leeemabean

[leeemabean]

Manifesting Manifesting Manifesting

[leeemabean]

Don't Touch the Tech Girl

Summary : Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x engineer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, workplace power dynamics, Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Small mention that Bucky used to smoke.

Word Count : 5.7k

Notes : Hi all! I will post my series soon, but for now, I am focusing on one shots because I am in the process of moving flats! Also, some tag requests has been buried under comments, so please message me/or shoot me an ask if you'd like to be tagged! Enjoy!

You weren’t born into privilege, not handed your brilliance by name or legacy. You were forged by curiosity, tenacity, and a drive so relentless it kept you awake at night designing theoretical blueprints for machines that didn’t exist yet. While other kids were watching cartoons, you were trying to figure out how the animation worked.

You were the kind of brilliant that couldn’t be taught. The kind that made people uncomfortable. The kind that made people notice.

After the blip, Wakanda needed help to rebuild.

You were in your last year of doctoral research when Shuri found you. You'd written a paper on vibranium-adaptive circuitry— not for application, just out of scientific obsession. She read it, tracked you down and showed up in your lab without fanfare.

“You know this theory would work,” she said, scanning your schematics. “You’ve already solved a problem most people can’t even pronounce.”

You blinked, still in awe. “You’re Princess Shuri.”

The next few years were a blur. You worked in Wakanda, helping design and restore crucial systems. You helped lead the research initiative for post-Blip infrastructure. You reverse-engineered Stark-tech, collaborated with Griot before taking a lecturing gig at MIT.

There, you mentored a long list of young brilliant minds, including Riri Williams.

And yet… something felt off.

Despite everything, you felt caged. 

Then you realised, ever since Wakanda, theory wasn’t enough for you. You were a hands-on person now. You needed problems to solve. You missed the adrenaline, the mess of a work table.

You missed the smell of soldered wires, the constant whir of active prototypes, the thrill of fixing tech that was actively falling apart.

That’s when the offer came from Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres. 

The new Captain America and his chaos-prone Falcon needed a tech engineer for their field equipment, specifically their state-of-the-art wing packs.

They asked around, and Shuri had personally recommended you.

“Trust me,” she told Sam, “she’ll do more than fix it. She’ll make it better.”

Sam finally reached out, officially.

“The government engineers hate me,” he confessed over the first video call. “You might be our only hope.”

You liked them immediately,  and the job was exactly what you’d been missing.

It felt alive, unpredictable, high-stakes, high-tech, and high-risk.

So you packed up your comfortable teaching post at MIT. Said goodbye to pristine labs and overly polite faculty meetings and stepped into a small ops base that felt more like a rich family’s garage than a government facility.

And that’s where you met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky to his friends. 

You have heard of him before, of course. Shuri called him her second favourite white boy, just behind Everett Ross. In fact, she saw him as a brother more than anything else.

You didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become your favourite problem.

—

You were muttering curses at Redwing when you first met him.

The drone had fried its microthruster mid-flight, and of course, no one bothered to tell you until after Sam crash-landed into a water tower.

So now, it was 10:43 p.m., the base was dead quiet, and you were hunched over your workbench, coffee long cold, hair pulled back like you meant business.

“Alright, you little bastard,” you muttered, soldering iron in hand. “Spark in the wrong fuckin’ direction again and I’m rewriting your personality subroutines to a roomba.”

“That’s one hell of a threat,” a voice behind you drawled. 

Unaware of a second person in the room, you jumped slightly in shock, finishing the adjustment with a quick twist of your tool. “Either you’re good at stalking,” you said, glancing over your shoulder, “or terrible at announcing yourself.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

You clocked the metal arm— and you knew it was Bucky Barnes. The former Winter Soldier, looking every bit the part with a black shirt and dark hair tucked behind his ears. Sam must’ve called him in for some field work, maybe on-ground support for tomorrow's mission.

“You always lurk in corners?” you teased.

He tilted his head. “Do you always talk dirty to drones?”

That earned a laugh from you as you wiped your hands on a nearby rag. “Only the ones that misbehave.”

His eyes darted to your grease-streaked hands before he saw Redwing flickering online.

“Sam said you were good,” he said, whistling low. “Didn’t say you were this good. Redwing’s been dead for two weeks, and you’ve got him up again in what—a day?”

You shrugged casually. “I like working with things that don’t talk back.”

“That’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why’s that?” You narrowed your eyes. 

“Because I do.”

You didn’t look away, lips curving up into a sly smile. “I can handle it.”

That earned you a grin. He stepped closer, just across the workbench now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

His eyes dropped to the drone. “You re-routed the thermal sensors.”

You arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He looked up, blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Would it work if it was?”

Your laugh came easy, but your fingers didn’t stop moving. “Depends. You as hands-on as you look?”

He didn’t answer— not right away. He just moved around the workbench until he was behind you.

Then he whispered, “Try me.”

Your heartbeat thumped out of your chest, but your hands stayed steady. Only barely.

“You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone working with high-voltage components,” you let out a small laugh, warning him of more than just the circuitry. “I might shock you.”

Before he could say something even cockier, Sam opened the door and entered the room. “See you’ve met our new tech girl, Buck.”

You flinched slightly, and Bucky moved back.

Technically, Sam was your boss. 

So technically, Bucky was your boss’ best friend.

And that was a bad idea, right?

—

It started small.

The flirting was inevitable— of course you were attracted to each other.

He was your type, you were his type. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.

But it wasn’t just… that. 

He… actually made the effort to get to know you. You became friends first. He asked about your life: What made you tick. What pissed you off. What you did when no one was watching.

You gave him pieces of yourself.

And he gave you… things. Like a Eurasian Jay trying to mate by giving nuptial gifts.

The first time, it was totally casual. He gave you a protein bar post-mission.

“Figured you skipped lunch,” he said, tossing it onto your desk without meeting your eyes too long.

You were elbows-deep in Sam’s pack diagnostics, but you looked up. You arched your brow.

“Did Sam send you to make sure I didn’t pass out?”

“Nope,” he said, already walking away. “I’m just naturally thoughtful.”

You stared after him.

Thoughtful. Right. 

That was the word we were using now.

The next week, he got you coffee, just the way you liked it. Down to the brand and milk-to-caffeine ratio.

You mentioned it off-handedly a couple days ago, and he remembered. 

“Just happened to be in the area,” he said, leaning against the doorway like it wasn’t a forty-minute drive from where he lived.

You eyed him over the rim of your cup. “The base is not on the way to anywhere.”

“I took the bike,” he shrugged, “Made good time.”

You tried not to smile, but failed.

The week after that, he gave you a tiny gear charm on a thin, silver chain— clearly handmade, probably by him. It looked crooked, but it was beautiful to you, with teeth like a puzzle piece.

“Reminded me of you,” he said, like it was nothing, all while short-circuiting your entire nervous system.

You held it up between two fingers. “Because I’m small, stubborn, and get jammed in places I don’t belong?” You offered an explanation if he wasn’t brave enough to admit it.

He grinned, not denying it. “You said it, not me.”

You should’ve told him to knock it off. Maybe set some professional boundaries. You really should’ve.

Instead, you let him put the chain around your neck and wore it under your shirt like a dirty little secret. 

The next week, he lingered longer and leaned in closer. He watched you work with that look— focused, and if not a little possessive. He had his hands in his pockets, thumb tapping against his belt like he was holding something back.

You glanced at him. “You trying to get something, Bucky?”

He tilted his head, deadpan. “Yeah. You.”

You almost dropped your wrench.

You coughed and laughed at the same time—half-flustered, half-shocked. “Fuck. Just lead with it next time.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

After that, the flirting escalated. 

But… neither you nor him would do anything about it. Not while Sam was watching, anyway.

You’d be wrist-deep in tangled circuitry, and he’d pass you a screwdriver, letting his fingers brush yours just a second too long.

He’d stand behind you, “supervising” while you calibrated Joaquin’s flight pack— and he was close enough to feel his breath to ghost your shoulder, close enough that your body went still and hyper-aware of every little movement,

By month three or four, everyone was catching on.

