mannien

[mannien]

— Pretty Little Baby

Congressman Barnes x fem!campaignmanager!reader

Summary: A Chief of Staff and a Winter Soldier walk into a gala, and everyone loses their minds. Especially Bucky, who hasn't stopped thinking about how to pop the big question.

MCU Timeline Placement: Pre-Thunderbolts*

Disclaimers: angst, jealous lover, PTSD, established relationship, themes for my upcoming Miss Congressman Barnes series, mentions of torture and Hydra, did I mention some angst?

-> what is with me and being emotional this week!? and all this Bucky content, my gosh. don't mind me, really, I'll probably never recover from him. what does it say about me that I can whip these oneshot drabble things out in like less than a day!? anyway, enjoy them, this one is actually off my WIP list, haha.

There's a tension in the air that only comes with black tie affairs. Like a needle throbbing too close to redline, a heart that jumps between tachycardic and flatline, it trips there. In the atmosphere, waiting for the shattering point — the point of no return, where things are undoable. Where you call it, where it's pronounced, when things break beyond salvation. Like shadows, veils.

Bucky hadn't really gotten used of the pulse of these kinds of things. More often than not stumbling through them like a foal just finding life, something about them felt wrong in his blood. Sat like a stone in his gut, an immovable weight against his sternum.

Galas required smiling and small talk, the honing of social skills he'd left somewhere in the 1940s with a pretty skirt and red lips. "It's Chinese to me" becomes more and more relatable the more people's words blur together in his ears, how he starts losing track of champagne and short glasses with ice. Music starts to sound more like chaos hissing in his ears, mindless and numbing. People's faces lose meaning. He finds himself lost in his own musings the more the evening swells into night, the closer midnight comes.

Horrible at boring small talk and even less interest in political gossip, he'd learned to keep his back all but glued to plaster of the walls of these things. Shadows were comfortable, the fringes of society mor of a home than anywhere beneath chandelier and celebrity shop talk. For some many decades, the Winter Soldier had learned to escape, to run, to hide away like a thing from the press of the world, content to live in realities of faraway confines, not that much unlike stars of a distant universe.

In some ways he prefers it. There's time to think, to breathe. Move about the bones of his own thoughts, of his own company. As long as Bucky can remember, he's been his own ally, his own shadow. To think, to exist, beyond such ideals feels out of reach. Like sand passing through his fingers, borrowed and lost time.

"So are you going to ask her? Or is she going to just magically read your mind?"

Sam's voice in the back of his head rings like a hollow gong, summoning things through his frame that Bucky didn't even think were a possible animal. Fears, uncertainties. Worries, anxieties. For weeks he'd chewed on this one bone, like the wolf he is, waiting for it to manifest new blood in marrow he'd long sense grown comfortable with. As if it would stand up and introduce itself as a new idea, take a new from. Becomes easier.

Look differently than he'd first feared.

"I can't just ask — "

"Why not? Who says you can't? Dude, get with the program, here. She'll say yes. She basically lives at your place anyway. How often have you been offerin' to sleep on the couch, let her sleep in your bed the last six months? Just ask," Sam had clapped him on the shoulder, phone buzzing in his pocket before slipping into a DC checkered cab, "She'll say yes. You aren't a fool, Bucky. Grow a pair and ask the girl."

"You okay, soldier?"

If a hundred years of tactical training and mental conditioning hadn't numbed him to even the idea of surprise, Bucky would've jumped at the intrusion to his mental spiral. He shoved the brain replay of his conversation with Wilson to the edges of his recall space, hand slipping into his Brooks Brothers pocket so immediately that he thinks it's starting to become a coping mechanism.

She offers the treatise of a long champagne flute, alive with dancing liquor in the event's golden light with light fingers, the thin bracelet on her hand softly nearly matching the artic of her eyes considering him, fully. Only. She's always been attentive—but she has a way of leveling him out to be the only thing on radar that is both alarming, and in some strange way, missed.

"Just peachy," Taking the flute with a forced smile, he sighs deeply. Rocks back on the heels of shined shoes, fresh with grease from the shoeshine boy that knows to park outside his office on Fridays, "Can't you tell?"

Her laugh is breathy, light. Nearly a snort. "You're such a terrible liar," her head shakes a little as she lifts her glass to drink, trying not to smile, "which is incredibly admirable, considering the near century's worth of history-altering assassinations," her nose scrunches as she leans in, reaching to straighten his tie, "but you know, optics."

He changes the subject, meeting her gaze over the crowd. "What's the landscape," as if this is a debriefing, he pulls back a sharp drink of the sparkling booze, which somehow burns. Cheap, which is a surprise. "Who are you going to force me to talk to, and who can I skip."

Swatting at his shoulder, her brows knit together before her eyes roll to the ceiling overhead, smattered with art and sparkling chandeliers so magnificent, they're the size of small sedans.

"GQ is here and they're definitely gonna wanna talk to you, since we've rescheduled twice," she nodded in the direction of the band, hand lifting in the general direction, "and hitting up the Sec Def with a couple of questions wouldn't be so bad. You can discuss the latest and greatest in political assassinations and foreign affairs, if you want."

Her tone drops into a low that curls his stomach against his spine, brows wagging teasingly.

"And POTUS' daughter is right over there. She's a fan. You could use the social media plug with the demographic." Turning to whisper into his ear, all he can smell is the swirl of perfume and hint of salt on her skin, "I heard she got a very familiar scarlet star tattooed on her ass. You could totally mention that and rock her world."

His heart stutters against his ribcage, panic flares up his blood to a startling temperature that he swears to God is visible through the cut of his suit. Snorting into his drink, he frowns at her.

"Haha, that's hilarious," her hand lands on his, at home, before he guides it gently to loop through his arm, now-empty champagne glass low in his other as he gently guides her out to center floor, beneath the golden light, "Remind me to fire you when we get home."

He doesn't realize he's said it until he does.

Pulling to a sudden stop, something passes through her eyes that Bucky thinks, first, is confusion. But when her head tips to the side, he finds it's more amusement and curiosity, a look of waiting. For the ball to drop. Or, the foot.

He isn't sure which. "I didn't know I was staying over," she muses with a lilt he can't quite put a finger on, "or are you staying at my place?"

Lifting her hand to rake fingers through her gelled curls, he misses her checking over his shoulder until a hand claps firmly on his shoulder.

"I — "

"Barnes," Congressman Gary's lone baritone snaps like a whip against his spine, and Bucky turns to acknowledge the man almost on autopilot. "Good to see you out. Braved the wolves this time, hm? Missed you at the press lunch yesterday."

Taking her hand in his, he interlaces their fingers, drawing her close to his side, until he releases and allows his hand to gently hover along the backless low of the gown, he hasn't stopped thinking about since seeing her standing at the curb.

Gary nods to her, gesturing with a glass. "And I see you've managed to bring a date," tight smile, his eyes cut over her like a weight, as if suddenly judge, jury, and executioner of social norms, "though I'm not sure if your Chief of Staff can be considered a date," he raises his glass to her, "make sure you bill him for overtime, sweetheart." He pauses, "How long have you two been working together, now?"

Carelessly his eyes fall over the outline of her in a dress nearly as lethal as an assassination, gaze lingering at the curve of her hip that feels like it's suddenly a Vegas neon. His gut hits the floor at the exact moment he feels rage snap at his ribcage like a slathering dog, jaws wide and knives out, ready for the kill.

While she doesn't seem flustered by the question, she takes a drink that's hasty. Bucky can't miss the slight tremble to her hand, the way her nails absently tap against the thin stem of the glass. She looks to him for a fraction of a heartbeat and purpose suddenly comes alive in the cold ice of his pulse, now rabid in his ears. Almost like he can't breathe, for what's maybe the first time.

"A little over a year," she offered smoothly, shrugging a shoulder, "Did the hybrid thing for about six months, which is why you haven't seen me. Took me that long to find a place in the city," smiling at him softly, her nose wrinkles a little, playfully, "Though it sometimes feels like it's been forever."

Gary's brows pop tall, amusement pulling a barking laugh. "And you've survived," he claps Bucky on the shoulder again, "well played, Barnes. Got yourself a good girl — hang onto her. They're hard to come by." Offering her a hand, he shakes it once before pressing an unnecessary kiss to last Christmas' tennis bracelet.

"And you be good to our freshman here, sweetheart. Don't run him too.....ragged."

His gut sours on champagne, for a second, Bucky Barnes — the Winter Soldier — feels so ill fated to even breathe, the floor could open beneath his feet and he'd worship.

His colleague's wink locks it in. Gary's look passes between them easily, like he hadn't just dropped a nuclear bomb before high tailing it out of Dodge, and he takes his leave to being coversation with other faces Bucky doesn't notice, or care to. All he can feel is numb heat chasing up his skin, lighting his anger on white-hot fire.

"Bucky?" Her tone is soft, hand worrying the arm of his suit. "Are you okay?"

It's never what's wrong? She never asks about the situations, the circumstances. Which is maybe why he thinks he never wants to stop thinking about her, to have her close between his ribs, living in his chest. Why, maybe, every time he falls through the windows of her eyes that he sees more of hope than he ever has, vision. Strength. Somehow she always manages to see him, first, in everything. How is his day. How are you feeling, what do you want?

Bucky's starting to believe he's a person, because she says so. Because her careful attention has breathed life back into the Adam he once was, who was left behind in the cold snow. He thinks maybe God is in the wild way her eyes cut straight to his soul, through all his walls, to breathe into him living, dreaming. A future he doesn't feel worthy of and can't take himself, can't see without her in every picture of his memories.

She sees him. Had always seen him.

Since the minute she'd sat down in what would be his campaign office, a second home to them both, in that tight little dress and oversized blazer hiding everything he now knows was beneath—she's chosen to see the man beneath the soldier, the man apart from Hydra. In some ways, Bucky even wonders if she'd even known he was Soldat, a man without a name. Just a purpose, a kill count.

Very suddenly, like a crash one can't tear their eyes from, he takes her hand firmly in the vibranium part of him that is less a man, more a thing. Pulls her from the harsh golden light of a room that hurts too much to breathe in, that's too soulless.

And he's been without a soul so much that it hurts to even think, to even breathe the stale atmosphere that takes the air in his chest, that's dead and fake and so everything he'd never wanted.

In seconds, they're standing outside the gala, under magnificent cathedral stone and air that threatens to rip open his shirt and laugh at his heartbeat. It's too much, all at once—a thousand vallances pull at the door of his heart, richocet off the cold stone his spine has become as she squeezes his hand and allows him to pull her close, hand splayed across her naked, unashamed, low back.

"Bucky," her tone warbles with worry, the flutter of an upset heart, "what's wrong? What happened?"

And he takes a full pull of air, laced with her scent, tipping his nose against the heat of her pulse in her neck. His chin rests on her shoulder, a hand lifting to cradle the back of her head and hold her close. Nearly visible heat falls out of his chest, off his spine, like a burden he's been carrying around for decades—it's just them. Just him, because he can't dream for one moment that she isn't a part of him without flatlining on his own pulse.

Like falling in slow motion, he relaxes when her hand lands home at his chest. The feel of her racks him with a shudder he didn't even know was possible, and his breath stutters against her skin, and he turns to press a slow, hot kiss to her shoulder, one that would be unmissable. Will leave a mark, be as visible as everything that bastard had dared to call out.

And he doesn't say anything, not for a long time. She just seems to know he needs this, the stillness of the night air observing them, the fading music from interior walls. The slow walk of her pulse settling against her breastbone, how it pulls from him a thousand breaths he'll willingly give away.

And for the first time in what feels like life, the hot pain of tears pull at the corner of his eyes. Blur his vision unlike anything he'd known consciously in his own strength. Staring beyond her, to the stretch of downtown DC around them, all of it fades into nothing when she gently stands on her toes to press a soft kiss to his temple, hand slipping through his hair to hold him, tightly.

His knees hit the concrete, buckled under the weight of her tenderness, her care of him that breaks apart everything he'd tried to build. Every wall, every bridge of his own making falls under the weight of her, demands to be rebuilt. Taking her by the waist, his holds he closer, burying nose into her softness, into the core of her that nearly hums, that calls to his him in only ways heaven allows.

Somehow, she knows. Fingers gently pulls through his hair, cradling him against her womb, the softest parts of her. As if she's giving him new life, helping raise from the dead a man who for so long, has been buried alive in graves that ache.

"It's okay," it's a murmur, hardly audible. But he can feel it in every fiber of his existence, every muscle. Every cell, all the places that for so long Hydra had told him didn't exist. Couldn't exist.

"You're okay, Bucky. Everything's fine. We're safe, it's still, everything's....stopped. You can just breathe." Her low hum ricochets off of him, and he releases an uneasy breath into her skin, "I'm right here. Just breathe for me, James. Just breathe."

James. That's it, the nail that crucifies him to her. "I...." it's difficult to find words. He reverts to Russian, first. "Я хочу, чтобы ты остался... со мной (I want you to stay.... with me)," the faraway scent of satin and her shampoo fills his next breath as his head tips back, somehow allowing him to look up into fierce eyes with abandoned hope, "stay with me." Move in with me. My home is your home, I belong to you. All things unsaid, but will come. Someday, when the time is right and the hour isn't this.

That familiar smile, the one that could break starlight, finds him. Sees him, only him. "If you want me to," she bends to find him eye-level, resting her forehead against his to gently slip her fingers beneath his chin, "I can't imagine being anywhere else."

She kisses his cheek softly, and Bucky can't help but land home. Squarely, with more purpose and weight than he thought possible. And what kills him the most?

Sam was right.

[mannien]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.���

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[mannien]

Love Island!Bucky (Pt. 2)

pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | The next morning, instead of questioning bucky, the girls paint you as the problem — the messy one who blindsided sharon and stirred the pot. the judgment builds. the energy shifts. Then comes the dumping. Three girls vulnerable. One will go.

a/n | guys omg, I did not expect so much love for the love island headcanons lollll, anyway I went hella overboard for this. also I wrote this in present tense and it was giving me the ick and making my fingers crawlllll

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

The Next Morning 🌅

Cue soft acoustic guitar and wide drone shot of the villa bathed in early morning sunlight.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “It’s a brand new day in the Love Island villa, and after last night’s emotionally devastating, slow-motion, whisper-in-the-dark, Soul Ties-level drama, you’d think things might have calmed down…”

Cut to you and Bucky, asleep and cuddled up in Soul Ties. 

“But no. Because this is Love Island, and peace is just a rumor.”

Cut to the girls’ dressing room, where tension is spreading faster than MJ’s lip gloss.

“Elektra’s getting ready to look flawless while ruining someone’s morning. MJ’s in her usual position — two inches from drama. And Trish? Trish is there because no one wants to be the third wheel and the fourth wall.”

The dressing room is thick with hair spray and tension. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden lines across countertops cluttered with makeup bags and hair tools. 

Elektra sits at the center vanity like it's a throne, legs crossed, one brow arched as she slowly runs a brush through her hair. Her voice is soft, almost casual — which makes it sting worse.

“I just think it’s wild,” she says, watching her own reflection with amusement. “Bucky brings Sharon back, and now he’s creeping into bed with her like it’s nothing?”

MJ lets out a gasp that practically echoes off the tile. She's leaned close to Elektra, glossing her lips and pretending she's not dying to be the one spilling the tea. “Wait, they were actually together last night?”

Trish, sitting behind them and stretching like she hadn’t been up for an hour waiting for this conversation to kick off, nods like it pained her to confirm. “I heard he left the bed after lights out. Went straight to her. Didn’t even try to be subtle.”

Elektra gives a low, theatrical laugh. “Please. That girl’s been crying all week — now she’s in Soul Ties with Bucky again? She’s been playing the victim card like it’s her job. It’s giving... manipulative.”

“And Sharon?” MJ adds, voice pitched to sound sincere, but there's that edge in it — the same one she always has when she wants someone to look bad. “She’s literally so sweet. Like, she did nothing wrong.”

“She got blindsided, that’s what happened,” Elektra mutters, tossing her brush onto the counter. “And that one—” she doesn't even say your name, just nods toward the door, “—knew exactly what she was doing.”

“She’s not even subtle about it,” Trish says. “I mean, don’t act like you’re above the mess and then go sneak a boy out of bed.”

Elektra’s lips curl. “Exactly. Some people talk about loyalty like it’s a brand — but clearly she’s only loyal when it benefits her.”

Across the room, Ororo stands by the mirror, arms folded as she slowly applies her moisturizer, not once looking in their direction. Karen sits nearby, silent, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight. Neither of them says a word — but the air around them has changed. They heard every syllable.

