me," he breathes with disbelief and raw lust. he presses down, grinding his palm against your pussy. "you’re fuckin’ drippin’, baby. soaked right through. all that juice… all for me? for this old man?"

you nod, gasps that catch in your throat. your hips lifts against his palm involuntarily.

"words," he demands, squeezing, not quite painful, but nearly a promise of it. "i wanna hear that pretty mouth confess."

"y-yes!" you choke out. the humiliation is written all over your face, your cunt, the way your body reacts to his touch. "all for you—only you—"

"damn motherfuckin’ right," in one brutal motion, he hooks his fingers into the side of your panties and rips it. the fabric tears like paper, baring you completely for his eyes. two thick fingers spear into your cunt immediately, curling ruthlessly against that spot deep inside that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

you cry out a broken sound, your back arching violently off the thin mattress, hips surging upwards towards him.

he doesn’t let you chase it. instead, he stills. his fingers become an immovable intrusion, buried to the knuckle, holding you suspended on the pleasure.

he watches your face contort with frustration and with desperate yet unfulfilled need. a dark satisfaction covers his features.

"look at you," he says with perverse affection. "so fuckin’ needy. so fuckin’ empty without me filling you up. were you made just for this, princess? just a soft, warm, greedy little hole desperate for my cock? is that all you are?" he twists his fingers slightly, wringing another moan from you.

you whine, making him pull out his fingers entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing.

he lifts his glistening fingers to your lips. "suck," he orders, "clean your mess off daddy’s fingers. show me how hungry you are."

trembling, you obey, taking his fingers into your mouth, tasting your own saltiness. he watches, eyes hooded with lust, as you suck them clean.

"answer me," he repeats, pulling his fingers free. "what are you?"

"yes!" the humiliation is a wildfire spreading in your veins. "i’m—i’m just a hole! a stupid, wet hole, just for you—just for daddy to use!"

"good fuckin’ girl," he croons. the praise is mocking yet saccharine sweet. his hands drop to his belt. the heavy clink, the leather sliding free, sounds like doom and salvation.

he shoves his jeans and briefs down just enough, freeing his cock. it’s thick and heavy yet ruddy and straining against his stomach. his veins stand out in relief. it slaps wetly against your stomach, already covered with your slick from his fingers wrapped around it.

"beg," he orders. he drags the swollen, leaking head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your pussy. "beg your daddy to wreck that tight little cunt. beg him to fuck you dumb. make it pretty."

"please," you gasp as tears spill over your face, tracing hot paths down your face. "please, daddy, please—i need it, i need you inside—i need you to ruin me—please fuck me, please—!"

he doesn’t even let you finish the pathetic plea. with one thrust, he sheathes himself in your pussy, stretching you wide.

"that’s it," he groans. his hands find your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. "take it. take all of it. swallow daddy’s cock whole, you greedy little bitch. ain’t nobody else," he each word is accompanied by snap of his hips, going deeper and deeper.

"no one's ever gonna fill you," thrust, "like this," thrust, "ever gonna stretch you," thrust, "make you scream," thrust, "like i do."

you sob, nails raking down the muscles of his shoulders, drawing red lines. you're lost in the rhythm, the fullness, the friction that burns so good.

"gonna cum alreadt?" he taunts, watching your face. "gonna cum all over your daddy’s fat cock like the desperate, cock-hungry little slut you are? gonna paint my dick with your juices? that fast?"

you nod, eyes squeezed shut, teetering on the edge.

smack! his open palm lands hard on your outer thigh. the sharp sting is shocking, amd makes you yelp. suddenly your eyes fly open wide.

"say it!" he says through gritted teeth, his own control is fraying and his thrusts becoming savage, almost animalistic. "tell daddy what you are. tell him what you’re gonna do."

"i’m gonna cum!" you wail, the words ripped from you in desperation. "i’m gonna cum on your cock, daddy. i’m your stupid slut, your greedy hole, please—please let me cum! please!"

he grins then, a feral smile of pure possession blazes in his eyes. "cum," he snarls, and leans down as he pistons into you with bruising force. "cum on daddy’s cock, you perfect little fucktoy. show me who owns this cunt."

your orgasm tears through you like a wildfire. you moan out loud, arching as your cunt clamps down on his invading thickness.

"good fuckin’ girl," he says against your skin. he doesn't slow nor does he stop. he fucks you through the violent orgasm, his own rhythm stuttering into slams. "that’s it… take it… take what’s yours… take daddy’s seed… mark you… inside…"

his thrusts lose all control, becoming deep, primal lunges.

a moan comes from his whole chest as he buries himself impossibly deep and pulses his cum into you, flooding your pussy with hot, thick, white spurts.

his teeth sink deep into your shoulder, claiming you, as he empties himself inside you with posession.

he collapses onto you for a moment, his cock still twitching deep inside you, spilling the last of his claim.

slowly, trembling himself, he pulls out, the loss making you whimper. but before the emptiness can fully register, he’s gathering your limp body against his hard chest.

one large, a surprisingly gentle hand cradles the back of your head. he presses a kiss to your forehead, stubble scraping your skin.

"mine," he whispers. his arms tighten around you. "all fuckin’ mine. every sweet, desperate inch. now and always." he tucks your head under his chin, the ultimate claim settling into your bones.

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