One morning, Joaquin stood in the break room, sipping his coffee, nodding toward the door.

“Why does Bucky come here when we don’t need him on a mission?” he asked under his breath, eyes darting toward the man near your workstation. His arms were folded, eyes glued to you in a fitted tank top that was definitely not regulation.

Sam didn’t even bother to look up from his tablet. “Because he’s trying to get laid.”

Joaquin choked on his coffee. “Dude.”

“Which is why we’re keeping an eye on him,” Sam just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this whole situation was giving him a headache. “Because if we lose her, we’re screwed. You know how hard it is to find someone who can keep up with our gear?”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Sam found Bucky walking in the hallway. “We need to talk.”

Bucky didn’t even slow his pace. “If this is about the vibranium plate I broke—”

“It’s about you trying to rail our tech engineer.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s... direct.”

“I’m serious!” Sam glanced around, lowering his voice but not his tone. “She’s brilliant. Like—Stark-level genius with none of the god complex. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

“She is impressive,” Bucky admitted, which was code for: she’s been living rent-free in my fantasies for months.

“She’s more than impressive,” Sam snapped. “She’s irreplaceable. And if you screw this up—you’re gonna ruin the best hire I’ve made in years.”

Bucky stopped walking, folding his arms. “You think I’m gonna what, ghost her?”

“I know you,” Sam pointed, though he had to mentally compartmentalise to ask how he knew what ghosting was later. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last cigarette on the planet, and I know you haven’t smoked for like, six years.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You really sat with that one, huh?”

“You can’t unfuck someone at work, Barnes. I’ve lived this,” Sam shot back. “Base hookups never end clean. And if it goes sideways, I lose my tech lead and you lose the one person who knows how to recalibrate your arm without needing a manual.”

There was a beat of silence, and Bucky almost looked thoughtful.

“So…” he started, “You’re saying I should commit.”

“I’m saying—” Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, no. I’m saying do not touch her. She is vital to the team. To our equipment. To my sanity. She’s not just someone you can have a fling with, she’s infrastructure.”

Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You just compared her to a bridge.”

“She is a bridge! Between functioning tech and whatever disaster Joaquin brings back from the field. I swear to fuck, if you make things weird—”

“You’ll what?” Bucky asked, liking the challenge.

“I will get Shuri to reprogram your arm to slap you every time you look at her.”

“You’re really making this sound more appealing,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

See, Sam had made a big mistake.

Huge.

Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.

And by making you officially off-limits, he just wanted you more. 

He hadn’t even planned on catching feelings —he didn’t even know if he had the capacity for real ones anymore— until you. 

Annoyingly smart and stupidly hot. And underneath all that genius and grease-stained sarcasm was someone who actually made him want things.

So, what did he do?

Exactly what he wasn’t supposed to.

—

After the talk, Sam became a human firewall.

Every time you and Bucky were in the same room, Sam was there, supervising like he was running a daycare.

Once, you were just trying to update Redwing’s targeting algorithm.

Bucky was trying to hand you a wrench.

And Sam was standing six feet away, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through something on his tablet.

“Can I help you, Cap?” you asked, eyes flicking up.

“Nope,” Sam said. “Just observing.”

“You know you don’t need to be here right?” You chuckled. You knew he just got back from a mission, and he could use some rest. “You can take a break.”

“Bucky doesn’t need to be here, either.”

You didn’t even look at Bucky, but you felt the smile he was fighting off.

Bucky leaned in anyway, a bit too close for Sam’s liking under the guise of pointing at the display.

“Think this line’s pulling too much voltage,” he said.

You tilted your head, lowering your voice to match his, and so your boss couldn’t hear. “You just want to whisper in my ear.”

He nodded subtly. “And you like it when I do.”

“Barnes.” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip. “Step back. Let her work in peace.”

Bucky backed off with a dramatic sigh.

You… didn't notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t comment then. You just kept being you— and that was enough to do unspeakable things to Bucky's self-control.

He’d pass you a tool with his human hand on your lower back. You’d bite your lip when you were concentrating and not realise he’d stopped listening to the briefing entirely.

But every time Bucky tried to sneak in even a halfway flirtatious line, Sam was right there.

“Hey, you need help with the cooling matrix?” Bucky asked one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder just enough to smell your shampoo. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Before you could answer, Sam spoke up. “She’s good. She doesn’t need help. She’s very capable.”

You turned to blink at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“Just making sure Tin Can remembers,” Sam muttered, sipping his coffee.

It only got worse from there.

Team debrief? Sam sat between you two.

Lunch break? Sam invited himself to sit directly across from you and stare Bucky down like he was a teenage boy trying to date his daughter.

Mission prep? Sam suddenly needed you for private discussions that lasted just long enough to make Bucky grit his teeth.

Bucky was seconds away from losing it.

It was fucking hard to just not… snap.

Literally and metaphorically.

And now Sam was acting like your personal chaperone. Bucky swore the next time he got in the way, he was going to launch him out the nearest window.

He was tired of being treated like a threat when all he’d done was look at you like you were made of stars.

So later that night, when he found you alone in the garage— legs crossed on the workbench, music playing while you tinkered with Redwing’s sensors— he stood in the doorway a moment too long.

You looked up, smiling without hesitation. “You got past Sam’s force field?”

“He’s out cold after training,” Bucky shrugged. “He tried to go without coffee today.”

You snorted. “That’ll do it.”

He stepped closer and hesitated. “Did you know he’s been keeping us apart?”

You didn’t look up. Not yet. “Figured something was going on.”

“He thinks we’ll mess up,” Bucky said. “Thinks we’ll make it awkward.”

You set your tool down, finally looking at him.

“Let me guess,” You gave him that smile. It was dangerous. “That makes you want me more?”

Bucky let out an incredulous laugh, running a nervous hand through his hair. “You know me so well.”

You hopped down off the bench, walking over until you were standing in front of him, your chest barely brushing his. 

“So what now?” Your head tilted just enough to be a question. “You finally gonna make your move while the warden’s asleep?”

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d like a lot of things,” you said, letting the suggestion hang.

Bucky’s eyes darkened. 

You tilted your head, chin high. “You didn’t think I noticed?” you asked. “How you always find a reason to be close?”

He didn’t move. He couldn't. Not when you were this close. 

“And I kept wondering,” you whispered playfully, eyes on his lips now, “if you were going to keep playing the long game, or finally admit how bad you want it.”

Bucky’s breath caught. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

You didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him.

And god, he melted.

It wasn’t soft. At least, not at first. 

Both your lips parted, a moan caught in your throat as he gripped your waist and pulled you into him like he’d been holding back for weeks. 

His mouth moved with yours like he needed you to survive.

It was the kind of kiss that said this has been driving me crazy and I’m done pretending it hasn’t. His metal hand slid up your neck, fingers tilting your face just right, the human one curling around your lower back.

You pressed in closer, feeling now how tightly he held you, as if he didn’t trust this wasn’t a dream.

When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his.

His eyes fluttered open.

He looked... dazed.

He looked like he’d been hit with a truck full of hormones.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled, and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You grinned, cheeks hot.

“You’re wrecked,” you teased, amused. “I barely kissed you.”

“You call that barely?” he breathed, stunned. “Christ.”

Then, he ran the back of his fingers along your jaw. “I’ve wanted that for so long I forgot what not wanting it felt like.”

You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his. “Then take what you want, Sarge.”

His smile turned dangerous.

This little escapade ended with you pulling Bucky into the nearest supply closet and locking the door behind you.

You didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asked, the light catching in his eyes like silver and smoke.

You just grabbed the collar of his shirt to yank him down into another kiss. 

What happened next wasn’t exactly PG.

There was heat, and hands, and the kind of breathy curses that barely made it past lips pressed together. Bucky’s dog tags clinked against the trinket necklace that he gave you. Something fell off a shelf. You didn’t notice. Bucky didn't care.

At one point, you were both breathless and laughing, pressed chest-to-chest in the cramped space, when you whispered, “This is so unprofessional.”