“I swear,” Ororo mutters under her breath once the others are too busy giggling to notice, “if she says one more word...”

Karen leans in slightly. “She’s poking for a reaction. They all are. Don’t give it to them.” Then, quieter still, “But we’ve got her back. No matter what.”

You push open the dressing room door with one hand, the other tugging the hood of your sweatshirt further over your head. You don’t say anything — not “morning,” not even a nod. You just walk in with your face mostly hidden, body language tight, and that stiff, quiet air of someone who’s not sure whether they want to cry or scream.

You feel the eyes on you immediately. Not all of them. But enough.

You can practically hear them stop talking.

You know what they’re thinking. You know what you’re thinking — and that’s the worst part.

You're still torn. Still bruised.

He came back with another girl. But then he left her bed, broke the rules, and found you. Held you. Slept beside you like nothing in the world could’ve pulled him away.

So what the fuck does that mean?

You’re still figuring it out when Elektra says, without even turning fully around, “Well. Looks like someone had a wild night.”

You stop in your tracks. You don’t look at her — not yet. But your voice is clear when it comes out.

“Don’t start. Not this early.”

There’s a pause. MJ tries — tries — to stifle a reaction. Trish looks up from her water bottle, waiting.

But Elektra? She’s already smiling. Not wide. Just the kind of smile that says she was hoping you’d bite.

“I’m just making conversation,” she says lightly, flicking her mascara wand up through her lashes. “Didn’t realize that was off-limits now.”

You let out a short laugh through your nose. Dry. Exhausted. “You know what you’re doing.”

Elektra glances at you in the mirror, her tone casual. “What? I can’t ask about the villa’s newest and most confusing love triangle?”

Karen, sitting nearby, shifts slightly — not looking up, but her grip on her brush tightens.

Ororo doesn’t even pretend to ignore it. She turns her head, calm but watching.

Elektra continues, voice cool. “Bucky brings Sharon back from Casa, and not even twenty-four hours later he’s cuddled up with you like it didn’t happen. But sure, I’m the one being messy.”

The way she says it — soft, deliberate — isn’t loud. Isn’t obviously cruel. But it’s sharp. She doesn’t need volume to cut deep.

You lift your head finally, just enough for your eyes to meet hers in the mirror.

“You don’t care about Sharon,” you say flatly. “You just don’t like not being in the middle of the drama.”

Trish stifles a breath. MJ goes quiet.

Elektra doesn’t blink. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be saying anything.”

“You’re not saying anything helpful,” you shoot back. “You’re stirring shit you know nothing about.”

Elektra leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on yours through the mirror like she’s bored, but her smile is too precise for that to be true.

She shrugs, slow and cool. “Hey, if you can dish it out, you should be able to take it.”

You squint at her, that dull throb in your temples starting to flare.

“Dish what out?” you ask, voice quieter now, but sharper. “You’ve been talking shit since you walked in this villa.”

“I’ve been asking questions,” Elektra says innocently, setting down her mascara wand like she’s so done with this. “If that gets under your skin, maybe there’s something worth unpacking.”

Ororo makes a sound from across the room — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Karen just tilts her head down, like she’s reading the label on her moisturizer just to keep from rolling her eyes.

You open your mouth to say something else, heat rising up the back of your neck —

And then the door opens.

Sharon steps in quietly, wrapped in her robe, makeup-free, her expression open and uncertain. She looks around the room, her eyes scanning like she’s stepping into something she wasn’t invited to. Her brows knit just slightly, but she keeps her posture calm.

“Hey,” she says gently. “I just need a few minutes to get ready. Is the shower free?”

Elektra is up like clockwork — the switch in her tone almost whiplash-inducing.

“Yeah, of course, babe,” she says, turning to face Sharon with the perfect balance of warm concern and subtle drama. “You okay? You look kind of... off.”

Sharon hesitates, just a second too long. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Elektra gives her a soft, pitying look that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. I would think so. Must be weird trying to sleep while your guy’s out in another bed.”

That lands like a pin drop.

You lift your head immediately, expression tightening.

“Elektra,” you warn, voice low, but she waves it off like you’re being dramatic.

“No, I’m just saying,” she continues, still looking at Sharon, voice all faux-sympathy. “I’d be pretty torn up too. First night in the villa and he’s already moving on. That’s... brutal.”

You step forward, pulse spiking. “Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.”

Elektra finally looks at you — not angry, not loud — just surgical.

“You went off with him. While she was still sleeping in his bed. After everything. That’s not just messy, it’s fucked.”

Sharon shifts slightly, her face still composed, but there’s something behind her eyes now — not shock, just quiet confirmation that she’s already been thinking everything Elektra’s saying.

You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that.”

Elektra lets out a breath of disbelief. “Oh come on. You think that makes it better? You’re not stupid — you knew what it looked like.”

You glance at Sharon — and the worst part is, she’s not glaring. She’s not accusing. She just looks... tired. Like she’s trying not to feel humiliated.

And now, you feel sick.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” you say quickly, eyes still on Sharon. “I didn’t plan any of it. He came to me. I didn’t even know he would.”

Elektra scoffs. “Yeah, but you let him stay.”

Silence.

No one says a word. MJ’s frozen mid-makeup swipe. Trish has stopped pretending she’s not watching.

Ororo stands by the sink, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. Karen meets your eyes from across the room — no judgment, but concern. She knows this isn’t black and white.

But Elektra just tilts her head, all soft venom.

“You can do what you want,” she says sweetly. “Just don’t act like you’re the victim anymore. Not when someone else is standing right there.”

You stare at the floor for a second, jaw clenched, vision hot.

Elektra’s words hang in the air like smoke, still curling around the room, seeping into everyone’s silence. Sharon doesn’t say anything — she’s polite like that — but you can feel the judgment twisting, building, pressing against your chest like a weight.

You laugh once — short, sharp, humorless.

And then it just snaps.

“You know what?” Your voice is low, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “Go ahead. All of you. Dogpile on me. That’s clearly the game today, yeah?”

You look up, eyes bright and full of fire now. “Like I wasn’t the one standing at that firepit yesterday in front of all of you looking like a fucking idiot. Like I wasn’t the one humiliated on national fucking television while he walked in with someone else.”

No one says anything. MJ shifts her weight like she wants to disappear. Trish stares at the floor.

You keep going, voice steady but shaking from the sheer force of everything behind it.

“And now I’m the bad guy because I didn’t shove him off me in the middle of the night? Because for one second I wanted to feel like I didn’t imagine all of it?”

You glance at Sharon again, and your voice softens — not apologetic, but real.

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. And I’m sorry that you did. But I’m done pretending like I’m the one who fucked this whole thing up.”

You look back at Elektra, finally meeting her eyes head-on.

“You wanna play girl's girl? Cool. Just don’t rewrite the story like Bucky didn’t make the mess. You all wanna call me messy, but none of you have had the balls to say anything to him.”

But Elektra says nothing now.

Because you’re right. And everyone in that room knows it.

You exhale hard, rubbing your face once, then shake your head. “I’m done with this shit.”

And you walk out — hoodie still up, heart still bruised.

You find the staircase that wraps around the back of the villa — barely used, tucked between two walls where the cameras can’t quite catch a clean angle. You sit on the third step, legs pulled up, arms resting on your knees, trying to fold in on yourself like maybe you could disappear if you got small enough.

It’s quiet. For a few seconds. Then soft footsteps approach.

Ororo and Karen don’t say your name. Don’t announce themselves. They just stop a few steps down, careful not to crowd you.

Karen crouches down beside you, her expression gentle but serious. Ororo leans against the railing, arms crossed lightly, watching you like she’s waiting for you to look up first.

You don’t.

Karen’s voice is soft. “Are you okay?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Just because what else are you supposed to do?

“No,” you say. Quiet, but real. “Seriously—no. I’m not.”

You finally lift your head, and the way your voice cracks a little as you speak again makes Karen reach for your hand instinctively.

“I have no fucking clue what’s going on anymore. I don’t know where I stand with him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. One second I’m being embarrassed in front of everyone, and the next he’s sneaking out to hold me like—like that didn’t happen.”

Your eyes glass over, and you blink hard.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m the bad guy, and I don’t even know what I’m defending anymore. I’m just… so fucking tired.”

Ororo still hasn’t moved. She’s quiet for a beat, then says softly, “You’re not crazy. You’re in the middle of something real, and people forget that just because it’s on camera.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, well, it feels crazy.”

Karen squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to have it figured out right now. You just need space to feel it.”

Ororo steps forward, finally, kneeling on the step just above yours.

“You’re not alone,” she says simply. “You never have to be.”

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles to your eyes for a second before letting your hands drop back into your lap. The weight in your chest hasn’t shifted, and your voice is quieter now, like you're already tired of hearing yourself talk — but it needs to come out.

Karen tilts her head gently. “What… actually happened last night?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking between her and Ororo. There’s no pressure in their faces. Just space. Space to be honest.

You finally speak.

“He found out I was sleeping in Soul Ties,” you say, voice low. “And then… after everyone went to sleep, he came out.”

You stare down at your hands. “Didn’t say much. Just got in behind me and held me. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

Karen watches you closely, her brows pulling together just slightly.

“He said he didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to. That he couldn’t sleep knowing I was out there alone. And then he…” You trail off for a second. The words feel heavier in your mouth than they did in your memory. “He said some things before that. About how he didn’t think I’d pick him. About how he made the wrong choice. And then… we kissed.”

Ororo’s expression shifts subtly — not shock, not judgment. Just concern. Like she knows what’s coming before you even say it.

You let the silence hang for a second longer before your voice comes back, brittle and quiet.

“That was it. That’s all that happened. But—”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek before the rest tumbles out.

“Words are cheap. Anyone can say nice shit when they’re lying next to you at two in the morning. What matters is what they do when the lights are on. And all I’ve seen so far is him choosing someone else and me being the one who looks pathetic.”

You blink again, hard.

“I feel like the biggest piece of shit. Like I let myself be played again. And now Sharon’s hurt, Elektra’s making it her mission to drag me, and I’m just sitting here trying to remember how I even got in the middle of this.”

Karen doesn’t speak. She just lets you sit with it.

Ororo’s voice is calm when it comes, steady and grounding. “You’re not the piece of shit in this story. You’re the one they keep expecting to carry all the guilt while he walks around like he didn’t light the match.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head again, like you can physically will the tears not to fall.

“I just…” your voice is barely there now, hoarse around the tightness in your throat, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

You stare down at the floor, blinking fast, willing yourself not to fall apart in front of them. Not now. Not again.

“I don’t know if what he said meant anything. I don’t know if he’s just playing a game, or if I am for letting him in. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it, and honestly…”

You stop. Take a deep breath. It shakes on the way out.

“I just wanna go home.”

The words fall out small, tired, and honest in a way that makes the air feel still. You don’t say it for sympathy. 

You say it because you mean it. Because for the first time since you got here, the idea of finishing the show doesn’t feel like a challenge — it feels like punishment.

Karen gently leans into you, resting her head against your shoulder without a word. Ororo doesn’t move, but her presence wraps around you like a second spine.

They don’t say anything right away.

Because they know that sometimes the most important thing someone can do is just be there when you can’t carry it anymore.

Tweet Challenge📱

The islanders are gathered around the firepit, energy nervous and unsettled. A few people try to fake-laugh their way through it, but no one’s really relaxed — not with a card on the table marked “#VillaTalks”.

A text informs Trish to take the first card, who reads it out loud.

“It’s time to find out what the world really thinks. One by one, tweets from viewers will be read out loud. Some are nice. Most… not so much.”

The first few tweets are harmless — jabs at random couples, calling Matt a walking red flag, teasing MJ for always stirring the pot (she takes it in stride, grinning). You’re sitting off to the side, Karen beside you, Ororo on your other side, silent support flanking you like armor.

Then the next tweet is pulled.

Elektra leans forward, plucking the card with dramatic flair. Her eyes flick across the words, and you already know — from the flicker of her smile — it’s about you.

She reads it out loud, tone sweet but loaded.

“Not her crying all week then playing sleepover with Mr. Flip-Flop 🤡#PickASide #MessyQueen”

A few people laugh awkwardly. MJ lets out a “Yikes” under her breath. Sharon’s expression doesn’t move, but her hand tenses slightly on her knee.

You stare straight ahead, jaw locked.

Elektra raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oof. Wonder who that could be.”

Karen shifts beside you. “We don’t have to pretend.”

The text prompt: “Islanders, who do you think that tweet’s about?”

It’s rhetorical. Everyone knows.

You speak before anyone else can.

“Me,” you say flatly. “Obviously.”

The next card comes, but the tension hasn’t broken. It clings to you, thick and sharp, like you’ve just been handed a version of yourself that the outside world has already judged.

And the worst part?

They don’t know half the story.

Bucky’s across from you, hands clasped between his knees, head lowered slightly. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his guilt across the firepit.

And still — no one says anything.

The tweet sits there in the air, sharper than anything Elektra could’ve cooked up.

And you sit in the middle of it, stone-still, trying to hold your head up — even though your chest is caving in.

The cards keep coming.

MJ grabs the next one, eyes widening slightly as she reads. Her tone is more neutral now — less playful.

“Her reaction was raw, real, and heartbreaking. Bucky doesn’t deserve her. #StayStrongQueen #KnowYourWorth”

A few murmurs ripple through the group. Karen nods slightly beside you. Ororo doesn’t react — but you feel the subtle shift in her posture, like she’s quietly validating it.

You don’t smile. You just stare ahead. You can’t smile, not when your heart’s still tangled up in all the parts of this that didn’t happen in front of a camera.

But then Sharon — quiet, careful — picks up the next tweet.

Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge under it.

“Bucky's out here doing everything but picking a lane. One day he’s with Sharon, next he’s in Soul Ties whispering sweet nothings to Y/N. Bro’s a full-time shapeshifter. #CasualKing #CuddleContractRenewed”

Even Bucky lets out a quiet breath — part laugh, part groan.

The villa chuckles, but no one’s really laughing.

You don’t look at him. You just fold your arms across your chest tighter.

Then Trish pulls the next one — and you know from her expression before she even speaks that this one’s going to sting.

“I tried to feel bad for Y/N but girl… you let him embarrass you at the firepit and still kissed him? You’re not a victim. You’re a volunteer. #Embarrassing #HaveSomeSelfRespect”

It hits harder than you expect.

Hard enough that your stomach flips.

You breathe in slowly through your nose, eyes locked on the fire like it’s the only thing grounding you.

Karen reaches out, her hand brushing yours in a way that’s subtle but sure.

Ororo doesn’t speak, but her gaze is locked on Trish — and Trish suddenly looks a little uncomfortable holding the card.

Elektra, of course, can't help herself. “People are just saying what we’re all thinking,” she says lightly.

You turn your head slowly, finally looking at her. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

Elektra smiles, tilting her head. “I didn’t write the tweets, babe.”

The air stills again. Even Bucky looks up now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally realizing how much this is costing you.

And the producers? They call it there — challenge over. Maybe it’s too real now. Maybe they got what they wanted.

You stand up slowly, brushing invisible dust off your legs, not looking at anyone as you walk off.

After The Challenge ❤️‍🩹

You find the far edge of the villa near the swing bench — not because it’s hidden, but because it’s just far enough from the cameras and the people and the noise. 

You sit with your hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing, your breath coming in that slow, numb way that only happens when you’ve stopped trying to fight the burn in your throat.

And then you hear his footsteps.

You don’t even have to look. The weight in the air changes when he’s around now.

Bucky doesn’t speak right away. He just stops a few feet away, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s even allowed to stand that close to you anymore.

You can feel his eyes on you — studying the way your shoulders are curled in slightly, how you’re blinking a little too often, trying to keep your face neutral.

He steps forward once.

You look up. Not all the way. Just enough to catch him in your periphery.

Your voice is soft. Frayed.

“Not now. Please.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Maybe he wasn’t expecting you to sound so… tired. Not angry. Not biting. Just done.

But then he speaks — quiet, almost like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

You shake your head once, still not looking directly at him. “Too late for that.”

“I know,” he says. “I know I’ve made all of this worse. I just… I didn’t see it until today. The way they’re coming for you. How it’s all landing on you instead of me.”

You finally look at him then. And it’s not with hate. It’s worse — it’s with that expression of someone who’s still holding onto the last sliver of something soft and hurt and doesn't know if it’s even worth it anymore.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you say. “I didn’t want a storyline or screen time or whatever the hell they think I’m doing. I just—” you stop yourself. The rest sits in your throat, unspoken.

He swallows, eyes searching yours. “I know. I’m not here to defend myself.”

You exhale slowly, like each breath is being pulled from your ribs.

“I can’t do this right now, Bucky.”

A pause. Then quieter:

“Please don’t make me.”

And that’s when it finally hits him — fully, deeply — that this isn’t just some tension to smooth over. This is a wound he’s responsible for. One you’ve bled from in silence while everyone else clapped and laughed and read tweets.

He nods once. Not in defeat. In understanding.

“I’ll give you space,” he says. “But I’m not gonna stop trying to make it right.”

You don’t answer. You just close your eyes for a second. And he walks away.

This time, he looks like the one carrying the weight.

Your Confessional 📹

You sit back in the chair, hoodie still on, strings pulled halfway tight around your face like you’re trying to disappear but couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. Your eyes are red-rimmed — not from sobbing, just worn out. Like sleep hasn’t found you in days.

For a second, you just sit there.

Then you huff a small laugh — not amused, not bitter. Just... tired. You shake your head and drag your hand down your face, pausing to press your fingers over your eyes for a moment, like maybe that’ll hold everything in place.

You drop your hand.

Look straight at the camera.

And smile — just barely.

“Apparently America hates me, which is unfortunate. But also kinda impressive, ‘cause America can’t hate me more than I hate myself right now.”

Your laugh is quiet, almost like it escaped by accident.

“No seriously, I got humiliated on national television, kissed the guy who humiliated me, then woke up to be called a messy queen by a Twitter handle named @/hornyforyourdad. Like. What the actual fuck am I doing.”

There’s no self-pity in your tone — just exhaustion. The kind that comes after feeling too much, too fast, for too long. You glance off camera, shrug once. 

“I should’ve just gone home yesterday. But I stayed. Because some part of me thought maybe…”

You stop. Then shake your head.

“Anyway. That’s on me.”

You exhale hard, sit up straighter, and give the camera one last deadpan look.

“Can I go now? Or do I have to read another tweet from someone who thinks I’m ruining feminism.”

Few Days Later — The Firepit 🌙🔥

Cue slow aerial shot of the villa under moonlight. Fairy lights twinkle across the patio. Wine glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too loud.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “The moon is shining. The water is warm. And the tension? Well, that’s about to boil over like Karen after three glasses of white wine and a poorly timed truth-or-dare…”

“After a few blissful days of silence — and by blissful I mean emotionally repressed — it’s time for another Love Island classic: America’s vote.”

Cut to a group text alert. Everyone’s phones buzz at once.

“Islanders, please gather around the firepit immediately.”

The islanders file in, uneasy. You’re not even trying to hide the exhaustion on your face anymore.

Ariana walks in, flawless as always, cards in hand and not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Good evening, islanders.”

They respond — quiet, respectful, nervous.

Ariana wastes no time.

“As you know, America has been voting for who they believe are the least compatible couples in the villa.”

She pauses, lets the silence build.

“The three with the fewest votes are…”

She looks at the card.

“…MJ and Peter.”

Peter stiffens. MJ exhales, muttering, “Knew it.”

“…Karen and Frank.”

Karen swallows hard, jaw tense. Frank says nothing.

“And the third… is Y/N.”

A few heads turn your way. You stare straight ahead. Expression flat. Not surprised.

The firepit glows soft and orange against the night, casting shadows across stiff shoulders and tense expressions. 

Everyone’s sitting upright, backs straight like posture might protect them from what’s coming. You stand with Karen and MJ on either side — the only three girls up for elimination.

Your hands rest neatly at your sides. You’re not shaking. You’re not crying. You’re past all that.

Ariana stands in front of you, perfectly lit, her expression calm but unreadably focused — the kind of expression that means this was not the production plan.

She scans the card again, then looks back up.

“As there are three girls standing here — and only one will be leaving tonight — the decision falls to the islanders.”

The villa goes dead silent. You can feel people looking at each other, calculating, already shifting.

You already know.

The moment Ariana says it’s down to the islanders, you know.

And that’s when you step forward.

Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just one clean step, like you’re simply ready to be done.

“Ariana,” you say, clearly.

She pauses — caught off guard. That never happens.

“Yes?”

You exhale, not even blinking. “Can I volunteer to be voted off?”

There’s an audible reaction. Not gasps — just stunned silence. The kind that comes when people don’t know what to say, because no one expected this to come out of your mouth.

Ariana blinks. “You want to… step forward?”

“Yeah,” you say. Still composed, still poised. “I’d rather go on my own than stand here while everyone pretends it’s not already decided.”

It erupts. Quiet gasps, some whispered “what?” s, one “nah, she’s not serious” from the back.

Karen, standing beside you, instantly shakes her head. “No—no. What? No. Don’t—”

You glance at her just once, soft but steady. “Kare. It’s fine.”

She’s already blinking too fast, her lips parted like she wants to argue, but she’s choking on the emotion. Her hand twitches like she wants to grab yours and hold you there.

Ororo, still seated across the firepit, has her hand over her mouth. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like watching someone walk into oncoming traffic in slow motion.

Ariana, still holding her cue card like it might save her, hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You nod once, then again. “Yeah.”

She takes a half step closer, voice quieter. “You don’t have to do this. You can wait for the vote. You still have people here.”

You let out the smallest breath, and you smile — just barely. Not a performance. Just the kind of smile people give when they’ve already made peace with something.

“Not enough of them.”

The air shifts. You’re not angry. You’re not bitter. You’re just done. And that honesty? It stings more than anything you could’ve shouted.

Ariana’s eyes scan you for a beat longer, like she’s trying to read something off you — trying to confirm you’re not breaking under the surface.

“Last chance to change your mind,” she says softly. “Are you sure?”

You nod again.

“I’m sure.”

The words land like a closing door. No one knows what to say.

Bucky hasn’t moved.

Karen’s face is crumpling now — barely holding it together. You feel her beside you, trembling.

Ororo finally lowers her hand from her mouth, jaw tense, eyes locked on you like she wants to get up and pull you away from this.

You’ve stepped forward. Ariana’s face has softened slightly — professional still, but there’s a flicker of something real in her voice now.

She looks at you one more time, calm, composed. “Well... if that’s your decision—”

“No.”

The word cuts through the night like glass.

Everyone turns.

Bucky’s standing now — two steps out from the bench, his jaw tight, eyes wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening even though he’s been watching it unravel for days.

“No,” he says again, louder now. His voice isn’t angry — it’s broken. “That’s not fair. She didn’t even let us vote. She just—she just stepped forward like it was already done.”

Ariana’s caught off guard again. Her brows lift. “Bucky—”

He keeps going, not hearing her. Not hearing anything.

“You don’t just get to decide that. You don’t get to stand up and walk out like you didn’t matter here. Like we were all gonna pick you without even thinking. You didn’t let us���you can't just leave.”

His voice is cracking, pitching up.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to say—”

He stops himself. But the words are still there, hanging in the silence like smoke.

Karen’s crying now. Not hiding it anymore. Shoulders shaking as she turns away, hand over her mouth.

You still haven’t turned to look at him.

Not yet.

Ariana glances between the two of you, then gently speaks again. “Bucky… she's made her choice.”

But he doesn’t move.

“I didn’t.”

His voice is softer now. Almost to himself.

“I didn’t choose right when I should have. And now she’s leaving before I get the chance to make it right?”

You finally look at him. Eyes rimmed red, but dry. And it’s not anger in your face.

It’s sadness.

Because maybe, just maybe, this is the first time he’s finally saying what you needed — but it’s three days, and a thousand cuts, too late.

You offer him something soft — something you’ve barely had left for yourself these past few days.

“It’s fine,” you say gently.

His head snaps a little, like you just told him the sky isn’t blue.

“No,” he says, voice sharp, shaky. “It’s not.”

He takes a step closer. Not crossing boundaries — just reacting like he physically can’t stand where he is anymore.

“You’re just—what? You’re gonna volunteer to go and act like that’s normal? Like we didn’t all just sit here stunned because no one was gonna pick you. Not a single person.”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going — not at you, for you.

“You think it’s fine because you’re tired. Because you’ve been carrying everything and everyone’s been letting you do it. But that doesn’t mean you deserve to walk out like you don’t belong here.”

His voice drops, quieter now, but tighter. Barely held together.

“You’re still here because people care about you. Because I care about you.”

That hangs in the air. No one moves.

The fire crackles behind you.

You inhale slowly.

The silence stretches long enough that everyone expects you might break.

But you don’t.

You steady your voice — not cold, not distant — just honest. Exhausted. Real.

“I want to go home.”

Bucky’s eyes flash — like he’s about to say something, but you raise your hand slightly, not to silence him, just to finish.

“I don’t want Karen to go,” you say, turning slightly toward her, just enough to feel her body trembling beside you. “She’s been solid since day one. She hasn’t played a single game. She deserves more time here.”

Karen’s hand covers her mouth again, and she shakes her head slightly, trying to stay quiet through it.

“And yeah,” you continue, with the hint of a wry smile, “me and MJ haven’t exactly braided each other’s hair this week. But she has a real connection. Peter has her back.”

You turn back to Ariana.

Your posture straightens — not stiff, just ready.

“This isn’t about who deserves to be punished. It’s about who has something left to do here. And I don’t.”

Your hands are at your sides. Your voice hasn’t cracked once.

Bucky’s chest rises again, and he opens his mouth — but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t speak.

Because what can he say?

You’ve already said it all. And this time, you’re not asking permission. You’re telling them.

You’ve just said your piece.

Your voice is steady. Your decision is clear.

And for a second — just a second — it feels like everyone might finally accept it.

Then Bucky exhales, sharp and short.

And says, “Okay.”

You glance at him — unsure what that means — but then he steps forward.

“I’m going too.”

There’s an audible reaction now. Not just gasps — full-on shock. Heads turning. Elektra's mouth drops. Sam sits forward like he's misheard.

Even Ariana’s expression cracks slightly. “Sorry—what?”

Bucky looks right at her. “I’m going with her.”

You blink — stunned. “Bucky.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His eyes are locked on Ariana. “I’m not gonna stay here and watch her leave like she’s disposable. I’ve done enough of that already.”

Ariana raises her hand, trying to maintain order. “Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I know it’s not how it works,” he cuts in, voice firm but not aggressive. “But I’ve made up my mind.”

You step closer now, voice low and urgent. “You’re going to walk away from the villa for me? After everything?”

He nods once. No hesitation.

But you’re not moved — you’re panicking now, because you know what comes next if he leaves for you.

“You think this is romantic,” you say, eyes shining now, not with tears — with clarity. “But it’s not. This is adrenaline. This is guilt. You’re gonna step out of here, get one breath of air, and start resenting me for it.”

“I won’t,” he says, voice sharp.

“Yes, you will,” you snap, heart racing. “Because you didn’t finish what you started here. And when it all settles and you’re sitting at home thinking about what could’ve happened — you’ll look at me and wonder if I was worth it.”

His jaw tightens. “You are worth it.”

“Then prove it by staying.”

The firepit is dead silent now. No one dares breathe.

He steps forward again, closer now. Not aggressive — just desperate. Real.

“I don’t want a better connection,” he says, his voice cracking at the edge. “I don’t want to flirt around and see what’s out there. I want you.”

You close your eyes for a second, chest tight, trying to hold the line.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “This isn’t the time to figure that out.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s the only time that’s ever mattered.”

The air between you is so charged it almost hurts to stand in it.

Ariana waits for a beat longer, giving you both space to speak — to come down, maybe.

But when neither of you moves, she straightens, the weight of production behind her now.

“I have to ask,” she says carefully, her voice as gentle as it’s ever been. “Y/N, Bucky — is this your final decision?”

She looks at you first, but you glance at Bucky.

He answers before you can.

“I’m going.”

The words come out clear. No hesitation. Just certainty — the kind that makes the rest of the firepit collectively freeze.

Ariana blinks. “Bucky…”

But he’s already stepping forward, standing beside you now. Fully.

“I made my choice too late the first time,” he says, looking at you. “I’m not doing that again.”

It’s real. You can see it in his face.

But then Sam stands up from the bench, shaking his head.

“Buck, man,” he says, voice low, not condescending — worried. “Just think about this. You’ve still got a spot here. Don’t throw it away on impulse.”

Logan joins him. “You guys need space to figure this out — not both get dumped on a firepit and regret it next week.”

Frank speaks up, surprisingly sincere. “This isn’t a movie, bro. It’s your life. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Bucky doesn’t move.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He looks at you again, quieter now.

“And I’m not staying here without her.”

Sharon's hand is over her mouth again. Trish is leaning forward like she’s witnessing history unfold. Even MJ — lips pressed in a hard line — looks shaken.

You?

You’re just standing there, trying to hold it together while the man who let you fall is now trying to catch you, after you already hit the ground.

Ariana clears her throat once, a beat longer before speaking.

“Alright,” she says gently. “If you’re both sure, then you have thirty minutes to pack your things.”

You nod. Bucky nods.

And just like that — it's done.

Girl's Dressing Room 👜

The villa’s quieter now. Thirty minutes.

That’s all you’ve got left.

Your suitcase is already half-packed. The dressing room feels weirdly still — like even the lights are dimmer, like the walls are holding their breath with you. And Karen is sitting cross-legged beside it, absolutely no help, sniffling so hard she’s practically shaking the floor.

And then Ororo walks in.

She stops in the doorway, blinking fast like she meant to hold it together — and then just doesn’t.

“Bitch.”

That’s all she says before the tears start. She walks across the room with fire in her step and heartbreak in her chest.

“We walked into this place together,” she says, voice cracking as she reaches you. “You and me. Day one. First step through the door.”

Her arms wrap around you so tight it’s like she’s trying to anchor you there.

You’ve been stone-faced for hours. Holding it in. Keeping it neat.

But the second you hear her voice crack, your whole chest caves in.

You don’t say anything — just bury your face into her neck and let go. Sobs shake out of you like they’ve been waiting for permission. You nod against her shoulder, helpless, clinging.

“I know,” you whisper. “Rori, I know.”

She tightens her grip. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not letting you go like this. Not like this.”

Karen’s still on the floor beside your suitcase, full-on crying now, her hands fumbling with a half-folded dress like maybe if she just packs slow enough you won’t really leave.

“I’m so mad at you,” she says through a laugh-sob. “But I love you so much.”

You drop to your knees with her, still holding Ororo, and Karen just throws herself forward into your arms, the three of you wrapped up in one heap of heartbreak and mascara.

In The Bedroom 🏠

The crying from the dressing room is so loud it’s echoing through the villa.

Frank’s lying on his bed, pillow over his face. “Blondie is trying to zip herself into that girl's suitcase.”

Logan’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. “And Storm’s gripping her like she’s got a death grip on a limited edition Birkin.”

They all pause for a second as another wave of sobs carries across the villa walls.

“Damn it,” Logan mutters.

At the end of the row, Sam’s still talking to Bucky, voice low but tense. “Man, just think about it. You walk out now, you’re done. You don’t even know what this is yet. You haven’t figured it out.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bag already half-packed.

His tone is calm. Clear.

“If my girl’s leaving,” he says, zipping his suitcase, “then I’m leaving.”

By The Docks🌙🏝️

The sky is velvet blue now. The moon hangs low over the water, casting silver light across the still surface. It’s quiet — quiet enough that you can hear your own breathing.

Bucky’s already waiting at the end of the dock.

Shoulders tense. Hands in his pockets. But when he hears your footsteps, he turns.

And the second he sees your face, his softens. You’ve cried too much to pretend now. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes red and shining. You don’t even bother wiping them this time.

You stop in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow.

“Are you sure?” you ask, voice raw. “Like really sure.”

He steps forward immediately, hands reaching up — one settling on your shoulder, the other rubbing gently at your upper arm.

“I’m sure.”

You shake your head, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this for me, Buck. I’m not asking you to.”

He nods. “I know.”

You look up at him, hands trembling slightly as you press your palms flat to his chest — not pushing him away, just holding him there.

“This could ruin everything,” you whisper.

He exhales through his nose, then cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the damp corner of your eye.

“I don’t care,” he says quietly. “You’ve been the only thing in this villa that’s ever felt real. And if I stay, I’m not just losing you — I’m staying in something that never meant shit without you in it.”

You press your forehead into his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the emotion from swallowing you whole. His hands stay steady on your shoulders, rubbing soft, grounding circles into your skin like he’s trying to remind your body to breathe.

“I just don’t want you to regret this,” you say, voice muffled, trembling. “Staying would mean a real chance for you. New connections. A shot at the money. Everything.”