Bucky whispered back, “Shhhh, I’m busy,” right before he kissed you again, muttering downright filthy praises as he made his way to his knees. 

Forty minutes later, the door clicked open and you both reemerged. 

Not quite innocent, but decent enough. Bucky’s hair was slightly more tousled than usual, and you’d thrown on a hoodie over your tank top, even though you never wore your hoodie indoors. 

But now, you had to. Or else Sam would see the marks Bucky left along your neck. 

An hour later, Sam finally stirred from his coffee-deprived coma.

He shuffled into the hangar, muttering about needing espresso and a neck brace.

The first thing he saw was you and Bucky standing near your workstation. Flirting, but overall looking normal.

Almost.

But you were in your hoodie. Inside.

Sam squinted.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s cold in here.”

Sam shrugged. Best not to think too much of it.

—

Hooking up with Bucky Barnes was never supposed to feel like falling in love.

But it did.

Not in a dramatic, slow-motion, hearts-eyes kind of way.

It happened steadily. Like gravity.

Sam thought the crush had run its course when the flirting died down in public. He figured the spark fizzled, and neither of you wanted to admit it. So he started easing up on the chaperoning. 

What he didn’t know was that the tension had stopped boiling over in public because you’d found an outlet to release it in each other’s bed. 

But it was never just that.

You started to notice how Bucky watched your face—not your body—when you talked about something that excited you. Like your circuitry project, or the Wakandan energy conversion systems. Or the ridiculous theory you had about quantum-linked processors and how they might someday change the world.

He listened, not out of obligation, but curiosity. He wanted to know how your mind worked, even if the words flew over his head.

He started sleeping over after your late-night hookups. At first it was just practical. After a mission, he'd stumble into your bed, and afterwards, neither of you had the energy to move.

But then it became a comfort. 

Then it was something he didn’t want to go without.

One morning, you found him installing blackout curtains in your bedroom.

“You hate waking up early,” he said with a shrug. “Thought this might help.”

And maybe that was the moment you realised it wasn’t casual anymore. Maybe that was the moment you realised you weren’t falling— you’d already fallen.

He took you out, and was a real gentleman about it, too. 

He always took you to the coffee shop you loved—the one with awful chairs and strange wall art and croissants that tasted like buttery clouds. He’d sit next to you with his sunglasses on and his hand in yours, like his body didn’t know how not to be near you. 

He let you ride on the back of his bike, with your arms wrapped around his waist.

He’d park on quiet hills overlooking the city lights, hand you a drink from a fast-food drive-thru and just… sit. 

Sometimes you’d talk. 

You talked about Wakanda. About Shuri—how much you missed her. How much he did, too. 

You talked about the things you were afraid to want. A future. Stability. 

He told you that you made him feel normal. Like a person, not a weapon.

You told him he made you feel seen. Like someone worth noticing, beyond an academic accomplishment.

And when he kissed you, sometimes it felt like it hurt. Sometimes you wondered if it scared him to fall in love.

One night, he even took the leap and whispered I love you.

You said it back, just as gently.

So yeah, technically you were dating.

Not that Sam or Joaquin knew.

—

You still tried to play it casual— at least in public.

Which brings us to one very specific Saturday afternoon.

You and Bucky had been… busy.

The kind of busy that started with you on your kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist and ended up with you bent over that same counter, forearms braced against the cool marble, your hoodie bunched up around your waist.

Bucky's hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that bordered on sinful.

You moaned, biting your lip just to stay somewhat quiet, but failing miserably.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled against the back of your neck. “You were made for me.”

You tried to let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, but all that came out was a broken sigh.

You were close. So close—

And then the front door opened.

You had accidentally left it unlocked.

At first, you didn’t register it, not over the sound of your own moaning. Not over Bucky’s groans and the slap of skin on skin.

Until—

“Yo, I just came by to grab the upgrades—OH MY GOD.”

Joaquin was standing frozen in your doorway.

His eyes were wide, mouth open, and you could’ve sworn his soul was visibly leaving his body.

You screamed.

Bucky swore.

You yanked your hoodie down, cheeks burning. Bucky stepped in front of you like he could somehow block the mental trauma Joaquin had just suffered and pulled up his sweatpants.

“What the fuck? I can’t unsee that,” he sputtered, spinning around, only to walk directly into the wall.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Oh my god– oh my god— Is today Saturday? I told him— ARGHH!—Bucky! DO SOMETHING!”

Bucky just exhaled like a man getting hit with a tax audit and reached for his wallet on the side table.

“Torres,” he called out.

Joaquin peeked over his shoulder like Bucky was Medusa. “If you hand me cash, I swear to—”

“Apple Pay?” Bucky offered, putting down the wallet and reaching for his phone instead.

You blinked.

“…Depends how much.”

“Five hundred,” Bucky said, “You never tell Sam. You never joke about it on base. You never bring it up ever.”

Joaquin squinted. “Make it six.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

“Six-fifty,” Bucky countered, tapping on his phone, “and you run interference next time Sam gets nosy.”

“I’m gonna need therapy,” Joaquin demanded. “And probably bleach. So I need more.”

“Add another fifty,” you piped up from behind Bucky, “and I throw in a custom diagnostic chip for your wings.”

Joaquin considered it. “Deal.”

And that’s how the Falcon walked out of your apartment $700 richer.

—

Two months later, dragging Joaquin into your sexcapades had become standard protocol.

“Distract Sam. Ten minutes,” you hissed into the comms, already breathless, ducking into the back of a supply truck with Bucky right behind you, stripping off his tac vest.

“Again?!” Joaquin whisper-yelled through his ear piece. 

“You love us,” you cooed sweetly, right before Bucky yanked your shirt over your head and you were cut off.

So Joaquin did his part.

Sam would be looking for you, when suddenly there was Joaquin, materialising beside him like a caffeine-fueled jackrabbit.

“Yo, Cap, wanna see this new drone maneuver I coded? It does a barrel roll. In reverse.”

Sam gave him a squint. “Aren’t you on aerial patrol?”

“I am! This is, uh, supplemental. For morale. Very therapeutic. Like—watch!”

Meanwhile, four doors down, you were bent over a crate of rations in a supply closet, Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth as he fucked you like the world might end in twenty minutes and he wanted to die with your name on his lips.

You gasped around his palm. “He’s right there—oh —”

“Then shut up,” Bucky growled.

Sam, on the other hand, was not buying it.

“You good, man?” He asked, genuinely worried, “You’ve been real twitchy lately.”

Joaquin was sweating bullets: “I’m fine. Totally normal. Definitely not thinking about sex.”

Sam blinked. 

“I– I mean SUCCESS,” he stammered, stumbling over his words, “Teamwork, and all that stuff!”

Sam didn't buy it, but didn’t have a reason to question it, either.

And from there, it was chaos.

Sam wanted to call you for a debrief?

Joaquin would “accidentally” spill an entire protein shake over the mission map.

Sam headed to the hangar?

Joaquin sprinted to intercept, yelling about “mysterious engine noises” while Bucky slipped out the back with you, shirt half-buttoned and lipstick smudged across his chin.

You, Bucky, and Joaquin became a well-oiled, morally questionable unit.

But in the end, Bucky got laid.

You got your insides rearranged.

Joaquin got trauma and a couple of upgrades.

So it was a win-win for everyone.

—

You were especially reckless one Wednesday.

You remembered because it was leg day— and Bucky had already wrecked you in training so badly, you could barely walk straight. 

Sam had assigned him to sharpen your hand-to-hand skills, after all. He took that very literally.

Now you were pressed up against the wall of some dusty, half-forgotten hanger in the compound, your legs shaking for an entirely different reason. His dog tags smacked against your chest, tangling with the little charm you kept around your neck. Your grunts echoed far too loud for anyone trying to keep this a secret.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Someone could walk in.”

He groaned into your neck, not slowing down at all. “Let them. Let ‘em see what they’ll never get.”

You dug your nails into his back, barely able to think. “Fuck, you’re so full of yourself.”