Bucky exhales — deep, slow — like he’s been holding that thought in too.

“That’s exactly why I’m not staying,” he says.

You look up, confused through the blur in your vision.

“If I stayed,” he continues, “it’d mean I’d have to explore more connections. Get to know more girls. Do the whole thing again.”

He pauses, gaze locked with yours, calm but serious now.

“I don’t want another connection,” he says. “I just want you.”

Your breath catches. It’s not sweet-talk. It’s not a line. It’s just true.

“But what about the money?” you ask, your voice thin, eyes searching his face for something — logic, doubt, anything.

He lets out a small laugh — not dismissive, just almost surprised that it still matters to anyone.

“I don’t care about the 100K,” he says, gently brushing his hand along the back of your neck. “What would I even do with it if I lost the one thing that made being here worth it?”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, tears welling again despite yourself. “You’re gonna ruin your chance.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“I’d rather leave here broke and with you than win it all and feel empty as hell every time I go to bed.”

You let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt now, and he just holds you tighter.

“You’ve carried this whole thing alone,” he whispers. “Let me carry the rest with you.”

You’re still wrapped in his arms, hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot and silent now as they slip down your cheeks.

You’ve fought so hard to be strong, to be rational, to not let this mess define you — and now here he is, undoing every wall you built with one truth after another.

Bucky leans back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His hand comes up to gently brush a tear away from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says it.

“I didn’t choose you once.”

You freeze.

“And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

His voice isn’t trembling anymore. It’s solid. Certain.

“I’m not making that mistake again.”

You look at him — really look at him — and you know this time, he means every word.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s not about saving face.

It’s about finally showing up. And this time… he did choose you. Out loud. In front of everyone. No hesitation.

Your lip trembles as you pull your gaze away from him, turning your face slightly — not because you don’t believe him, but because it’s too much. Too much love, too much regret, too much truth.

You lift a hand quickly, trying to wipe your face, get it together — keep the illusion of being okay just a little longer.

But he notices.

He always notices.

“Don’t do that,” Bucky says softly.

You shake your head, still turned slightly, but he lifts his hand — slow, careful — and gently guides your chin back toward him.

“Don’t hide your face from me,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes never leave yours. “Not now. Lemme see you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your defenses crumbling all over again — not from his touch, but from his attention. The way he’s looking at you like you're the only person in the world who matters.

And for once… you let him see all of it.

Even the tears. Even the fear. Even the hope that maybe — just maybe — this isn’t the end.

You’re still holding his gaze, breathing uneven, heart thudding against your ribcage like it’s trying to get to him first.

He brushes his thumb gently over your jaw, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves nearby.

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s so quiet — the kind of question that feels like a vow.

You nod, almost instantly, but there’s a hitch in your breath as you do. A soft, shaky little exhale slips out of you, part laugh, part hiccup — like even this feels surreal.

Your hands lift, instinctively, fingers grazing his face — one cupping his cheek, the other resting just under his jaw. His stubble brushes your skin, grounding you. This is real.

He leans in slowly, eyes on your mouth for a breath longer than he should. His hand finds the back of your neck, warm and steady, thumb sliding just beneath your hairline.

And then finally — finally — his lips meet yours.

It starts soft. Delicate.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by rushing.

He kisses you like he has all the time in the world — like he wants to undo every moment you felt unwanted, like he’s trying to rewrite all the nights you cried.

But then? You kiss him back. And it changes.

You press into him with something that isn’t just relief — it’s heat. Desperate. Your hands move up into his hair, threading through it as you pull him closer. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, his other hand gripping your waist now, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

The kiss deepens — no longer slow, no longer sweet. It’s breathless now. Messy. Full of everything you’ve been holding back.

Your mouth parts and he takes the invitation without hesitation — tongue meeting yours in a rhythm that’s equal parts apology and promise.

He’s kissing you like he can’t get close enough.

And you’re kissing him like you’ve waited too damn long.

You pull back slightly, both of you still breathless, lips tingling. You try to catch your breath, your fingers still lightly curled in his shirt, chest rising and falling as you laugh softly.

“I can’t even think straight,” you murmur, voice barely a whisper.

Bucky just looks at you — eyes flickering down to your mouth again, lips parted like he’s considering whether to let you finish that thought.

And then he makes the decision for both of you.

He leans back in without warning and steals another kiss — not soft this time. Hungry.

His mouth crashes into yours, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. His tongue slides deep into your mouth like he’s claiming every inch of you, tasting you like he wants to burn this moment into his memory.

His hands find your body again — rougher now, more confident. One grips the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. The other drops to your waist, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like he needs you pressed to him.

You let out a soft moan, completely overtaken, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as your back arches instinctively under his touch. He groans low in his throat when you push up against him, like you just knocked the last bit of restraint out of him.

Your fingers claw lightly at the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your balance, your lips moving with his like you’re starved — like you’ve both been craving this too long and now it’s spilling out of you all at once.

When he finally pulls back — just barely — his mouth lingers near yours, breathing heavy.

You blink at him, dazed, your lips wet and parted, and let out a breathless laugh.

“Okay,” you whisper, dazed. “Now I really can’t think straight.”

He smiles, breath still ragged. “Good.”

Your Confessional 📹

You’re sitting alone on the velvet bench, the light soft and warm on your skin. For the first time in days, your shoulders aren’t slumped. There’s no hoodie. No deep sigh. No tears.

You look like you again.

And even though you try — really try — not to smile… you fail miserably.

A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you bite your lip, cheeks lifting as your eyes flicker off-camera, bashful but glowing. You shake your head slightly.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

You look right at the camera now, eyes bright.

“I’m getting dumped from Love Island…”

You shrug, smile growing.

“…and I’ve never felt lighter in my life.”

There’s something warm behind your eyes now — not fire, not anger — just peace. Peace that only comes after surviving the storm and finding something real in the wreckage.

You pause, playing with the hem of your dress as you lean forward, elbows on your knees.

“For days, it felt like I was trying to hold the world up on my own. Carrying the silence. The judgment. Even trying to protect him.”

You glance down, your smile softening into something deeper now.

“And then… he chose me.”

You say it quietly. Like it still doesn’t feel real.

“But not like ‘I pick you in the next recoupling’ kinda way. I mean, actually chose me.”

Your voice thickens slightly, in the best way.

“Walked away from the game. The connections. The hundred grand. For me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“This was the ultimate choice. And he didn’t flinch.”

You lean back now, more relaxed than you’ve been the entire season. A sparkle in your eye.

“I’m leaving broke. Dumped. Probably roasted on Twitter.”

You purse your lips trying to contain your smile.

“But I’m also walking out with Bucky Barnes’ hand in mine.”

You glance sideways, that cheeky grin sneaking back in full force.

“And I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a win to me.”

Villa – Main Walkway 🌴

You and Bucky stand just at the top of the stairs.

His fingers lace with yours, firm, warm. You give him one last glance — that kind of look that says are we really doing this? — and he just squeezes your hand tighter.

Yeah. You are.

And then the two of you start walking.

The lights lining the path glow soft gold, like the villa itself is quietly watching you go. The islanders are still gathered at the firepit — Karen’s sniffling again, Ororo’s got her arms crossed like she’s proud and pissed, and the boys are quiet, even Frank, for the first time ever.

But you don’t look back.

Not once.

Because this exit? It’s about moving forward.

With him.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “Ah yes, there they go… Bucky and Y/N. The emotional damage duo.”

The camera cuts to a slow-mo of you both walking in sync, fingers tightly interlocked, the music swelling underneath like something off a season finale soundtrack.

“Dumped by America, walked out by choice, left the hundred grand behind — but gained a man who finally learned how to use his heart instead of his… well, other assets.”

Cut to Bucky opening the gate for you — a tiny, stupidly sweet gesture — and you walking through first, glancing at him with a smirk.

“They say love is a battlefield. But in this villa? Apparently, it’s a firepit, a daybed, one tweet challenge, and emotional devastation wrapped in lip gloss and jawlines.”

The final shot catches your intertwined hands, backs to camera, walking into the night — away from the lights, the drama, the game.

Together.

“Will they make it on the outside? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: they’ve just delivered the most dramatic exit since Natasha tried to storm out in 9-inch heels”

The gate closes behind you.

Cue black screen.

The Girliesss (in case people didnt understand my love island multiverse): Ororo Munroe (X-Men), you, Karen Page (Daredevil). Trish Walker (Jessica Jones), Elektra Natchios (Daredevil), MJ Watson (Spiderman)

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @byhuenii @rollsonrollss @shookethslut @a9053 @jasontoddswhitestreak @iah1606 @timelylovergirl @doperebelgoopland @fatlin-23 @500daysofhannah @grovelingmen

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[mannien]

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it. 

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend. 

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends. 

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him. 

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore. 

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas. 

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it. 

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab. 

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right. 

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear 

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR 

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet. 

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses. 

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length??? 

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better. 

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :) 

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner. 

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come. 

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time. 

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together. 

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge. 

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them. 

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you. 

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend. 

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters. 

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next. 

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear. 

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink. 

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands. 

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever. 

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words. 

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally. 

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation. 

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve. 

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back. 

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze. 

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused. 

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time. 

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation. 

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning. 

He fucking hates this. 

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts. 

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you. 

Eventually, you took your leave. 

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right. 

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back. 

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you. 

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read. 

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight. 

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky. 

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation. 

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties. 

Then, he asked you why you even assumed. 

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place. 

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself. 

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you? 

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you. 

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together. 

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back. 

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time. 

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message. 

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed. 

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot. 

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them. 

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s. 

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding. 

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts. 

You should’ve just gone home. 

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice. 

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home. 

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment. 

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water. 

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over. 

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired. 

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food. 

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with. 

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight. 

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get. 

 “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated. 

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air. 

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained. 

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled. 

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew. 

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off. 

“What the hell are you even talking about?” 

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes. 

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself. 

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head. 

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him. 

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath. 

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space. 

Then, he saw it. 

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said. 

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too. 

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you. 

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted. 

“Why?” 

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.  

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did. 

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made. 

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it. 

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest. 

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw. 

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him. 

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now. 

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment. 

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.  

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides. 

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue. 

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him. 

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had. 

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him. 

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break. 

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man. 

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell. 

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking. 

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good. 

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest. 

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly. 

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you. 

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now. 

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior. 

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence. 

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

[mannien]

best guess. the series.

You and Bucky are keeping it quiet. Courting, technically—his word, not yours, though you’re not exactly arguing. It’s slow and soft and secret, tucked into corners of the Watchtower where no one’s looking. The problem is: everyone starts looking. It begins with Yelena, who sniffs out your shared body language like a bloodhound and nearly files a report. Then it’s Bob, then Ava, then Walker (who winks), and then Alexei (who cries). You’re not trying to make this a spectacle. You’re not even trying to get caught.

alternatively: somehow, every member of the new avengers ends up catching you and bucky in the middle of something that’s not technically against protocol, but also not not against it either. and at a certain point, the watchtower becomes less of a base and more of a sitcom set with increasingly fewer doors to hide behind.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: tba! (estimated 30k-35k)

content warnings: avenger!reader, explicit content, canon-typical violence, tooth-rotting fluff, soft bucky barnes, bucky barnes needs a hug (and several other things), angst, dom/sub undertones, switch rights (and not the nintendo kind) car sex, public sex, restraints, make-out sesh, MORE TO BE ADDED!

WATCHTOWER INCIDENT LOG #1: MOST WANTED MAN — y. belova

WATCHTOWER INCIDENT LOG #2: BULLSEYE — b. reynolds

WATCHTOWER INCIDENT LOG #3: COME OUT — a. starr

WATCHTOWER INCIDENT LOG #4: FOR KEEPS — j. walker

WATCHTOWER INCIDENT LOG #5: FOREVER IS A FEELING — a. shostakov

TRACKLIST | AO3 | DONE FILING AN INCIDENT LOG? CHECK OUT THE REST OF THE LIBRARY!

[mannien]

Walls

Summary : You never ask for help, even when your boyfriend wants to help you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Ex-Widow!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Watchtower fic. Reversal of the 'who hurt you?' trope. New Avenger!bucky and New!Avenger reader. Angst, Hurt/Comfort, reader was raised in the red room. trauma, injury, Cursing, non-sexual nudity and intimacy. bit of fluff!!!! Inspired by the song Walls by Kings of Leon.

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Bucky x red room!reader has been very heavily requested, so here it is! Taglist has not been updated but will be soon. Sorry, just been busy!!! Enjoy!

You never learned how to ask for help.

Not in the Red Room, where weakness was punished and silence was the only means of survival. Not when you were eight years old and pulled your own dislocated shoulder back into place. Not when you were fifteen and learned to kill without hesitation, or when Dreykov told you pain was just a minefield you had to run through.

By the time you escaped the Red Room and you were finally free—if anyone ever really was—some things were too late to unlearn.

You didn’t bleed in front of people. You didn’t cry. You didn’t ask for help, because help never came.

Then came Valentina. Then came the new Avengers. Then came him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He was a soldier like you, a spy like you. The was broken once, too, then built again from whatever pieces were left. You understood each other before either of you spoke a word. The bond was instant but slow to surface, like fossils buried under frost.

You loved him before you ever admitted it.

Bucky loved you like it hurt him. He loved fiercely, tenderly, constantly. But where you were quiet in your pain, he noticed it. Every bruise you didn’t mention, every limp you masked, every silence you brushed off with a dry joke—he saw it all.

Bucky wanted to protect you.

But you never asked to be protected.

So, of course, it naturally took you six months to even admit to yourself that you might have feelings for him.

It happened after a mission gone wrong.

Not fatally wrong — no one died, no one got captured — but wrong enough that your teeth were clenched so hard that your gums ached, your gloves were soaked in an enemy's blood, and the extraction window had nearly closed because someone didn’t cover the flank.

And that someone was Bucky.

You stormed off the jet the second it touched down at the compound, slamming your knives onto the bench in the gear room and with restrained rage.

Of course, Bucky followed.

“What the hell was that out there?” you snapped, spinning around before he could speak. “You were supposed to take the left corridor. Instead you—what? Decided to go solo because you saw a better opportunity?”

“I did what needed to be done,” he said way too calmly. “If I hadn’t looped around, John would’ve gotten pinned. You think I wanted to split off?”

“You left me exposed,” you accused. “I almost took a round to the head because I thought I had someone on my six.”

“But you didn’t,” Bucky snapped. “Because I took that into account.”

The two of you were standing way too close now. Whatever the hell had been simmering between you for months started boiling over.

You shoved him.

He didn’t budge.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “You’re so—so smug. You walk around like no one can question you. Stupid, righteous ass, annoying fucker who’s too good at his job and too cocky because he knows he’s right.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “That what you think of me?”

“I think—” You stopped, chest rising and falling, fists clenched. “Fuck. Fuck, this is so stupid. It’s childish.”

He waited.

You looked at him — at the way he stood there. He was always watching you. Always catching the things no one else noticed.

Your voice cracked, “I think I have a crush on you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. You were ready for rejection, or laughter, or a dismissive shake of his head.

But all he said was, “How is that childish?”

You blinked. “What?”

“How is having feelings for me childish?” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, and it lacked the heat, the sarcasm. 

You looked away. “You don’t get it—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “I do. Because I’ve been trying not to say anything for months because I thought maybe you didn’t feel the same.”

You scoffed. “You what?”

He let out a sweet yet frustrated laugh, as if he didn’t believe you never noticed. “What gave me away? The way I dive in front of bullets for you, or the way I bring you coffee every morning and pretend it’s just convenient?”

That made your lips curve up ever so slightly, despite the heat still in your chest.

“You still piss me off,” you said, softer now.

“Sure,” he replied, stepping close enough that your breath hitched.

Then he kissed you.

It was hard, desperate. His hands were rough, holding your face, pinching your chin gently and tilting your head up. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, and the rest of the world just… dropped away.

When you finally pulled back, forehead to forehead, you muttered, “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” he smiled. “Still want to try?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Still, it frustrated him—how your walls stayed up even after you'd let him into your bed, your trust, your life. You were his partner, but still you held most things alone.

You kept surviving on instinct.

Bucky wanted to be your safe place. And it maddened him that you wouldn’t let let him, even the part of you that loved him still didn’t know how to let him love you back.

Bucky had a lot of demons. You never scared him. But watching you flinch away from his concern terrified him.

—

Three months later…

You knew the mission was off the moment you stepped into the alley.

It was too quiet, like someone had already told them you were coming.

Still, you moved forward.

Two minutes later, it was chaos.

The intel carrier was a decoy, and you were ambushed by three mercs with military-grade weapons and more training than you were led to expect. Before you knew it, one pushed a knife just under your arm, driving up and in through the soft tissue of your side.

You didn’t scream. You bit down hard and twisted the blade out of your own skin with a grunt, turned the motion into an attack, and dropped him where he stood.

The other two didn’t last long.

But neither did your composure.

By the time you stumbled back to the jet, blood had soaked through your suit, and every breath was jagged.

You didn’t call for backup.

You didn’t radio Bucky or ping mission control, even when your hands started shaking.

You just activated autopilot, ripped open the med kit, and stitched yourself up with trembling fingers and an awkward angle.

No anaesthetic or mirror, just you and a needle. 

You bit down on the fabric of your glove, sweat beading along your hairline as you worked the needle through skin. Too shallow and it would tear. Too deep and it would scar. Not that you gave a shit about scars. 

You wrapped the wound tight, when you were done, when you sat back against the cold jet wall and stared at the ceiling, teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached.

It was fine.

You were fine.

Just like always.

When the jet landed back at the tower hours later, you pulled your jacket tight over the bandage and strode down the ramp like nothing had happened. You smiled at Bob in the common room and nodded at Ava in passing.

When Bucky caught your arm, eyes narrowing at the way your hand twitched at your side, you brushed him off with a look. “You okay?”

“Just jet lag,” you said, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth meant to calm him down. “Nothing serious, babe.”

He didn’t buy it. You knew he didn’t. But you kept walking before locking yourself in your room. 

—

There was a knock on your door thirty minutes later. 

You knew it was him.

You didn’t answer.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from the other side of the door after a beat, casual on the surface—but you could hear the tightening underneath. “Can I come in?”

You stared at the door for a moment, then turned back toward your bed.

“Later.”

There was a pause, before you heard the urgency in his tone. “Now, please.”

It was the kind of tone that didn’t push, but didn’t budge either.

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine.”

The door opened, but not fully— just enough for him to step in.

His eyes found you instantly, standing stiffly by the dresser, arms crossed, face taut with frustration.

“Hi,” he said, like he might still salvage this. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

“I said not now.”

“I heard you,” he replied, shutting the door behind him. “But I’m here anyway. So.”

You turned around, pain flaring at your ribs. “What do you want?”

He noticed, gaze dipping. “Who hurt you?”

For you — an injured animal caged into a corner — it landed like a punch and tasted like an accusation.

You stiffened. “Don’t do this.”

He tilted his head. “Please—“

“I’m fine.”

“Your side—”

“How do you even know that?” you snapped, flinching when you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself.

“You walked to one side,” he said. “And I saw the blood on the jet. You cleaned it up fast, but you missed some. You also used two syringes from the med kit and didn’t log it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You keeping tabs on me now?” you asked, retaliating. 

“I’m not keeping tabs, I live here—and I pay attention to you,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what people do when they care.”

“Care?” You let out a bitter laugh, trying to deflect. “Is that what this is? Or are you just trying to babysit your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s eyes flashed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” you challenged. “Don’t say the thing we’re both thinking?”

“I’m not infantilizing you.”

“You’re not? Because this—” you gestured to the space between you “—feels like you don’t trust me to handle myself.”

He was quiet for a beat, he was trying to find words that wouldn’t make you pull further away.

“I trust you,” he said, voice low. “But I saw you come back hurt, and instead of asking anyone for help— or go to the infirmary, you hid it.”

You clenched your fists. “I didn’t want to deal with you treating me like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said, exasperated. “I think you’re hurt and you’re acting like you don’t want me to care.”

“That’s not your job.”

The metal plates of his vibranium arm shifted, and for the first time, his voice raised. It was not loud, just… pained. “I’m not here because it’s my job, I’m here because I love you.”

That stopped you cold in your tracks.

Bucky stared at you, breathing hard. “So when I saw blood and you shutting me out, yeah—I panicked. Not because I think you’re weak, but because I want to help.”

Your chest tightened, but pride was louder than pain. “I don’t need saving.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is?” you bit out.

He let a deep breath through his nose, and for the first time, his voice broke a little. “I’m not mad you got hurt,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t trust me enough to help. You didn’t even want me in here.”

You folded your arms across your chest and regretted it instantly when pain bloomed under your bandage.

“Maybe I wanted to deal with it myself,” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you every goddamn thing!”

His eyes shifted. He didn’t argue.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You both just stood there for a moment, locked in a kind of stalemate that didn’t quite feel like winning.

Bucky turned toward the door. “I care about you,” he said. 

You didn’t answer or move.

And when he stepped out, you said, “I just need space.”

He paused—just for a second—but didn’t turn back.

And you pushed the door shut behind him.

—

The punching bag groaned under Bucky’s metal fist. He wasn’t pulling his punches—not tonight.

Thud. Thud. CRACK.

The chain creaked, and the bag swung violently to one side. Soon, he heard a slow clap echoing from behind him.

“Feel better?” Yelena teased.

He didn’t turn. “Not even close.”

She strolled in, wearing sweats and a sarcastic smile, and a half-eaten

 protein bar in one hand. Typical Yelena—casual as hell, like the world couldn’t touch her. But Bucky knew better. They both had ghosts—just different corners.

“You’re going to break that thing,” she added, nodding to the bag. “And you should be careful with the way you ask that question.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What question?”

“‘Who hurt you?’” she said, voice half-mocking, half-sincere. “Big mistake, Barnes. You ask that to a Red Room girl and you better be ready to duck.”

He sighed. “You heard us.”

“I think even Ava heard the argument, and she is three floors up.”

Bucky let out a bitter breath. “Do you think I screwed up?”

“She kicked you out of her room, yes?”

He nodded.

“Then yes,” she hummed. “You screwed up. Or she did. Or both. Probably both.”

“I was just trying to help. She was hurt, and she didn’t tell anyone. She lied about it.”

“She didn’t lie,” she corrected, “She withheld. There’s a difference.”

“She didn’t have to go it alone,” Bucky shook his head. “I was right there.”

“Yes,” Yelena’s voice softened. “But alone is what we’re good at.”

He sighed, not wanting to hear what he already knew to be true.

Yelena leaned forward, taking a bite of her snack. “By Red Room standards, I got lucky. Fake family, borderline functional spy-parents, annoying sister. I had… a taste of a family. people to remind me what kindness looked like, even if it was bullshit half the time.”

She shrugged. “But her? She didn’t get sent to Ohio. No fake American pie. No pretend bedtime stories. She had the real Red Room. Just… handlers.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “I just wanted her to let me in.”

Yelena stood and stretched, then nudged his shoulder with hers. “I know. You were trying to love her. That’s not the problem.” She turned toward the door, then paused. “You just forgot something.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You’re not here to fix her, Bucky. She has to do that herself.’ Her voice was kinder now — not condescending, not sarcastic. “You’re her partner. She doesn’t need you to ask who hurt her.”

Bucky tilted his head.

Yelena didn’t even look over her shoulder as she walked away. “She needs to trust that you wouldn’t.”

—

The morning after, you woke up sore.

Not just your side—though the wound throbbed like it was pissed at you—but in your chest. 

You’d barely slept, and the silence in your room was louder than ever before.

You weren’t proud of how last night ended.

But you also weren’t ready to admit it out loud.

You sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, staring at the door like it might offer answers if you glared hard enough. It didn’t.

What did come, though, was the sweet scent of breakfast. 

You opened your door and almost tripped over it.

There laid a covered tray, still hot.

You opened it and saw your favourite breakfast— toast with way too much butter and maple syrup, a few slices of crispy bacon, and even coffee—just the way you drank it.

You blinked.

A small folded note sat beneath the mug, written in neat block letters. 

“Thought you might still be mad. But you still gotta eat.

 — JBB”

There was no lecture or apology. Just… care.

Your first instinct was to leave it. To prove a point or maintain a boundary or whatever. 

So you closed the door paced for a few minutes.

But the smell.

God, the toast was warm and golden and perfectly ruined in that way you liked.

You stared at the door from the inside of your room.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Fuck, you were hungry— you didn’t have dinner last night. 

You muttered under your breath like a gremlin. “Stupid stubborn super soldier.”

You opened the door again and very cautiously pulled the tray inside like it might explode. You sat down on your bed and your arms. Then you uncrossed them. You picked up a piece of bacon, sniffed it, and ate it.

It was perfect.

You didn’t want to smile. But you did. Just a little.

You whispered to no one, “Thanks, Buck.”

—

Down the hall, Bucky leaned quietly against the wall just out of view.

When he heard the faint scrape of the tray being pulled inside, he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

—

The shower was supposed to help.

You stood under the spray with your forehead against the tile, letting the heat soak into your muscles. Steam curled around you, thick and humid. The kind that fogged the mirror and made your breath feel heavier. You watched a droplet trace its way down your wrist, vanishing into the edge of the drain. 

You hadn’t washed since you got back from the mission—barely slept, barely spoken. Just bandaged yourself up in the jet and buried the pain like you always did.

It was stupid. You knew it. You just didn’t want to see the worry in their faces. In his face.

You squeezed your eyes shut, let the water run over your body, then grabbed the loofah.

It was muscle memory— Scrub, rinse, repeat. So you weren’t even thinking when you dragged it over your ribs—just moving on instinct, wanting to be clean. Scrub the blood. Scrub the tension. Scrub everything off.

And then—

You felt white-hot pain.

You hissed, froze, and looked down.

The wound was red— bright and fresh across the gauze, soaking into the water swirling down the drain— the loofah had latched on to a thread and tore it out. 

The stitches were completely pulled out.

“Shit.”

You staggered out of the shower, dripping and trembling, gripping the sink for balance as steam spilled into the room. The mirror was a smeared blur, your reflection hidden behind a ghostly mask of condensation as a trail of red followed you.

You grabbed the towel with shaking fingers and wrapped it tight around your chest, pressing your palm against the fresh bleed at your side. The warmth of the water was already turning cold against your skin, and the throb in your ribs had gone from dull to searing.

You dropped to the floor with a grunt, pulling the first-aid kit from beneath the sink. Your knees hit the tile hard. You didn’t flinch as you opened the case and pulled the supplies into your lap: needle, thread, gauze, antiseptic.

The blood made your hands slick.

You tried to thread the needle. Twice. Missed. On the third attempt, it slipped from your grip and clattered against the tile. You cursed under your breath, picked it up again, finally got the thread through the eye.

You pinched the skin along the gash.

Just a few stitches. You could do this. 

But when you tried to push the needle in, your hand shook too hard. It missed the edge of the skin and dragged instead, scratching you. You tried again, gritting your teeth, but your vision blurred with the steam and the sweat and the water still dripping from your hair.

The third time, the needle went in—then tore the skin when you pulled too fast.

“Fuck!”

Your chest rose and fell. Your heart thudded behind your ribs, against your wound. You looked down at the mess of gauze and blood, the trembling in your fingers, the way your breath caught in your throat.

This was nothing.

You’d been shot before. Tortured. Conditioned.

But right now—sitting half-naked on the bathroom floor, wet and cold and bleeding again—you weren’t fine.

For the first time in a long time, you thought, I don’t want to be alone for this. 

So you got up, pressed the towel tighter, and walked barefoot down the hall toward Bucky’s room.

—

You didn’t knock right away.

You stood outside his door barefoot, one hand clutching the towel, the other pressed to the wound at your side, now throbbing with a hot ache. You hated how unsteady your legs felt, how your heartbeat was rattling inside your chest.

Finally, you raised your knuckles and knocked twice.

The door opened almost instantly, like he’d been standing just on the other side, waiting.

And maybe he had been.

Bucky stood there in a dark long-sleeved henley and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair damp like he’d showered recently. The second he saw you, his expression changed—not shocked. Not angry.

Just worried.

His eyes flicked down to the blood seeping through the towel. Then back up to your face. You expected a million probing questions, like how did this happen? Why didn’t you come to me sooner? How could you do this to yourself? 

He asked none.

You started to speak—“I—”—but your voice cracked, and the word never made it out.

Instead, you just looked at him, hand tightened over your side.

Bucky stepped aside without a word.

And that was it. No demand. No scolding. No what were you thinking?

You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a click.

You stood in the middle of the room you were very familiar with— you’ve spent most of your nights here, after all— and tried your best to stay up. 

He strode by you, looking at you like you hadn’t pushed him away last night.

His voice, when it came, was gentle. “Let me help.”

You nodded, just once, your chin trembling.

And finally, you like it hurt you to admit, you whispered, “I couldn’t do it on my own.”

“I got you,” he said simply.

Not I’ll fix you.

Not You should’ve come sooner.

His hands rose to take the edge of the towel from you. He waited—watched your eyes—for permission.

You gave it.

And as he peeled the fabric away from your ribs, his touch never faltered. 

He studied the red gashing wound before helping you down to sit on his bed. He grabbed his first air kit from his bedside. 

“I ripped the stitches,” you admitted the obvious.

He knelt in front of you without a word. The reopened gash was deep, but clean. No sign of infection, but it needed fixing.

“You scrubbed it open?” he murmured.

You groaned. “With a loofah. Like a genius.”

He gave a tiny huff of amusement. “A dangerous weapon.”

“I think it’s actually stronger than Walker.”

“Definitely smarter.”

You smiled despite yourself. Your arm dropped slightly, and Bucky reached for a clean towel and laid it gently across your lap before reaching for the antiseptic. You watched him work—his metal hand deft and practiced, his human one in a support capacity. 

“This is gonna sting,” he warned. “But I’ll go slow.”

You nodded.

He cleaned the wound gently, pressing gauze against it in soft, rhythmic motions. It hurt, but not like before. 

He threaded the needle and began stitching. The pull of the thread through your skin made you flinch, but his hand was there—resting gently on your thigh.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned back on your hands, letting him finish.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

When he tied the last knot, he set the needle aside and wiped the blood away with a damp cloth.

He looked up at you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”

You blinked at him—then dropped your eyes.

And for the first time, you didn’t say “fine.”

Your voice cracked when you said, “No,” followed with a quieter, “No, I’m not.”

Your lip trembled, and suddenly your face folded in on itself, hands rising to cover your eyes too little too late—too slow to hide the tears that came all at once.

You tried to stop it.

You tried to breathe through it, tried to hold yourself together because that’s what you’d always done.

But Bucky was already moving. He didn’t say anything and opened his arms.

And that was all it took.

You leaned in like gravity pulled you there, and you felt his arms close. Your shoulders shook and soaked his shirt through your tears. 

He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go.

His hand moved across your back in long, rhythmic strokes. He rested his chin gently on your head, his metal arm gently circled your waist, holding you without trapping you. His other hand moved to your hair, fingers sliding through the strands in calming patterns.

Your knees tucked up against his and your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. You breathed in his scent, faint soap and aftershave and something familiar that made you fall in love all over again.

He adjusted you without a word, easing you down so your cheek rested against his chest. His thumb brushed your temple once, then again.

He held you until your breathing slowed. Until your hands unclenched. Until your shoulders stopped rising, until you were still.

And when the last of the tears had soaked into his shirt, you stayed like that for a long time.

—

That night, he found you one of his shirts—worn and too big. You slipped it over your head in the bathroom, careful not to pull your stitches, and returned to the room with bare legs and clean skin.

Bucky opened the covers and moved aside.

You climbed into the bed beside him.

And after a long stretch of silence, you finally found the courage to say, “Thank you.”

Bucky turned his head toward you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Anytime.”

“And in case you were still wondering who did this,” you sniffled, “The guy who was supposed to be my informant got lucky.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around you, though not too tight. “You take his knife?”

“Left it in his thigh,” you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, finding a comfortable spot. “His wound is definitely deeper than mine.”

"That's my girl," he whispered proudly, his hand still gently stroking up and down your back.

The room had gone quiet, save for the occasional creak of old pipes and the hum of the heater kicking in. Bucky didn't move, enjoying your weight pressed into his chest, your cheek warm against the curve of his shoulder. His fingers trailed through your hair absently — like muscle memory.

"You know," he murmured after a while, his breath brushing against your hairline, "I still don't understand how you do it. Take down someone three times your size."

He smiled a little, one of those soft, private ones meant just for you, even though your breathing had deepened into a slower rhythm.

"Yelena and Ava, do it, too, sure," he went on, lips barely moving. "But with you… It’s so much brute force." He chuckled a low rumble in his chest. "It even scares me sometimes."

No response. Not a shift, not a twitch from you. He tilted his head, finally noticing the way your breathing had slipped and steadied.