“You weren’t complaining last night when I—”

“Hey!” you cut him off playfully with a slap to the shoulder. “Focus, Sarge!”

Neither of you noticed the faint mechanical chirp overhead.

Redwing was perched on a maintenance cabinet nearby.

Recording.

Because Sam had programmed it to run 24/7 in order to test the heat sensors.

—

Two days later, Sam was in the control room, analysing flight path data.

Joaquin was lounging beside him, and today, you had a day off.

“Hey,” Sam suddenly said, frowning at his screen. “Why is Redwing’s log showing heat spikes in Hangar C?”

“What?” Joaquin choked on his smoothie. He knew immediately what must’ve fucking happened, and dismissed any accusation right away. “Pfft. Probably a… malfunction.”

Sam clicked a few buttons as a projection flared to life.

“Weird,” he shook his head, leaning in. That’s… body heat. Two sources. Definitely not a test flight…”

“Must be…strays,” Joaquin blurted. “Like, uh, animals. Rats. Maybe raccoons. Having sex.”

Sam turned to look at him. “You’re telling me this is a rat orgy?”

“Big problem in Hangar C.” Joaquin nodded solemnly. “Very horny wildlife.”

But Sam wasn’t convinced. “Wait… why does the audio kick in right… here?”

Click.

Suddenly the speakers came alive with your voice.

“Oh my God—yes—right there—”

Then Bucky’s voice followed. “You like that, huh? Cryin’ for me out here like a needy little—”

“FUCK,” Joaquin screamed, lunging across the table and slamming the power button like his life depended on it.

The room went silent as the lights flickered dead. Sam blinked like he’d been hit by a truck.

“…Rat orgy,” Joaquin whispered desperately, voice cracking.

Sam turned to him. “That was Bucky, wasn’t it?”

Joaquin didn’t move. “I’m not legally required to answer that, am I?”

—

You were curled up on Bucky’s couch, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole, legs tangled with his, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on your lap. The movie—a classic noir thing he vouched for—was on, but you weren’t really paying attention.

His thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, under the blanket, and every time he leaned in to whisper a joke, you could feel his scruff brushing against your temple. 

Everything felt right.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Someone’s persistent,” you chuckled, not thinking much of it, and not looking away from the screen.

“Probably Torres,” Bucky sighed, reaching for it. “Or spam. Or spam from Torres.”

When he checked the messages, he looked… confused.

“What?” you asked, noticing the change in his posture. He turned the phone toward you.

A video file was labeled: Redwing_Betrayal.MOV

Below it, a message from Sam.

Do NOT fuck this up. Do NOT make this weird. Or I’ll throw you off a plane with no chute.

Bucky squinted. “Didn’t know Redwing could send files this big.”

You sat up slightly, concern creeping in. “Wait—what?”

And because Bucky had the restraint of a gnat, he tapped play without thinking twice.

Grainy thermal footage lit up the screen. Then you heard sounds that suspiciously sounded like your name. Then, the full 4K video synced in, and you saw yourself and Bucky going at it like bunnies.

You almost choked. “OH MY—.”

You lunged for the phone like it was a grenade, but Bucky held it out of reach.

“Oh,” he said, amused. “It’s that day. We looked good.”

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.” You buried your face in his chest, nearly shrieking. Sam—your boss, Bucky’s best friend—knew now. Thank God this job didn’t have HR. “I—I didn’t even know Redwing was recording!”

“I need to step up my game,” he said casually, scrubbing through the clip like he was watching game tape. “See? My hip angle was off in the first minute.”

“Bucky—”

“But damn,” he added, serious. “Look at your arch, though.”

You smacked him with a pillow. “TURN IT OFF.”

He smirked, not budging, and hit save to his private album.

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, though it was playful more than anything, hitting him again with the pillow.

“I’m keeping it for science,” he said innocently. “And maybe for when you’re out of town.”

You smacked his arm, and he kissed your forehead like that made everything better. 

It kinda did.

Bucky pulled you back into his chest, still grinning like a menace, and grabbed his phone again, thumb flying over the screen.

You peeked over his shoulder to see.

To: Sam I am weird. And also look amazing doing it.

Sent.

He snorted as the typing bubble popped up.

A second later, Sam’s response came in, and it was just a line.

Jokes aside, I’m happy for you.

You both stared at it.

“Well…” you said, a little stunned, “that’s… sweet?

“Coming from Sam?” Bucky chuckled. “That’s a miracle.”

So he just leaned back against the couch, pulling you even closer as you both processed Sam’s strange acceptance. Perhaps, after all the years of seeing his friend brood alone in his apartment, Sam finally saw through the professional lens and was glad that someone was able to keep Bucky in check, even if that someone happened to be his tech girl.

With a satisfied grin, he tapped his phone a few more times, and you heard him mutter, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you still have a job.” He raised an eyebrow at the screen. “And Joaquin’s side hustle? Yeah, that’s done. No more hush money and suit upgrades from him.” 

You chuckled, knowing full well Bucky would take care of things, like he always did. 

The whole situation might’ve been ridiculous, but with him?

You didn’t have to worry about anything.

Except maybe keeping government tech out of the bedroom.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003

[leeemabean]

Elevator, Baby!

Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.

Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.7k 

Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.

Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!

Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.

Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.

The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation. 

He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs. 

The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time. 

It was home.

Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.

He was right. 

Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.

They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.

That part of him was private.

He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable. 

It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.

But, of course, what he least expected happened.

When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.

He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.

But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.

Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.

And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Which led to this moment.

—

Your first day on the job was a Monday morning. 

You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.

You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.

You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.

But then your eyes met.

For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen  hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”

Bucky took your hand.

The handshake lasted two seconds too long.

“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”

Ava raised an eyebrow.

You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself. 

Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.

When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.

“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”

“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.

“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”

Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.

—

Six Weeks Later

You were everywhere.

Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower. 

You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.

Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.

And you made it look good.

You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby. 

And the New Avengers grew fond of you. 

They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi. 

You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.

At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before. 

But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks. 

You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.

Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.

You made it impossible to concentrate.

So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.

Which was probably why the team started to notice.

Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.

The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.

Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.

You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy. 

That was all it took.

John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.

“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”

Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”

Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”

Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”

Alexei only chuckled.

“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.

“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”

“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”

Bucky had no answer to that.

—

One Afternoon

Today had been a long day

It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.

You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.

So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”

He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.

The doors slid shut.

And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.

A single red emergency light buzzed to life.

You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively. 

“What was that?” you asked.

“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there. 

You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.

You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates. 

“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”

“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”

“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”

He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”

You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.

“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.

“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.

“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”

You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”

“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.

“Don’t what?”

“That voice. That look. You're gonna  get us in trouble.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”

“Four days is not that long,” you said.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”

You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet. 

“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”

You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.

“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”

“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.

“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”

“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”

“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”

“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”

“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.

Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.

And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.

You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.

You were just his wife.

And he was very, very good at reminding you why.

Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional. 

You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.

And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.

It was a setup.

—

Later that afternoon 

The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.

And in a way… they were.

Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.

This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky. 

“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”

She hit play.

The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.

“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.

“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”

John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said. 

“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”

The screen flickered to life.

Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you. 

The doors closed.

Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.

Then the elevator stopped.

You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing. 

Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.

Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”

And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.

“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”

The kiss landed on your lips instead.

It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.

The room went deathly silent.

Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”

Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”

Then— then came the second kiss.

It was longer. 

Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt? 

Your back hit the elevator wall.

John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”

Then, you climbed him.

It got very explicit very quickly.

John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.

Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.

Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”

“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”

“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”

“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”

Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”

Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”

Yelena did.

The room plunged into an eerie silence.

Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”

They were all pale now.

Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”

“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”

“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”

Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.

John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”

No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.

Not even a little.

They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.

They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.

They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.

And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.

—

Six Weeks Later

It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.

The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen. 

It was supposed to be peaceful.

But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

Pregnant.

Three times, all different brands.

It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year. 

Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness. 

Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.

You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.

He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.

He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.

“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”

You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand. 

His hands gently closed around your arms.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”

You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”

He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”

Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.

Bucky looked at it.