Bucky glanced down at you, as realization settled in. "You fell asleep on me, didn’t you?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Jesus, doll, you were that tired?"

One tiny, unmistakable snore answered him — high-pitched and fleeting, almost like a hiccup, and then another.

He couldn't help it — he laughed, delighted. "God, your snores are adorable."

He pulled the blanket up a little higher over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple.

"Sleep, baby. I got you," he whispered. "Always got you."

And then, with you curled against him, still snoring softly into his neck, Bucky closed his eyes, too.

-end.

I have an idea for a part two that might never get written: Bucky genuine cannot believe it when you ask him if you could permanently move into his room.

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[mannien]

Love Island!Bucky Headcanons

pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 3.5k words

a/n | yooooo, guys, ive literally been working since tues, every night closing 11:30pm😃🔫. this life is nawttt for the weak, on my soul, this job is taking years off my life, i just wanna be my teenage girl self and this life is not letting me!!!!

this is literally the first time I'm doing headcanons and I don't think I've done it right at all, but YOLO

alsoooooo im so glad my amaya papaya chose bryan and yesterday's ep made me smile so hard. anywayyyyyy pls americans vote for my girl amaya and bryan as best couple, im begginggg

y'all it's almost 3am and I'm tired af. and I'm going to sleep, i have work tomorrow at 12

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

First Coupling (Not Together) 💞

You walk into the villa confident and cracking jokes, immediately becoming a fan fave for your sass and no-BS attitude.

Bucky comes in a few days later as a bombshell — and everyone’s jaws drop. He’s flirty from the jump, but he picks another girl, one of the sweet ones who's all giggles and long lashes. You're unbothered (publicly), but the tension? PALPABLE.

You Get Played (Classic Villa Move)

You couple with this gym bro type who talks like he’s serious, but starts flirting with other girls behind your back.

The classic "I'm just keeping my options open" guy. When the truth comes out during a challenge or truth/dare night? You serve face, roll your eyes, and say, “I knew he was full of it, but I wanted to be wrong.”

Bucky sees it all. He’s been lowkey watching you the whole time, sending little comments like:

“That guy’s a fool, y’know. I wouldn’t’ve let you out of my sight.”

But he’s still with his OG girl, so you brush it off. Maybe he’s just being nice. (He’s not.)

The Twist Coupling 💞

It’s recoupling night. Everyone’s paired. You and another girl are the only ones left. You’re resigned to going home — standing there with your arms crossed and chin high, trying not to show you’re mad that your guy played you and Bucky’s still with the other girl.

But then.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s fiery, honest, and doesn’t take anyone’s crap. She’s been through it this week, and I think she deserves someone who actually sees her worth... So the girl I’d like to couple up with is—”

Cue dramatic pause. Camera on shocked faces.

When Bucky says your name, the villa goes SILENT. Literal gasps. Even the producers are gagged.

His original girl looks like she’s been slapped.

You blink. You squint. You’re convinced you heard wrong.

You walk over in pure shock, and when you stand next to him, instead of giving a sweet line, he hits you with:

“Don’t get excited, doll. I just flipped a coin.”

Confessional (cut to you, wild-eyed):

“Everyone’s lookin’ at me like I Jedi mind-fucked this man into saying my name. Meanwhile, if they took one look at my face they’d see I was just as gagged. You're confused? I'm fucking confused, bro. I mean, I'm standing there rehearsing my ‘fuck y’all, it’s been real’ speech and then—boom. My name. From him. What the helly?”

Post-Coupling Confrontation 👀

You pull Bucky for a chat after the coupling, already skeptical.

He’s relaxed on the beanbags like he didn’t just blow up the villa dynamics.

“I didn’t pick you to be a hero, sweetheart. I picked you ‘cause I wanted her gone. Clingy’s cute for five minutes—then it’s just loud.”

You laugh, a little surprised by the honesty, and nod.

“So what, you picked me to prove a point?” “Nah. I picked you ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t throw herself at me or cry when I don’t cuddle. Plus, we’d make a solid team.”

You stare at him for a moment, annoyed but impressed.

“So, we’re friends now?” “Friends who don’t get dumped from the villa. Unless you’ve secretly been in love with me this whole time.”

You flip him off.

Platonic Coupling Agreement 🤝

You both agree to couple up "strategically" — a villa alliance. You tell each other it’s platonic while secretly spending way more time together than necessary.

You lounge together, nap together (strictly no cuddling — at first), and throw sarcastic comments from the daybeds like the villa’s own Statler and Waldorf.

“She’s doing her baby voice again,” you mutter during a convo across the pool. “Should we start placing bets on who cries in the next 10 minutes?” Bucky adds.

But the chemistry? Dangerously high. And the longer you stay in this “platonic” couple… the blurrier the lines get.

Bucky in the confessional: “Nah, she’s just my emotional support chaos gremlin.” You in yours: “He’s like a sexy golden retriever who talks like he’s from the 40s and can’t stop winking. It’s actually like seriously annoying.”

────────────

You and Bucky become the commentary couple. Always on the daybed, sunglasses on, whispering into each other’s ears like you’re the villa’s own messy podcast.

“Why is she acting like they’ve been married ten years? They’ve been coupled up for four days.” “It’s the delusion for me.” “She’s already picked out baby names and I don't even think he knows her last name.”

You have a routine: share breakfast, roll your eyes in sync, and deliver savage but accurate commentary during firepit chats. Viewers are OBSESSED.

New Bombshell Enters 🔥

Tall, charming, with perfect teeth — he immediately clocks you as the villa’s "hard to get" girl and makes a beeline. Starts flirting. You’re flattered but playfully skeptical, throwing jabs but keeping it light.

Across the villa, Bucky watches with way too much interest for a “platonic partner.” Crossed arms. Jaw ticking. He will not stop glancing over.

Later, he corners you with a smirk.

“So, Mr. Model’s your type now?” “Didn’t know I had a type.” “Yeah, apparently it’s ‘generic charm and hair gel.’”

You raise a brow, amused.

“Are you jealous?” “What? No. Just saying—he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.”

Jealous. Absolutely jealous.

He Falls First ❤️

He starts doing little things bringing you coffee the way you like it, staying up late to talk about random stuff, getting defensive whenever a new guy even talks to you. But you don’t catch it. You’re convinced he’s playing the long game — riding your partnership to the finals.

You in confessional:

“Bucky’s a good partner. Strategic. Smart. Kinda hot when he’s not being annoying. But I know his game — he’s making sure he gets to that 100k. I’m not an idiot.”

Meanwhile, Bucky’s lying awake next to you, staring at the ceiling like:

“How the hell did I fall for the one girl who thinks I’m just in this for screen time?”

Casa Amor🏖️

The girls stay in the main villa, while the boys head off to Casa Amor. Before Bucky leaves, things are… weird. Tension’s been building. He’s been acting almost like he wants to say something, but never does. And you?

You in confessional:

“He’s not mine. He’s free to explore, obviously. I’m not gonna be the girl who waits around and gets played. But also… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care.”

And yet — when temptation arrives in the form of gym-honed muscles and cologne that smells like deception, you hold your ground. Flirty convos? Sure. But when it comes time to choose, you say:

“I’m staying single. My connection with Bucky might be confusing, but I’m not ready to throw it away yet.”

Meanwhile at Casa Amor 🔥

Bucky’s spiraling. He misses you. Constantly thinking about your jokes, the way you roll your eyes, how you always call him out. But… he also believes you don’t feel the same.

Bucky in confessional:

“She’s never shown me more than friendship. And I— I need to protect myself. I can’t come back single and get humiliated on national TV.”

So, he couples up with a new girl. Not because he wants to. But because he thinks he has to.

The Recoupling — THE Scene 💔

The villa is silent as the boys walk back in. Bucky’s holding hands with his Casa Amor girl. Cocky smile. Trying to convince himself this was the right call.

And then—he sees you.

Standing alone.

Single.

Waiting.

Not even crying — just staring at him like he’s a complete stranger.

Camera cuts to everyone’s shocked faces.

Ariana: “You’ve decided to remain single. Can you explain why?” You (calm, almost nonchalant): “Because I thought what we had was worth waiting for. (you shrug your shoulders) Guess I was wrong.”

Bucky’s face drops. He’s instantly sick. Guilt. Regret. That look of someone who just fumbled the person who was actually real.

The new girl’s smiling awkwardly. The silence is deafening.

Post-Recoupling Fallout 📽️

You’re sitting in the confessional chair, body stiff, hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are glassy, rimmed with red — but no tears fall. You’re holding them back with everything in you.

The producers ask how you’re feeling.

You take a shaky breath, force out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, and say:

“I wanna go home. I’m actually being so for real right now. Please, someone get my suitcase. Because I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

You glance away from the camera, blinking fast. Your jaw tightens like you’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep it together.

“I stood there, alone, in front of everyone. Looking like this dumbass while he walks back holding some other chick's hand. Like I’m the fucking idiot for having feelings. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

You shake your head, voice cracking:

“And the worst part? I didn’t even expect him to come back single. I just— I thought maybe he’d show me I mattered. But I guess I’m not worth that.”

Cut to Villa 🎬

You’re sitting alone, sunglasses on at night, hoodie pulled up — doing your best to disappear on the beanbags while Bucky’s across the firepit, staring at you like he knows he ruined everything.

Bucky in confessional (head in hands):

“I thought she didn’t feel the same. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt her. But when I saw her standing there all alone… I’ve never felt more like a loser in my life.”

Confrontation Scene 💥

It’s late. Most islanders are inside. You’re sitting outside by the pool, arms crossed tight over your chest, hoodie still up, knees drawn in. Silent. Closed off.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

“Can we talk?”

You don’t even look at him.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Pause. Tension thick in the air. He doesn’t move.

“Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to you.”

You stand up fast, like your body can’t sit through this conversation. Still not facing him.

“What, so you can make me feel even more shitty than I already do? Newsflash, Buck, you nailed that one already.”

He takes a step closer. Carefully.

“No. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I need you to hear me.” “I heard you. Loud and clear. You walked back holding her hand. That said everything.”

You try to walk past him — but his hand reaches out. Not rough, not forceful. Just… steady. He catches your wrist, and when you try to pull away, he doesn’t let go. Gently, but firmly, he keeps hold.

“Please. Just let me explain.” “Why? So you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? That you ‘didn’t know how I felt’? You knew. You just didn’t care.”

You’re standing there, body tense, wrist still in his grasp. You’ve tried to push him away. He won’t budge. Not with force — just that stubborn, aching softness that says he’s still clinging to hope.

“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out when I finally got the guts to admit I messed this up. I chose wrong. And I regret it every second I look at you.”

That’s when your voice drops to barely a whisper.

“Why didn’t you just pick me?”

His eyes meet yours — red-rimmed, tired, exposed. And when he answers, his voice cracks open.

“Because I didn’t think you’d pick me.”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Everything in your chest lurches forward and backward at the same time. You can’t tell if you’re about to scream or cry — maybe both.

“Are you serious?” “You were always laughing with other guys. Saying we were just friends. I thought… I thought I was just someone you could lean on. Not someone you’d actually want.”

Your eyes well up. You take a shaky step back, pulling your wrist from his grip — and this time, he lets you go.

“You thought I wouldn’t pick you, so you didn’t pick me. And now we’re both here. Hurt. For what, Bucky?” “For being two idiots who couldn’t say how we felt.”

You’re shaking your head now — furious, exhausted, and done holding back.

“You don’t get to stand here acting like the victim, Bucky. You chose her. You didn’t even hesitate. And I stood there — in front of everyone — like a fucking joke.”

He stays quiet. Still. Just watching you with those ocean-deep eyes, face full of regret. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.

“You made me feel like I was nothing. Like everything we built meant nothing. And now what? You want to fix it? With what, exactly? A sad little speech and puppy blue eyes?”

Still no response. He just lets you speak.

“I was loyal to you. I waited. I trusted you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself not to catch feelings for you, I still—”

Your voice breaks.

You turn away. Take a breath. Hands clenched at your sides.

And he still says nothing.

Not because he doesn’t have anything to say — but because he knows this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you.

“You didn’t even fight for me, Bucky. That’s what hurts the most.”

He finally steps forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I know.” “That’s all you’ve got? ‘I know’?” “Yeah. Because there’s nothing I can say that makes it okay. I fucked up. I didn’t trust what we had. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was hurt you.”

You look at him then. Eyes still glassy. He’s not defensive. He’s not deflecting. He just stands there, open and raw, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. And if there’s anything I can do to make this better — I’ll do it. Even if it means walking away.”

You’re quiet now. Too quiet. Hands trembling slightly as you bring them up to your face, fingers pressing under your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over.

You don’t look at him when you speak again — your voice is soft, but it cuts sharp:

“You made me feel really fucking dumb.”

That’s the one that almost takes you out. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.

“Like I was some naïve little girl, thinking the guy I joked around with every day — the one who brought me coffee, made me laugh, looked at me like I mattered — was actually choosing me.”

You pause, breathing ragged. You wipe at your face again, but it’s useless now. A tear slips down anyway.

“I stood there thinking, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it hurt.’ But it did, Bucky. It fucking hurt.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I know it did.” “And I hate that I’m the reason. I hate that I made you question something that was real — something I felt every damn day.”

You finally glance up, just in time to see him take a step forward.

“I didn’t think I deserved you. But I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.”

He’s closer now. Slow, careful steps. Like he’s giving you a hundred chances to pull away. But you don’t.

“You were always enough. I just... didn’t think I was.”

And when he’s close enough, he pauses for half a second — eyes searching yours, hand hovering like he’s waiting for permission.

Then he pulls you in.

Arms wrap around you, steady and strong. Not desperate — grounded. Like he’s trying to hold in all the pieces he broke.

And this time… you don’t fight him.

You bury your face in his chest, fists clinging to his shirt, and finally let yourself feel it. The ache, the betrayal, the hope you tried to kill off.

“You’re such an asshole.” “I know. But I’m your asshole… if you’ll still have me.”

Night After the Recoupling 🌙

The villa’s quiet. Everyone’s in bed. Except you.

You can’t do it — sleep in that room while Bucky’s still sharing a bed with her. Even if nothing happens. Even if he’s trying to make things right. It still feels like betrayal just breathing the same air in that space.

So you grab your blanket, slip outside, and curl up in Soul Ties — the same place where you two used to whisper jokes and throw shade. The place that used to feel safe. Now it just feels cold.

You try to sleep.

You don’t.

Later That Night ✨

Bucky stirs. Looks across the room.

Your bed? Empty.

He checks the patio door and sees you — curled up alone, hood pulled over your head, blanket tight around you like armor.

He waits. Watches the others settle. Listens to the breathing shift from restless to deep sleep.

Then he slips out of bed.

Soft steps. Quiet hands as he opens the door.

He walks outside, crosses over towards Soul Ties, and pauses — just watching you.

Then, gently, carefully, he climbs in behind you. Doesn’t say anything. Just slides in slow, his chest pressing to your back, arm coming around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

You sighed softly, not even bothering to turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here.” “Don’t care.”

His voice is low, honest. No bravado, no teasing — just a quiet ache. His arm tightens just slightly around you. You don’t pull away. You don’t even breathe for a second.

Then, slowly, you turn in his arms.

Now you're facing him. Just inches apart. His eyes searching yours in the dark, moonlight casting soft shadows over his face.

“She’s still your girl. You’re still coupled.” “She’s not you.”

His hand slides up, knuckles grazing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you realize it.

“I couldn’t sleep. Not with you out here thinking I didn’t mean what I said.” “And what did you mean?”

He leans in closer — forehead almost brushing yours.

“That I’d choose you. Every time. I was just too much of a coward to do it when it counted.”

The air thickens. His gaze flicks between your eyes, then to your lips — slow and deliberate, but not assuming. Waiting. Giving you the chance to back away.

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie, anchoring yourself there. A silent yes.

He moves first — barely.

His nose brushes yours. Then his lips hover just over your mouth, not quite touching. Close enough to feel the heat, the need, the way he’s holding himself back like he’s afraid if he takes too much, he won’t be able to stop.

Then finally — finally — he closes the space.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s slow, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing you with every second. His lips part against yours in a careful pull, then press in deeper, surer, like he’s been aching for this and never let himself believe he could have it.

You respond instinctively — your hand sliding up into his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck. You tilt your chin slightly, meeting him with just as much intensity.

He groans softly into your mouth — barely audible, but there. It makes your heart stutter.

The kiss turns messier for a breath, more urgent — like the both of you are falling into something you’ve been holding back for too long. But even in the tension, it never loses the softness — like you’re trying to comfort each other in the only language you both understand now.

Camera zooms in — soft lighting, silence but for the wind — the kind of moment the audience screams over.

When you finally break apart, lips swollen and foreheads pressed together, there’s no sound but the whisper of wind and the ragged way you’re both breathing.

He doesn’t let go. He just holds you tighter — like letting go now would undo all of it.

And you stay there. In that tiny, stolen piece of peace. Just you, him, and a kiss that changed everything.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[mannien]

a long-awaited lesson

a/n: oh, how i've longed to summon this demon of a plot point... (oh, and btw i'm posting the next instalment already tomorrow)

summary: “I’ll do it. I’ll teach you.”

warnings: innocent!reader x professor!reed richards, frat!bucky barnes, stepbro!steve rogers, smut, dark content, dubcon, college au, polyamory, corruption kink, sugar daddy!reed richards, student/teacher relationship, forbidden romance, age gap, kissing, semi-public sex, dirty talk, size kink, manhandling, sir kink, doctor kink, choking, impact play, pussy inspection, masturbation, fingering, pussyjob, cumplay, overstimulation

word count: 3480

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist 

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“Where’s the rest–,” Bucky repeated after you’d caught the navy dress he’d tossed you, “ha-ha, very funny.”

You couldn’t believe you’d have to endure this kind of treatment for the remainder of the month. As one of the echoes from that dreadful night in the fraternity’s basement, all of the members had been on rotation, each morning since, one of them popping by your dorm room to pick out and decide what you would wear. Although, this morning wasn’t like the rest. When your stepbrother’s best friend had banged on your door, he didn’t immediately tear open your closet, but instead reached within a shopping bag he clutched, finding a loophole to force you to wear something much more inappropriate than what could be found in your own modest wardrobe.

“What are you waiting for? Put it on, dummy,” he scoffed as you continued to gawk down at the tiny scrap of fabric in your grasp, “I thought you were the one complaining about being late for class.”

“Well, you were twenty minutes late!” you pointed out frustratingly, “plus, someone stole my bike the other day,” you muttered as you begrudgingly put on the dark blue dress, “so I can’t cross the campus as fast as usual,” tugging at the ridiculously short hem, a groan vibrated in your chest as it almost looked as if you were merely wearing a shirt, “do I seriously have to wear this thing? I’ll freeze my ass off.”

“Calm your tits,” Bucky murmured with a roll of his eyes, “here,” he chucked you a pair of tall socks.

“Oh, right,” you blinked down at them before uttering sarcastically, “because this is gonna make all of the difference.”

“What, would you rather just go to class stark naked?” Bucky’s features hardened as he took a slow step towards you, “or perhaps just miss it entirely, because that’s what’ll happen if you keep running your mouth like that. I don’t mind, it won’t be my ass that’ll be bruised.”

Not only were you late for your advanced neurobiology class, but you had also been so frazzled that you completely forgot the paper that was due, as you hadn’t just neglected to bring it with you, but had spaced out entirely and hadn’t even written the first sentence.

So naturally, once the lecture was over, Professor Richards waved you down for a word before you could slip out among the crowd.

“Do you know how many students would kill to have your spot in my class?”

“I-I–,” you tried, though his harsh tone swiftly cut you off.

“If you’re gonna be here, then you gotta do better than this,” he leaned against the desk that stood in the sliver of space between your forms, “slacking off? Late to class? Not turning in assignments? I thought you were better than this. I thought you were one of my students who actually had a single grain of potential, but perhaps I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” mortification trickled down your spine as you felt your eyes well up with tears, “I don’t know how this happened, I just–”

“No,” he cut you off with a bark, “if you’re gonna act like this, then you don’t belong in my class.”

“Please! No!” you gasped, taking a desperate step towards him as he began to pack up his bag, “I want to be here, more than anything! I’ll be better, I swear. Just give me a chance.”

A low exhale then flowed out past the doctor’s lips before his eyes slowly drifted up your form, momentarily lingering over the revealing outfit you’d been forced to wear.

“…please?” your bottom lip quivered as his gaze finally met your own.

And as he averted his glare once again, a low murmur found your ears, “fine…” his sigh instantly lit up your gloomy features, “you can do some extra credit to make up for the paper.”

Rain pattered against the window that stood tall behind Doctor Richard’s desk. His office had too succumbed to the darkness of the night that had swallowed the rest of the quiet campus, with only the dusty banker’s lamp on the table providing enough of a glow the both of you.

While you were concentrated, scribbling down the missed assignment he’d luckily given you an extension for, his own gaze was less glued upon the medical notes stacked before him that were supposed to help him brush up on the surgeries that he had scheduled for the remainder of the week when he wasn’t at the university, but instead at the hospital.

“So,” his murmur cut through the thick silence as his gaze once again flickered up to sneak a brash peek down the neckline of the silly excuse for a dress you still wore, “I know that you forgot the paper, but are you gonna tell me why you were late for class today? You’re usually here before even I am.”

Your eyes briefly fluttered up to cast him a glance before they drifted back down to the pencil in between your fingers, “well, it was partly because of a friend of mine, but mostly it was because my bicycle was stolen earlier this week. I always ride it everywhere, and I guess I haven’t gotten used to the amount of time walking takes in comparison…”

“Well, then, you should get a new one.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t afford a new one, I mean, I can barely afford the crazy expensive textbooks I’m supposed to get for when next semester rolls around, much less a brand new bike,” you exhaled.

“Well, couldn’t your parents help you out?”

“My mom? No, she wouldn’t just give me that much without seriously having to work for it. And my stepfather? Definitely not,” you refused, “no way in hell am I asking him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he suddenly scoffed, causing you to blink up at him, “you’re one of my best students, by far, and if this is all that it’s about, well then I’ll just give it to you,” he uttered as if it wasn’t a problem at all.

Nearly choking on your own spit, you coughed, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You need a new bike in order to get to class on time, and I can afford one,” he stated plainly.

“You–, what?” you struggled to comprehend the offer that rolled off his tongue.

“And when you need new books, I can get you those as well.”

“I–…” your eyes were as wide as saucers, “why?”

“Well, you’re not only smart, you’re special,” the older man’s low tone caused goosebumps to erupt across your flesh, “hell, perhaps you even have the potential to be more than just one of my students… I mean, if going down the neurosurgeon road is something you’re considering, then maybe I could become your mentor. And none of that can happen if you can’t afford the things you need.”

“But–…” you nearly sounded out if breath as your heart hammered in your chest, “I–… you’d really do that? Just up and give me a new bike?”

“Yeah, of course I would,” he leaned his burly forearms against the tabletop as his stare slowly dipped down your frame, “as long as you give me something else in return… make it a fair trade…”

“Wha–…” your voice was as small as a little mouse, “what do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” he exhaled and a faint smile tugged at his lips, “perhaps something along the lines of what you have no problem handing out to an entire fraternity…” his words instantly caused your eyes to widen, “what? You didn’t know I knew? Oh, kid… I’m Kappa Alpha Nu’s faculty advisor. They share everything with me… stories… pictures… videos…”

Mouth agape, you stayed frozen in your seat even though you longed for nothing more than to run and hide.

“Y-you want me t-to–…” the rest of the mortifyingly inappropriate sentence fell from your lips, “I–I can’t…”

“Can’t or won’t?” Reed cocked his head as the storm outside bustled against the window.

“I–…” your chest rose and fell rapidly as your cunt clenched around nothing, “…y-you’re my teacher…”

“What, you’ve never slept with one before? Don’t lie to me, I already told you, the boys tell me everything…” he then leaned back in, close enough for his hot breath his kiss your cheeks, “come on, don’t you want my help? I know you wanna be a doctor, and sure, on your own, you could become an alright one, but if you say yes, if you let me mould you, well… kiddo…” his dark eyes briefly dipped to your parted lips, “I could make you a great one… perhaps one day, you could even be better than me.”

Blinking back at him, your teeth then caught your bottom lip before you breathed once again, “sir, I still can’t sleep with you…” as your nerves nearly ate you alive.

His jaw briefly clenched to silence a groan at the respectful term you kept on calling him, before he murmured, “alright…” his head slowly tilting to the side, “if you can’t do that, then maybe you could do something else for me…”

Your eyes flickered between each of his own a moment before you uttered, “like what?”

The corner of his lips twitched before he said, “you could let me watch.”

“Watch what?” you quietly asked.

“You want me to spell it out for you, sweetheart?” he asked as your innocence bloomed a proper smile upon his lips, “okay, I can do that,” he nodded before uttering in a crystal clear tone, “I want you to sit right here on my desk, spread those little legs of yours, and show me how you make yourself cum.”

“You want me to–… but I’m not supposed to do that for another three days…” you recalled one of the other punishments that was still in effect from last week.

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t… it can be our little secret…” he smirked, “come on, just let me see how pretty you are when you make yourself cum, and then I promise I’ll give you anything you want, you have my word…”

Dizzy as you nearly shared his breath, you then heard yourself admitting, “but I–… professor… I don’t know how to do that… I can’t–, I–I’ve never–…”

“Wait, hold on,” he backed up a smidge, “are you saying you’ve never had an orgasm before?”

“No,” you panted, your cheeks aflame, “I mean, I’ve never been able to do it to myself. I-I don’t know how–, I mean, I know how it feels, I know what it’s like, but for some reason, I still chicken out when I try on my own.”

“Haven’t the boys taught you how?” Reed’s brows knit together, “I thought that a proper tutorial on that would have been one of the first things they did… or–, well… now that I think about it,” he paused for a second, “it actually makes a lot of sense. Why teach you when you could instead be forced to crawl back to them each time you wanted to feel good… it’s kinda genius when you think about it,” he cocked his head, “but even so, I mean, you gotta learn how to do it. Even just for the fact that it’s not healthy for you to be so in the dark,” he murmured before then deciding, “I’ll do it. I’ll teach you.”

“W-what?”

“I’m sorry, do you not trust me to do it?” he teased, “I am a doctor. If anyone’s qualified to do so, then it sure as fuck would be me,” he chuckled cockily, “what do you say?”

“I-I–…” your voice trembled before you felt your head begin to tilt in a nod, “alright…”

“Yeah?” he smirked as the back of his curved finger floated up to graze against your chin, “good,” you nearly thought he would abandon the rest of the space between you and crash his lips against your own, but instead, just as you began to flutter your eyes closed in anticipation, his touch faded as he leaned back in his chair and uttered, “come here. Up on the table,” his palm tapped the cluttered surface.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you nearly felt drunk as you found yourself not curving around the desk to get to his side, but instead you hazily crawled atop of it and over the short piles of paper to sit before him.

Both of his hands tickled your calves as they dangled off the table on either side of his knees, before he then gently began to push them further apart, his grin growing as the hem of your short dress rose from the movement.

And as he propped one of your feet up to balance on the desk’s edge, a low groan rumbled in his chest as his gaze fell upon your covered core.

“Go on, it’s okay. Move them aside,” he nodded with slight impatience, “I can already see how much she wants this,” he grinned at how your panties were already so embarrassingly soaked that they had practically become see-through. Reaching down a shaky hand, you timidly caught the edge of the cotton and slowly peeled the gusset to the side, “oh, look at you… fuck…”

You swore you felt yourself leak onto his desk at the silky tone of his deep voice, huskily grunting in enthusiasm.

A breath filled your lungs as he then bent down closer to your cunt to get a better look, though just as you hoped that he would reach out and touch you, it never so much as ghosted against your skin.

“Well, aren’t you just perfect…” he purred as he briefly tore his stare away from your centre to catch your eye, “perfect little pussy, just as I thought…” and what he then murmured next naturally came out in a professional tone, his medical experience seeping through in his voice, “now, I assume you have tried to touch yourself before, am I right? Don’t lie to me.”

“Mhm,” you nodded foggily as you blinked down at him.

“Then show me,” he commanded, “show me how you touch yourself.”

With your fingers still clutching the soaked cotton of your panties, trapping them to the side in your grasp, your other hand then shyly crept down between your thighs to fulfil his wish.

Lightly grazing the tips of your touch against your puffy pearl, sticky strings of desire swiftly clung to your digits and created a slick sound as you began to pet yourself.

“There you go,” he uttered as your lips parted in a silenced moan, “is that how you make yourself feel good, huh? You rub that cute clit of yours?”

“Y-yeah,” you panted as your fingertips rolled the bud.

“What if you stuffed a few of your fingers inside that little hole?” he suggested as your opening clenched around nothing and winked back at him, officially dripping down upon his papers in the process and sainting them with your want, “I think your pussy would just love that.”

Carefully sweeping your touch further down, you gasped lightly as you sank the very tip of your middle finger inside of your leaky entrance, “like this?” you asked softly as you briefly lifted your gaze from between your legs.

“Yeah, slowly…” he suddenly reached out to gently grasp your arm, “like you’re giving yourself a gentle little massage…” he encouraged as his palm slid down to rest atop your own in an effort to guide you.

Though he never touched you directly, he still steered your fingers, showing you the perfect pace, pressure and pattern to make your heart race. Once he’d made you add another digit, he curved your thumb back up to tickle your clit, grazing against it each time you sank your fingers back inside, making your eyes flutter closed at the pleasure.

However, when his helping hand soon faded and the sound of a zipper ripping open found your ears, your touch locked up as your eyes flew back open.

“P-professor, what are you doing?” you asked as you gawked down at the throbbing girth he boldly began to stroke “you said you just wanted–”

“Don’t stop,” he grunted as he only leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show, “keep fucking playing with yourself.”

Though briefly stunned by the unexpected move, you soon regained control of your frozen limbs, promptly picking the very same pattern back up till you swiftly found yourself nearing that edge you never before could cross on your own.

“I-I think I’m close,” you whimpered as your thighs began to tremble, “but I don’t know if I can–”

“You can and you will, don’t you dare fucking stop,” the older man growled, “if you do, then I’ll back out of our deal. No mentoring and certainly no new bike. If I’m gonna be your sugar daddy, then you better fucking cum, right damn now,” he ordered, though the unfamiliar term he called himself flew completely over your head as you promptly tumbled over the edge.

Your wide eyes stared down at your throbbing pussy once you tore your fevered touch away, “oh my god! I did it!” pure surprise shined through your pride, “I actually did it!”

“Yeah you fucking did,” he breathed as he watched you beam, “christ, that was hot, fuck,” the doctor murmured before he snapped, rose from his seat and rushed to you.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sudden proximity, his grasp swiftly finding your legs before he yanked you closer to the edge of the desk, “oh, hello–, ah!” you gasped as he then suddenly began to drag his thick cock through your petals, overstimulating your pussy as he nudged against your slick softness, “what are you–”

“Shh, shh, just let me have this,” he muttered huskily before his fingers mindlessly soared up to grasp your neck, choking out a small squeak as his grip flexed around you.

His eyes fluttered shut as he savoured the sensation, desperately gliding the bullous tip of him against your sensitive heat, sloppy sounds filling his office with each fevered flick as his fat girth split open your petals.

Tightening his hold around your throat, your professor then pulled you closer till your lips came crashing against his own. It was desperate and messy, tongues sloppily colliding in a dance to the muffled tones of each of your hot moans.

When he then finally eased up on his possessive grip and let go of your neck, his lips too faded from your own, although before you even managed to blink your eyes back open, his fingers had drifted up to stuff your mouth. Giving you something to suck on, he let his imagination run wild as your silky tongue swiftly fluttered against the rough pads of his digits.

“Fuck… you’re so wet, kiddo…” he glanced down to where your bodies met, his cock still tight in his grasp as he tapped the weight of it messily against your puffy pearl, “I could just slip right in.”

“Don’t! You can’t!” you swiftly tilted your chin to free your mouth from his fingers, “please, sir, you don’t get it. The guys were so mad the last time I so much as kissed a guy that they didn’t approve first, I am not repeating that mistake again.”

But instead of settling your worry, Reed simply chuckled before kissing you once more.

And soon, when you cast a glance down between your bodies in amazement, hazy mutters tumbled out past your lips, “this is crazy… you’re too old for me… you’re my professor… you’re married…” you whispered as your thoughts too drifted back to less than a week ago when you’d kissed his brother-in-law.

“I know…” he smirked faintly, as if those hard truths only turned him on that much more, a theory that was swiftly verified as it drove him over the edge.

For a moment, he dragged his sensitive cock through the cum that now decorated your glistening cunt, like a sticky Jackson Pollock painting between your trembling thighs. But then, just as soft moans began to seep from your mouth, he let your soaked panties snap back into place over the mess, making you jump slightly as he swatted his palm over your core, landing a few quick slaps against your pussy till his load beneath darked the cotton.