Then up at you.

“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinked twice. “You’re—”

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”

“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”

You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”

He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.

And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”

You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”

But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.

“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”

He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”

There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…

“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”

You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”

He winced. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did. 

But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.

And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.

“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching. 

“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”

You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”

He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”

You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”

Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right? 

—

It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.

Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile. 

“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.

Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—

He froze. His eyes widened.

“Wait…”

Morning sickness?

—

Bob didn’t say anything right away.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood. 

Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.

He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.

Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.

Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.

“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.

Everyone blinked.

“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.

Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”

“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.

“...Oh,” Ava echoed.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”

John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”

They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.

No one’s talked about it since. 

Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.

“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”

“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”

“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.

Bob just nodded grimly.

Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”

The room went completely silent.

Ava blinked. “Shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”

John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”

Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”

Everyone looked at each other.

No one volunteered.

So they did it together.

—

They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.

He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.

That’s when he noticed them.

Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.

He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”

Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”

Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.

Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”

Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”

That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.

Oh shit. Oh shit. 

They knew. They’d figured it out.

How?

He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”

Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”

Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?” 

Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”

John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”

“I said might’ve!” she hissed.

“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”

Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”

“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.

“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”

Everyone groaned in unison.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”

Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.

Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”

“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.

“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.

“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”

“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.

Bucky opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And shut up.

Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.

Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”

A beat passed with silence.

Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”

“When?!” John thundered.

“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”

Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”

“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”

“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”

“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.” 

“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide. 

She sounded almost proud.

Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”

And just like that, gone was the teasing.

They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.

John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.

—

The shift was subtle at first.

Alexei started carrying things for you.

You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”

You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”

He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.

Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.

“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes. 

You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.

And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.

“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”

You squinted. “Anyone?”

He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”

Right.

It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.

She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”

“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”

She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”

That was it.

You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower. 

He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”

You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He tilted his head. “About what?”

You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”

His eyes widened. “…Oh.”

“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”

He was dead silent.

“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”

Bucky looked down.

You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”

He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.

“Umm…” he said.

“Oh my god.”

“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”

“Bucky.”

He stopped, biting his lip.

“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”

His brow furrowed. “You are?”

You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”

“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”

“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey…  they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”

He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”

“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”

He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”

“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”

Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”

—

Eight Months Later

Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.

He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.

The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.

Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.

You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.

“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.

“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.

John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”

Jamie yawned.

Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”

“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.

“He is judgmental,” you smiled.

—

There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower. 

They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now. 

Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:

“Can I hold him?”

The answer had always been not yet.

Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.

Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”

But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old. 

Today was the day.

You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.

The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.

Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.

“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide. 

“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”

Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“

Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.

And then… Alexei.

He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.

You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.

Jamie adorably blinked up at him.

And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.

“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”

“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”

“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.

“He’s a baby!” Ava barked. 

“He needs context!”

“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.

Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.

“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.

Jamie sneezed.

Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”

You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”

Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”

“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.

Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”

John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.” 

Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”

You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.

Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed. 

Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.

In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”

“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.

You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.

Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.

And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.

-end.

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@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards

[leeemabean]

Meet Me Halfway

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

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

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

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

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

You were a tracker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

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

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

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

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

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

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

Days passed like water through your fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

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

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

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

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

“I think I’m in trouble.”

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

“No,” you said, “but I—“

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

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

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

Nakia laughed.

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

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

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

You didn’t answer her. 

—

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

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

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

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

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

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

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

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

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

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

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

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

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

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

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

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

Neither of you said “I love you.”

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

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

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

You both knew you might die here.

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

“I love you,” he said.

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

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

—

The battle was chaos.

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

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

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

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

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

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

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

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

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

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

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

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

None of it mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then one day— it was too much.

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

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

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, he promised he’d do better.

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

And for a while, he did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flinched.

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

“I do trust you—”

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

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

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

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

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

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

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

You took a breath.

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

He blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

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

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

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

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

So you did. 

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

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

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

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

“I wasn’t—”

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

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

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

Bucky’s breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

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

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

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

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Six Months Later

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

But there he was.

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

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

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

You stopped breathing for a second.

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

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

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

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

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

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

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

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

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

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

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

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

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

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

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

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

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

And then the doorbell chimed.

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

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

It was a winter bouquet.

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

It was him. Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

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

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

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t cry.

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

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

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

Are you okay? 

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

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

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

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

And that was the first night you drank.

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

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

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head, “What?”

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

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

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

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

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

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

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

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

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

Focus, Barnes. 

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

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

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

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

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

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

A pause. “For whom?”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

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

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

The knock came a second later.

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

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

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

You froze for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

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

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

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

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

“Okay, that was one time!”

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

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

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

“Then why are you here?”

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

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

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

The silence stretched thin.

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

Your breath hitched, just a little.

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

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

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

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

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

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

He blinked. “...No?”

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

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

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

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

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

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

—

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

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

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

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

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

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

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

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

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

—

Void, New York.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it was just you and Bucky.

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

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

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

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

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

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

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

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

Right. 

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

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

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He whispered your name over and over again.

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

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

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

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

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

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

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

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

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

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

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

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

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

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

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

You stayed like that for a while. 

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

He just held you tighter.

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

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

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

Silence stretched again — for a while.

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

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

You blinked up at him. “What?”

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

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

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

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

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

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

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

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

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

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

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

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

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

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

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

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

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

You didn’t say anything at first.

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

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

Bucky stayed quiet. 

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

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

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.

[leeemabean]

hotel mishap

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky can't go five minutes without wanting to slam each other into a wall, so when you're forced into a hotel room with only one bed, years of unresolved tension and bruised pride boil to a breaking point.

wc: 5.1k+

The mission hadn’t been complicated, at least not in theory. Intel retrieval. Get in. Get out. Don’t burn the place down. But when Tony Stark sent you and Bucky Barnes of all people together, the team should’ve known better than to expect anything to go smoothly.

You and Bucky had a history. Not the good kind, not the romantic kind. The infuriating kind. The kind of history carved out of too many close calls and too many missions where one of you almost got the other killed. The kind made of bruises from sparring sessions that always went too far. The kind of history built on snapping at each other across briefing tables, over comms, even in the middle of firefights just to prove a point. It wasn’t that you didn’t work well together. That was the problem: you did. Too well. You always knew what the other was thinking in the field, could fall into rhythm like muscle memory. But the second the mission was over, you were instantly at each other’s throats. You paid too much attention to each other to be indifferent. Your interactions sparked like flint and steel. Every word was a challenge. Every conversation had teeth. And you hated it.

You hated how your eyes always found him the second he walked into a room. How your breath would catch when he rolled up his sleeves or ran a hand through his hair. How his voice, low and rough, always managed to get under your skin no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. You hated how he always found something to criticize. Your gear wasn’t secured tight enough. Your timing was off by two seconds. Your punch was too telegraphed. Your attitude was too cavalier. He always said it like it was tactical, but you could practically taste the irritation that seemed personal.

You told yourself it didn’t matter and that it was mutual loathing. But then there were those other moments: brief, disorienting, soft. The ones where you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Not with annoyance. Not with scorn. But with something unreadable. His expression quieter and his eyes gentler, curious, as if he was trying to figure you out. Sometimes it felt like maybe he already had. There was the time on the quinjet when you fell asleep, leaning slightly toward him, exhausted from back-to-back missions. When you jolted awake, you found the blanket he’d sworn had been tucked away now draped over you. He looked away before you could ask. Pretended he was asleep.

Or the time in Bucharest when you'd been limping, your leg aching from a bad landing, and you told him, firmly, that you didn’t need help. He didn’t argue. But you realized later he'd adjusted the whole route back to HQ to avoid stairs. And that night at Stark’s compound, after a celebration mission debrief, drinks flowing, music playing, when the lights were low and you were laughing with Sam. You could feel Bucky's eyes on you from across the room, the way he went quiet, jaw tight. And when Sam leaned in a little too close, you felt the tension spike from across the room like static. You hated that it meant something to you. That he meant something to you. And worse, you hated that part of you was starting to wonder if he hated you, or if he just didn’t know how else to act around you.

Like last month, when you’d gotten grazed by a bullet. You were fine, quickly regrouping after just a scratch. But he’d snapped at you so hard afterward, yanked your arm so fast to check the wound, that you’d ended up shouting at each other for five whole minutes in front of a target that was halfway bleeding out. Or that time in Prague, when you’d both been undercover at the gala. He’d glared at you the whole night because of the backless dress SHIELD made you wear, muttering something about how it was “disrespectful to combat protocols.” You’d glared right back, told him to go marry his tactical gear if he loved it so much.

So now, after a long day of hauling equipment through rain and muck, when you stumbled into the hotel Tony booked for you, it wasn’t surprising that Bucky was already picking a fight before you even reached the elevators.

“Next time, maybe don’t toss the tracker directly at the enemy’s feet,” he muttered, pressing the elevator button with a little too much force.

You whipped your head toward him so fast your hair caught on your lip gloss. “Next time, maybe don’t shoot at the same wall I’m trying to scale, Barnes. It’s called spatial awareness.”

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn about formation, I wouldn’t have to improvise,” he shot back, eyes fixed on the elevator numbers like they’d save him from you.

You scoffed. “Oh, so you playing cowboy with a sniper rifle was improvising? Cute. Let me guess—lone wolf, no attachments, brooding as a personality type?”

“Maybe if you pulled the stick out of your ass, we’d finish a mission without you rolling your eyes every five minutes.”

“Maybe if you didn’t deserve it, I’d stop.”

He turned to look at you finally, brows raised. “You really think you’re the easiest person on this team to work with?”

“I know I am. Ask anyone not named James Barnes.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “Yeah, maybe I will. Pretty sure Sam has a running list of the ways you drive him insane.”

“Good. Then he can laminate it and hand it out as party favors at the next 'I Survived a Mission With Her’ support group.”

The elevator dinged.

Neither of you moved for a second. The doors opened like an invitation—or a threat.

“This is gonna be a long night,” he muttered, stepping in first.

You followed with a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Believe me, I’d rather room with a sewer rat.”

He didn’t look at you, but you heard the sharp exhale through his nose. “Rat might be more cooperative.”

You shrugged, casually brushing dust off your shoulder as you leaned against the mirrored wall. “At least rats don’t mansplain every technical decision I make.”

“At least rats don’t ignore backup calls and then pretend they ‘had it under control’ while bleeding through their damn suit.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Is that concern, Barnes? I’m touched.”

“Don’t be. I just didn’t want to carry your ass out of another warehouse.”

“I never asked you to carry me.”

He turned, stepping just slightly closer. “Oh yeah? Then what was your plan? Bleed dramatically until the enemy got bored and left?”

Your pulse involuntarily kicked up and you dug your nails into the skin of your palm. The elevator beeped again as it passed another floor.

“Well, next time, just let me die. Save yourself the emotional trauma.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Your eyes narrowed, breath a little uneven. “You wouldn’t last a day without someone to argue with.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching with something like amusement. “You think this is arguing?”

You stared at him for one taut second.

And then the elevator dinged again.

You stepped out without another word, not looking back, though you could feel him behind you. 

The walk down the hallway was a gauntlet of mutual grumbling, jabs, and shoulder bumps. He walked too close. You walked too fast. Everything he did grated against your last nerve. When he finally slid the keycard into the lock and pushed open the door, the both of you froze.

There was only one bed.

You cursed Stark in your head so loudly you were sure the walls vibrated.

"Of course," Bucky muttered.

You stepped inside, scanned the room. No couch. No rollout. No armchair. Just one queen-sized bed and the nightstand between it and the window.

"I bet he did this on purpose," you said.

"Tony?"

You nodded. "Sick bastard probably thinks this is funny."

Bucky rolled his eyes and dropped his bag on the nightstand with a thud. "Whatever. I’m not sleeping on the floor."

You walked past him and dropped yourself down onto the hardwood floor beside the bed with exaggerated flair. "Don’t worry. I’ll do it."

He blinked at you. "What? No. I’m not making you sleep on the floor."

"You're not making me," you shot back, already kicking off your boots. "I'm choosing to. Toss me a pillow."

He looked down at the bed, grabbed a pillow, and without a second of hesitation, flung it right at your face. It hit you square in the cheek.

"Ow!"

He shrugged. "You said toss."

You grit your teeth for what felt like the millionth time that day. You were too tired to fight back. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’d throw him out the window. For now, you laid down, grumbling as the cold from the floorboards seeped into your back.

He climbed into bed with a heavy sigh, muttering, "Stubborn as hell."

"Rich coming from you."

He turned his head to glare down at you. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Talking to you is like talking to a wall. A big, stubborn, bionic wall."

He huffed. "I think you’re forgetting who you’re speaking to."

You scoffed, pulling the pillow tighter under your head. "Oh yeah, the Winter Soldier. Boo hoo. You’re so scary."

"You are an actual menace, you know that?"

"I’m delightful," you replied smugly, shifting your body slightly. And then you mumbled, mostly to yourself, "Fuck, it’s cold. Can you give me a blanket?"

There was a pause. Then the mattress creaked as he leaned over to squint at you. You were clearly shivering. He sighed and peeled the blanket off himself, reaching over the edge and spreading it across your body. "You’re an idiot."

You bristled. "You don’t have to tuck me in like I’m five. I can do it."

"You didn’t seem to be doing a great job whining on the floor like a big baby."

"You’re the baby."

"Real mature."

You looked back up at the bed, at him now lying there with just the pillow. And your stomach sank. He was curled onto his side, arms tucked in close like he was trying to conserve body heat, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to stop the cold. His metal arm was half-buried under the pillow, and the way his shoulders hunched in made him look smaller. Uncomfortable. Still and tense like he refused to shiver.

"Wait. There was only one blanket?"

He didn’t answer. You swore. "Fuck. I’m sorry. Here. Take it back."

He rolled onto his back, waving a hand. "No. It’s fine. You need it more than I do."

You narrowed your eyes and tossed the blanket back on top of him. "Shut up. Take it."

He pulled it up over his chest but muttered anyway, "Happy?"

"No. I’m cold."

He turned to face you, a scowl painting his features. "Oh my God. Just come up here then."

"I’m scared you’ll kill me in my sleep."

"You’re ridiculous. I won’t kill you. I’d be dumb to kill the one person whose job is to watch my six."

"I’m fine," you said, despite the fact your teeth were actually starting to chatter.

He rolled his eyes, clearly done with your shit. In one swift motion, he got out of bed, crouched down, and hooked an arm around your waist.

"Hey! What the hell?!" You flailed, but it was too late. He tossed you onto the bed like you weighed nothing.

He climbed back under the blanket. "Suck it up so we can both be warm."

You shot back upright, indignant, glaring at him. "You caveman! What if I wanted to be cold?"

He didn’t look at you. "Then you shouldn’t have said anything."

You grumbled under your breath, but the bed was warmer. And soft. And smelled like fresh linen and frustration. You both laid there in silence. The tension still sat between you, but the warmth slowly began to bleed the edge off your anger. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was sheer desperation. But lying there next to Bucky Barnes, with the bed radiating more tension than heat, your body rebelled.

You pushed off the mattress, intending to throw yourself right back onto the floor, cold be damned. But before you could even swing your leg off the bed, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

“What the hell—” you hissed, struggling.

He pulled you back, firm and unrelenting, dragging you against the mattress. “Stop being a brat,” he muttered.

“Get off me!”

“Jesus, woman—will you stop—”

You twisted, kicked back, trying to wiggle free. His grip never tightened, not enough to hurt, but it was firm, anchored.

“Bucky!” you snapped, yanking your arm. “I can’t sleep with you next to me!”

He let out a noise between a growl and a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t let you freeze to death, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid!” Your voice cracked. “I have my reasons.”

His grip softened. He wasn’t looking at you like he wanted to fight anymore. Just…confused. Tired. “Whatever they are,” he said, “I’d still rather you sleep on the bed.”

You swatted at his arm, slipping from his hold and scrambling upright in one defiant motion. “No, Bucky. I just—I can’t be around you this much.”

That did it.

His calm, already on thin ice, finally cracked.

He sat up, blanket falling into his lap as he glared at you, voice raised. “What the hell are you talking about? We have to work together.”

“It’s too hard,” you said, arms crossed tight over your chest.

“What’s too hard?” he demanded. “We’re on a goddamn mission. Missions aren’t supposed to be comfortable!”

You shook your head, voice rising now too. “No. I can do missions in my sleep. But doing it with you—I just—I—I—”

He blinked, voice quieter. “You just what?”

You snapped.

“You make me feel horrible, Bucky!”

The room fell to a choking silence. You were trembling.

“You just…you make me feel so small. And I’m tough, I don’t care what people think, not usually. But you—you obviously hate me and you make it obvious every chance you get. Every snide comment, every look, every time you act like I’m a burden—you make me feel insignificant and stupid and just so fucking small.”

You were standing now, arms wrapped around the pillow like it could shield you. Your voice broke, your breathing shallow. “And I wouldn’t care, I really wouldn’t, but I just…”

Bucky had gone still. His hands rubbed at his temples like he was trying to will the moment away, trying to piece together how the hell he had messed this up so badly.

“I don’t hate you,” he muttered. “I don’t think you’re insignificant or stupid. I don’t think any of those things.”

You scoffed bitterly. “I know you do. You don’t have to pretend. Not now.”

“I’m not pretending.” He stood now, too, but didn’t move toward you. Just watched as you gripped the pillow tighter like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.

You looked up at him, blinking hard. “And I can’t ignore it because I feel—”

You stopped yourself. Too much. You’d already said too much.

His brow creased. “You feel what?”

Your hand flew to your mouth. “Just…forget it.”

“No,” he said, voice sharp now. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut down on me. Finish the goddamn sentence.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, eyes wide and watery. “Leave me alone, Bucky!”

“No, I’m not leaving you alone.” He was stalking toward you now. “You’re gonna say what you were gonna say. Finish that damn sentence!”

You flung the pillow at him like a shield, full force. He caught it easily (of course he did) and tossed it aside, stepping forward.

You took a step back. “Leave me alone,” you begged, your voice too high, too desperate.

“No.” He was in front of you now. “No, I’m not leaving you alone.”

His hand caught your wrist again with intention. “Finish. That. Sentence.”

You jerked against him. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

His jaw clenched. “Stop being such a pain in my ass,” he snapped, exasperated. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you’re being so damn difficult. Why are you like this?”

You cried out, the frustration boiling over. “I said more than I meant to say! Just leave me alone!”

But instead of backing off, he pulled you in closer. His hand still around your wrist, his other now pressed to the small of your back. His voice was lower now, ragged.

“I’m not going to let you go until you finish that sentence.”

Your breath hitched. You tried to pull away again, but the fight was dissolving out of you. The words clawed their way up your throat.

“You wanna know what’s on my mind?” you shouted, voice hoarse. “Fine. Fine. I can’t ignore you hating me because I have feelings for you, god damn it!”

The air sucked out of the room.

His grip loosened instantly.

You pulled your wrist away, free again, but too stunned to move. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t do anything except stand there and breathe too fast.

He was staring at you as if he was just really seeing you for the first time. 

“You… you what?” he whispered.

You turned away, face burning. “Just leave me alone.”

But of course he didn’t. 

“You have feelings for me?” he said again, like he couldn’t believe the words.

“Stop,” you pleaded, quietly.

His voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “We’re not done talking about this.”

“Yes we are.”

“No,” he said, and now his hand was on your shoulder, gentle. “We’re not.”

You looked up at him then—eyes red, face guarded. “You’re just going to reject me. I know how this goes, Bucky. Just save me the embarrassment. Please.”

He shook his head slowly, expression shifting—open, raw, almost pained. “Why would I reject you?”

You let out a laugh that was half-sob. “I see how you talk to me. How you treat me different from everyone else. You hate me.”

He gripped both your shoulders now, making you look at him directly.

“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but I don’t hate you.”

You flinched at the intensity of his voice. “Your actions say otherwise.”

He exhaled, eyes closing like he needed to collect every ounce of patience in his body. Then he opened them, stepping even closer, and for the first time all night, his voice dropped into something achingly vulnerable.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, doll.”

Your breath hitched at the nickname.

“I know I’ve been harsh,” he said. “I’ll admit it. But it’s because—”

You don’t wait to hear it. You pull out of his hold and drop back down onto your makeshift floor bed with a soft thud, your back to him. Every muscle in your body coils tight.

He watches you in silence. And then, finally, he speaks, voice filled with something between concern and devastation.

“Will you please just look at me?”

“I’m tired,” you whisper. Your voice trembles.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “If you’re tired, you’ll sleep better on the bed.”

You flinch like he’s offered violence instead of comfort.

“Bucky, I can’t look at you,” you snap. “Just leave me alone.”

His voice sharpens. “I’m not leaving you alone until you get your stubborn ass up on this bed.”

You don’t move. Not a breath. Not a twitch.

He doesn’t warn you before he steps over, leans down, and wraps his arm around your waist again. “Alright. You asked for it.”

“Bucky—”

He lifts you, but you jerk halfway through, and pain slices up your side.

“Fuck, ouch!”

He stops cold. Sets you down on the edge of the bed, carefully this time. His face folds into immediate concern.

“Talk to me. Please,” he says again, crouching in front of you now. He lowers himself carefully, balancing on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his thighs. He looks like he’s explaining something to a scared kid rather than someone who’s spent years arguing with him. His eyes are so unbearably tender, aching in a way you’ve never seen, that you could sink into them and cry until there was nothing left.

“Just talk to me.”

You turn your head away, blinking hard. “I did. I told you everything.”

“And I’m not going to shoot you down,” he says. “So stop acting like I already have. Just please. Help me out here. Listen to me.”

There’s something raw in his voice. Something ragged. It softens the wall around your chest just enough to make you turn your head. He straightens up, slowly, voice calm but firm.

“I don’t hate you. I don’t think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re insignificant. God, why do you insist on thinking all this bullshit?”

You stare at him, the words catching in your throat. “Because you never look at me with anything other than a glare. You never talk to me unless you have to. You always jump in front of me on missions like I’m too weak to do it myself. And you treat everyone else so much better.”

His eyes flare. “Are you kidding me?”

You blink.

“It’s not because I think you’re weak.” His tone shifts, full of disbelief. “It’s the opposite. I don’t sit next to you because I get too goddamn distracted. You walk into a room, and my head goes to shit.”

You say nothing.

He inches his chest closer.

“And of course I’m going to jump in front of you on missions. That’s not because I think you can’t handle it. It’s because I can’t fucking handle the thought of something happening to you.”

Your breath leaves your lungs in one soft exhale.

You shake your head. “Then what, Bucky? You just—you make me feel so shitty. And you treat everyone else so kindly.”

“I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again,” he interrupts, eyes shining with something he’s clearly been holding back. “I don’t treat you like the others because… because I’m different around you, okay?”

You’re stunned.

“You make me feel different,” he continues, voice quieter now. “You change me. You get under my skin. You make me feel things I haven’t felt in a really long time. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Because if you do, you’ll fall apart.

He’s watching you now. Carefully. Like if he says the wrong word, you’ll bolt again.

You’re looking at him like you’re waiting for him to laugh, to flinch, to take it all back. He doesn’t. He just stares. Silent. Waiting. Heart pounding like a drum in his chest.

“You’re not making any sense, Bucky.”

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, then throws it down at his side. “What do you want me to say, huh?” His voice breaks. “I told you that you make me feel different! That you make me feel things I haven’t felt in a very long time! What more do you want from me?”

You yell back before you can stop yourself, “What the fuck does that even mean?!”

He looks down at his hands. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow, heavy breath, like he’s trying to pull himself together before he falls apart entirely. Like this is the most terrifying thing he’s ever had to explain. And then, softly, steadily, he tries again.

“It means that when I’m around you, I feel things I haven’t felt in years. Intense things. Emotions I thought I didn’t have anymore. It’s like—like something in me sparks to life when you’re near. Something that’s been dormant for so damn long I forgot what it felt like.”

You scoff, your voice still shaky, still guarded. “What? More hatred?”

He looks up at you so fast, eyes blazing. “Listen to me right now,” he nearly growls. “I do not hate you. I have never hated you. I’ve been trying to tell you that for so goddamn long, but you won’t listen to me, will you? No. Instead, you just keep deciding what I think. You insist on believing these bullshit stories in your head instead of what I’m saying to you right now.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. You know you’re being ridiculous but you can’t bring yourself to believe the words flooding out of his mouth. “You’re being so vague, Bucky.”

He throws his hands up, finally snapping. “What the hell do you want me to say? You want me to spell it out for you? Fine. I will.”

His hands fly to grab the sides of your face and you jolt, deeply aware of the way your heartbeat is thudding in your ears.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in a very damn long time. You make me feel things like… like happiness. Joy. Excitement. You make me feel alive, and it scares the shit out of me because I don’t know how to deal with it. I haven’t known how to deal with it for a long fucking time. But you? You make me want to try, because I have all these damn feelings for you!” He shook his head slightly, almost breathless. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why, because all we ever do is fight, and I’ve never done this before, and you drive me insane, and somehow, still... it’s you.”

Your breath catches. Your hands fall limp at your sides.

He watches you closely, expression taut with vulnerability. “What?” he murmurs. “You’re silent now?”

You bite your lip hard. It trembles. “So I guess you don’t hate me.”

“No, doll. I don’t hate you.”

He pushes his face even closer to yours. Your bodies are just centimeters apart now. The heat between you hums with something quieter than anger. Something real. Heavy.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but his finger gently presses against your lips.

“No,” he says, voice thick. “Stop being stubborn. Just for one second.”

He drops his hand, but his gaze doesn’t leave your mouth. And you know. You know he wants to kiss you.

You know because you want to kiss him.

His eyes flick up to yours again, and your heart beats so fast you think it might shake out of your chest.

“I-It’s just…” you whisper, voice cracking, “it’s so hard to believe you right now.”

His hands cradle your elbows now. Not pulling. Just holding.

“What do I do,” he asks quietly, “to make you believe that I’m in love with you?”

You blink, shoulders coming up in a shrug. 

“I’m falling in love with you.”

There’s no dramatics in the way he says it. No fanfare. Just truth. Sharp. Clear. Like it’s been there the whole time, waiting for someone to ask. Your knees nearly buckle.

“You’re falling in love with me?” you repeat, dumbfounded.

“I am,” he says, stepping even closer. “I’ve been an asshole about it. I’ve fought it. I’ve buried it under a pile of sarcasm and bad moods and shitty timing, but I’ve been falling for a long time. Since that day you fell asleep next to me on that mission, curled up like you trusted me not to hurt you, and I realized I’d kill for you before I’d let anyone try.”

You don’t know when your hands came up to his chest. They’re just there now, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like he’s the only thing holding you up.

“I thought you couldn’t stand me,” you whisper. “I thought I was just the annoying one.”

He chuckles, but it’s hoarse. “You are annoying. And smart. And infuriating. And capable. And goddamn brilliant. And you drive me crazy, but it’s not the kind of crazy I can walk away from.”

Your laugh is wet, disbelieving. “I don’t know what to say.”

He leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you just breathe.

The warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling against yours, the sheer weight of everything unsaid that’s finally come to light. It's almost too much.

Then, softly, you whisper, “You can kiss me, if you want.”

He goes still, just for a second. Like he’s checking to make sure he heard you right. Like he’s trying to stop the world from tilting under his feet. And then he moves. No hesitation. No questions.

His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s everything. It’s the snap of a rubber band stretched too far. The break in a storm. The kind of kiss that burns through skin, through bone, through everything you thought you knew about what this was.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone with a tenderness that shouldn’t belong in a kiss this desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you, like the shape of your mouth might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. Like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him like you’re drowning. And maybe you are, because this is too much, too fast, too real. Years of biting remarks and furious glances collapse into heat.

You tilt your head, deepen the kiss, and his breath hitches. He responds instantly, his other hand sliding around your waist, dragging you into him until there’s no space left between you. The fabric of your clothes is too thin, too irritating, too in the way. You gasp softly when his lips leave yours for just a heartbeat and trail down the edge of your jaw, his nose brushing your skin, breath hot and unsteady.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your neck, voice hoarse. “You drive me crazy.”

You laugh, a sound that’s shaky, breathless, a little wild. His lips find yours again, slower this time. Deeper. Less fire, more gravity. Like now that he has you, he’s trying to learn every inch of the moment.

And you let him.

When you finally break apart, your breath hitches again. This time not from fear. This time, it’s hope. It’s exhilaration. 

He presses his forehead back to yours, voice a little breathless.

“We’re still gonna fight all the time, aren’t we?”

You grin widely, chest still heaving. “Absolutely.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I love you anyway,” you whisper.

He looks at you like you just saved his life.

And this time, when he pulls you into the bed beside him, you don’t fight him.

[leeemabean]

me logging onto tumblr after consuming a new piece of media

[leeemabean]

I'm back!!!

Holy moly it has been a MINUTE since I've logged in! Life has been so busy and crazy that I kind of forgot this account existed. BUT, I'm back and I'm going to be writing a lot more! I'm not sure what I'll be writing just yet, but I've got some things in the works! Stay tuned!!

[leeemabean]

[leeemabean]

[leeemabean]

[leeemabean]

We all agree Kai Leng has plot armor but I also like to believe that he knew he could not 1v1 Shepard and was booking it every encounter like a coward because ngl with you I too would shit bricks at seeing THE commander Shepard in their grief and rage and absolute tank of a body with all their cybernetics coming at him like the kool aid man.

Like if I saw Shepard doing this after I shanked her lizard bf I would run too ngl

[leeemabean]

If Garrus ever learns how to use a Nerf gun, Shepard is gonna have to spend an entire evening writing up a new rule for the Normandy on why Nerf guns will no longer be permitted on the ship.

The fine print will be a reminder that the crew of the Normandy are living beings, and not target practice, even if the three burst blast to Vega's head across the cargo bay was a sick ass shot. Word for word.

Fine print P.S: This is a general rule that isn't meant to single any humans, quarians, Krogan, Salarians, or synthetic intelligence on the ship out.

Fine print P.S.S: Please disregard all rumors of your Captain being present during an "all out Nerf Gun battle" in the Cargo Bay after a Nerf pellet hit me. I was not present in the battle and would appreciate such rumors of unprofessionalism being spread. I would never fire off 20 loads of Nerf rounds from a Nerf gattling gun into Garrus' side because he refused to stop shooting me in the butt with his stupid Nerf Gun although I asked him several times to stop or I'd let Javik ship him out of an airlock. It's important to keep the ship as gossip free as possible. Thank you for your cooperation and once again, this rule is not meant to single any non turians out.

[leeemabean]

just imagine ...

you're falling asleep late at night. after a while, you hear your name being called. it feels like you have slept for hours, but you're still tired. you hear your name again and again, so you reluctantly open your eyes and suddenly come face to face with your favourite fictional character. you gasp, shocked to see them in front of you, rubbing your eyes over and over again, and telling yourself it's just a dream. 'get up sleepy head. it's time for a new adventure.', they suddenly say, smiling brightly at you. you suddenly look around and notice that you're not in your room, but in your favourite fictional world. 'come on', that fictional character says again. they take your hand and you can feel their grip on you and now you know, it is not a dream. this is your reality now. your time to live in your favourite fictional world and do all these things you have dreamed about for such a long time. it is time to finally be yourself.

[leeemabean]

IT'S HAPPENING!

[leeemabean]

[leeemabean]

TWRP or Treat!!

[leeemabean]

It took some convincing, But Sung eventually admitted powering Havve with bees, while stylish and threatening, was not the most intelligent choice.