“Say hi to the boys from me,” he uttered as he grabbed your chin to steal one last swift peck, “oh, and remember, this is our little secret. For all they know, you’re still just an innocent little flower who can’t make herself cum…”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[mannien]

I am so behind on fics from my favorite writers and on all things Marvel but my mind’s just not there right now 😭 I miss Bucky 💔 and I miss reblogging all of your works 💔 but the reading slump is real

[mannien]

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

��No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,” you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[mannien]

Tell Me I’m Your National Anthem

Bucky Barnes x Campaign Manager! Reader

Summary: Bucky wasn’t sure when this campaign stopped being about winning, and starting being about spending time with you. 

Word Count: 16.8K

Authors Note: first fic in almost five years!! I’m back from retirement. Anyway, yes I know Bucky’s hair was long in thunderbolts but I don’t care!

Warnings: cursing, inaccuracies about American politics (it’s been along time since I was in a social studies class okay?), gratuitous use of italics, yearning, Alpine, mention of St*ve, and light violence, no use of y/n

You’d always liked a challenge.

As a kid, if the teacher said to write six paragraphs, you’d push yourself to ten. In college, you had interned all four summers, double majored in Political Science and Marketing. Worked full time and still graduated with honors. You even made time to go to like three parties.

Nothing changed when you got into politics.

You took the first job you could get your hands on out of college, and have been running since.

Unfortunately you’ve been running with some of the most infamous assholes Washington has ever seen.

You had a talent for fixing campaigns, tweaking strategies, and saving reputations. This unique skillset was perfectly suited to saving the careers of politicians with questionable tweets, and more often than not, bright red, southern roots.

It wasn’t the “making the world a better place” politics you had dreamed of, you still hoped that a few of the assholes who had hired might find it in themselves to make a few good decisions while in office.

That was until you started working for Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes -former Avenger or something- was running for Congress and had asking your help.

Or more accurately, his Campaign manager was begging for it. An old friend, who was lucky enough to work with all of the good, kind people, you wished would hire you. All the people your candidates kept beating. You’d never had someone beg you to take their job before. So you agreed, part curiousity and part hope that maybe for once you’d get to see the side of politics you used to believe in.

You didn’t get your hopes up though. Preparing for the cycle to begin again. Another politician with skeletons in need of closets. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, and nothing you weren’t equipped to handle.

Oh how happy you were to be wrong.

Other than having no media training, Bucky Barnes was a good man. All of his baggage had already been aired out for the entire nation to see. It was a much welcome change. You’d always been paid to hide secrets, not use them.

However, this meant the Nation already had an opinion of him. Bucky’s reputation ranged from admired hero to public enemy number one. Nevermind the small subset of Winter Soldier fanatics who studied his every move and then dissected it all online.

You had spent a solid six hours just combing through forums to try and understand whether they loved or hated him. You finally gave up after finding one entirely dedicated to different versions of his prosthetic arm.

The only information this research did reveal was that people really, really like photos of him from his time in the service. The government’s Captain America archives made them easy to find.

Just like that your newest strategy was born. You didn’t like to lean so heavily on the veteran angle, but this felt like special circumstances. One of the first fundraising efforts you lead, was simply a release of t-shirts with him in his army fatigues on it. It sold out in twelve minutes.

Unfortunately, sepia stained Polaroids can only do so much heavy lifting.

While there’s no gentle way to tell someone ‘you’re perfect, now change everything’ Bucky took it well. Not enthusiastically, but he was open, which is all you could ask for. He didn’t grumble once when you sent him to an eight hour “media-training boot camp.”

He didn’t even argue when you picked him up afterwards and drove him to a Barber.

All things that further cemented his status as your favorite client.

Watching his hair fall to the floor broke a little piece of your heart. Alas, the short hair had tested better in focus groups, so off it came. It made more sense message wise too, helping consolidate the image of the 40’s soldier and this modern counterpart. Removing as many similarities to the Winter Soldier as you could afford.

“Can you take a little more off the back?” You ask. It’s easily your third interruption and you can almost hear the Barber roll his eyes.

“That okay?” You ask, the question directed at Bucky this time.

Favoritism aside, you were still deeply uncomfortable around each other. At least that’s how it felt. It had only been three weeks, but he was a quiet type. You were used to working with braggadocios, they always told you where you stood.

Bucky liked to watch. Usually giving you one word answers, if that. His stare is what made you uneasy, the weight of his attention was enough to make you falter. Not knowing what it meant was enough to make you second guess, you need to know what it means. Which means you need to know him. Then there was the handsomeness factor.

Today was exposure therapy. You’d worked with plenty of attractive clients before, none that made you fight a blush from eye contact. But that’s okay.

You’ve always liked a challenge.

“It’s just hair.” He replies, voice even and unemotional.

For a second you’re afraid the conversation will end as quickly as it started. You’re about to escape into your phone when Bucky finally makes eye contact with you in the mirror. You’re sitting against the wall behind him, close enough to watch, far away enough that you don’t have to smell his stupid fucking delicious cologne.

Professional distance.

“Besides. You’re holding my reputation in your hands. Whatever you want.” He smiles, as much as Bucky knows how to smile.

Whatever you want. That’s tempting, and three of your favorite words. Especially when coming from a man.

Stop. Professional.

“So if I suggested frosted tips?” You say, raising your eyebrows.

He huffs, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to a laugh.

The barber is nearly done, the effect the cut has on Bucky’s face already dramatic. He looks, young. Or at least the age he would’ve been if it wasn’t for all of- everything.

It’s still a little wet, you can see the ends curling as the barber combs through them and lifts them up to trim. You wonder if he left it long, if someone taught him how to take care of it, would it curl?

You do your best to ignore the stray drop of water that glides down the back of his neck, ghosting over his (now) perfect hairline.

The chair spins around to face you. The barber standing behind it with a satisfied smile, holding the comb triumphantly and letting out a little “Ta da!”

Bucky raises a eyebrow, and you’re startled when you realize- He’s waiting for your approval.

Your stomach burns with satisfaction. You like that a little too much too.

You nod, standing and walking over Bucky, and subsequently the barber. You smile, then hold out your hand.

“You mind?” You ask, though your tone makes it clear it’s not a question.

The barber grunts, giving you the comb and walking with a huff into the back of the shop, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You had called ahead, made sure they’d have the building cleared so you’d be the only ones inside during Bucky’s appointment. Too many variables and prying eyes otherwise.

Wordlessly, you begin to cut. There’s not much to trim, but the barber had left a few stray hairs, and his sides were uneven, which would’ve driven you crazy. It was a short cut, a little left on the top, specifically the front. Enough to let it sit naturally, but also long enough he could style with a smidge of a gel. Versatile, easy to manage for Bucky’s sake.

Then you look down at Bucky, realizing you had neglected to turn him back around, and find him already studying you. Suddenly feeling sheepish, you take a step back, spinning him around to get his opinion.

“You fixed the sides.” He says. You wait for noted but it doesn’t come. You realize that’s probably the closest you’d get to a compliment.

You reach over, putting the comb back and grabbing a small bit of gel. You rub it between your hands and before you can overthink it, run your hands through his hair. Giving the front a little bit of quaffing.

Almost satisfied, you put your hands down on the back of his chair. “You still trust me?”

Bucky lifts a hand to his beard, it’s scruffy, and while you don’t mind that (not even a little). It’s not exactly the look you’re going for.

“You can do it yourself, if you want?” You offer, very aware that this may count as over stepping.

He shakes his head, dropping his hand back into his lap. “I trust you.”

You reach over, grabbing a razor from the station and attaching the 4mm guard. “The beard has tested well, specifically with your female constituents.” Fancy excuse for it would make you sad to shave it all off. “We don’t want to lose it all, just polish it a little.”

Bucky hums, lifting his chin to give you a better angle as you finally switch the it on. The way it shakes to life in your hand once again reminds you of all the faith he has in you. All of his eggs, super glued into your basket.

The buzzing goes quickly. Bucky is inhumanly still. While it normally unsettles you, you can’t help but be grateful. Especially given the next step.

You shut off the buzzer, and reach into the barbicide glass to grab the straight edge razor.

Thankfully in the time it takes you to finish prepping the razor, Bucky has grabbed the oil from the counter and applied it himself.

You give him a moment to settle back into the chair, and wait for him to give the ‘go ahead’ nod.

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you start on the top of his beard, tightening the edges just under his cheek bone until the form a sharp, smooth line.

“Are you normally this…” Bucky trails off, freezing as you get close to his nose, and subsequently his lips in all their blush pink glory (Not that you’re paying any attention to them).

“Hands on?” You offer, pulling back and cleaning the razor. It gives Bucky a chance to release the breath he was holding. He nods.

You hum. “Not, normally this literally. But yes.” You shape the other side as you speak, triple checking that they’re even. “I don’t normally have this much creative control though.”

“Does that make me a pushover?” He asks. Another borderline smile dancing on his face.

You use a finger to tilt his chin up, making sure to avoid eye contact as you do so. “Makes you the smartest client I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet talking won’t get you frosted tips.”

“Was worth a shot.”

You’re pleased to find that the more you talk, the easier it gets. However, the weight of your current position, isn’t lost on you. His attempts at breezy conversation isn’t enough distract you from the fact that his neck is ramrod straight. He’s hardly even breathing.

He must see you noticed his tension, “Haven’t let someone else shave me since before I was shipped out.” He explains, interrupting your study of his breathing patterns. “The first time.”

Shit. He really does trusts you.

It’s almost too much, overwhelming. This man who has been dragged through hell, is sitting here and letting you use a Sweeney Todd style razor on his neck.

You’re not sure what to say, how to acknowledge the hefty implications in his words. Trusting you with his career is one thing, this is his way of saying he trusts you with his life. You hum, your next swipe with the razor extra gentle.

You fall back into a comfortable silence as you finish. Drawing sharp lines to his neck until the edge of his beard is snug against his jaw. A neck beard is an enemy of the state as far as you’re concerned.

“All done.” You say, turning around and moving out of Bucky’s way so he can finally see his reflection. “A number two guard on your razor will keep it around this length.“ You offer while compulsively cleaning up the Barber’s station. You’re sure he’s watching you from the doorway of whatever room he disappeared into. But the only eyes you can feel on you are Bucky’s. “If you like it, that is.”

You finally turn back around to face him. You don’t know if he likes it, but it’s safe to say it’s exactly what you were going for. He looks cleaner, more professional, more like a politician.

But still Bucky.

All he does is hum in response, and your stomach drops to the floor.

He hates it. He hate it’s, he’s going to fire you, and then you’ll be back to helping assholes hide hush money and-

“You do good work.”

Deciding to become, or deciding to try and become a politician was something Bucky had yet to wrap his brain around.

His resume wasn’t that of your typical bureaucrat. No political science degree or volunteer work. Sure there was his time in the service, but last he’d checked the military had changed quite a bit since World War II. He had more experience in fighting U.S. forces than actually serving in them these days.

He knew better than to admit it out loud, but the choice to run for congress, was one he made a whim.

Part had been born out of desperation to leave Brooklyn. Another part was his desire to be useful. To make a good change for once, and do it in a way that didn’t involve voilence.

Bucky just wishes he’d done a little more research.

If someone had warned him about all of the paperwork and bullshit and he had to do just to run, (never mind the pile that would be waiting on the other side if he won), he may have reconsidered.

Bucky hated to admit it, but he didn’t start trying to win until you joined the team

Full of vigor and good intentions, you actually managed to make Bucky want to win this stupid thing. Your infectious energy (and the fact that you were completely overqualified) instilled a newfound confidence in his entire team. Everyone started doubling down on their efforts.

For fucks sake he even let you shave him.

Before he knew it, Bucky was only behind by five points instead of thirty.

Now he found himself in a pickle. Physically he was knee deep in mockups of lawn signs, poll numbers, and focus group answers. Mentally all he could think about was you.

You were talking, making expressive hand gestures as you tried (in vain) to explain what the statistics in front of him meant.

Bucky was too busy thinking about your fingernails to focus.

They’d changed overnight, from a soft pink to a bright eye-catching red. He wasn’t even sure when you would have had the time, you were with him at the campaign office until well after eight last night and you had beaten him there this morning.

“Bucky, do you understand what I’m saying?” You finally broke through, tone half exasperation and half exhaustion.

Luckily, his lack of experience saved him once again. As it so often did when he was too busy watching you, to actually listen. “You know I suck at the numbers stuff.”

Why red? Is red your favorite color? No, he’s pretty sure that green is your favorite, you wear it at-least once a week and your water-bottle has a single green sticker on it.

You gave him a small smile, “I think you could win Bucky.”

Why red? He remembered girls back in Brooklyn who would paint their nails red, talking about how they’d pick it to match their lips. Subtle ways to get a boy to thinking about kissing them. He knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help the ache in his gut when the thought of it being for a date crosses his mind.

Wait what did you just say?

“I could win?”

“A few strategic events, some well timed social media posts and I think you’ve got it in the bag.” You confirm with a smile, it’s one he hasn’t seen before. Confident, almost smug. You’re good at your job and you know it.

“Holy shit.” Is about all Bucky can manage right now.

You finally sit. “I think it might time to find an apartment.”

He groaned. He had hated apartment hunting in New York. Too many people, not enough leases and he doesn’t exactly have a credit score.

“Can’t have a future congressman living in a hotel.” You say, clicking your tongue for emphasis. “Don’t worry I have a friend who can set you up.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling slack jawed.

“But, we’re still falling short in a few key demographics.” You explain, “We need to get you back to Brooklyn for a few days.”

He nods, sitting straighter and actually trying to read one of the papers in front of him, “Millennials?” He asks, pointing to a particularly sad pie chart. “I thought they liked me?”

“There’s a rumor on TikTok you killed Kennedy, true or not it’s been gaining some traction and it’s causing some of their trust to falter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you they’re not totally off base, but before he can you lift your hand and pinch your fingers together in a shushing motion.

Why are they red?

“Less I know, the better.” You say.

Fair enough.

“We’re also falling short on the older, male, right leaning side of the fence.” You explain, shuffling to bring forward a poll dated from a week prior. “Their wives love you, which means they don’t think you’re a man’s man.”

“How do we fix both of those in just a few days.” He asks, trying to ignore the way your manicured fingers tap against the laminate desk. He’s beginning to think it might be intentional on your end.

“That’s why you hired me.” You smile, “Just have your bags ready for Friday morning and make sure you pack a pair of jeans.”

He nods, knowing better than to ask you to explain when you’re in business mode like this. He hasn’t known you long, but there’s something about seeing you in your element that makes you shine a little brighter.

“I could win?” He finally doubles back, still not sure it’s entirely he believes it. Still not sure he wants it to. Still wondering why are your nails are red.

“Bucky, You have me on your side. You’re going to win.”

You had a friend at a local pet rescue in the city, and to say he owed you a favor would be an understatement. Getting them to let Bucky host an event was easy.

Getting Bucky to agree was even easier.

As always, your instincts had been right on the money, and it was a perfect match. Animals are an easy win with Millennials, if you only you could have gotten him a puppy interview.

The event was a huge success anyway, truly a publicists wet dream. The people loved him, and after only being there for an hour, a majority of the available cats had already been adopted.

Never mind the visuals, since arriving Bucky hadn’t gone five minutes without a cat in his arms.

“Had one back in the day, used to kill the rats in our building and sleep at my feet.” He had explained as he casually picked up a black little soot ball in his right hand, while the left deftly scooped up a little grey tabby. Each cat a limp noodle in his arms.

His big, strong, straining through the sleeves of his button up arms.

It’s not your fault, you’re pretty sure theres some kind of law about men being allowed to look this good while holding a baby- dog, cat, or human.

You change your train of thought, getting ready to go find the intern with the good camera and ask them to snap some candids of Bucky with the animals. When a voice stops you.

“Hey stranger.”

Jack.

Your ‘friend’ or more accurately, ex-boyfriend/shelter contact. You had hoped he wouldn’t bother coming, so you wouldn’t have to bother having this conversation.

“Jack! How are you?” You smile, turning around to face him, which sadly meant turning your back to Bucky (just as he was picking up a little scrawny, white kitten). Your people-pleaser smile in full effect as you bring him into a half-hearted hug.

He squeezes you back with a lot more enthusiasm than the interaction warrants. “It’s so good to see you!” He says, dragging out the ‘so’ for emphasis. “You’re a big shot now. Working with an Avenger and everything.”

You fight the grimace, you’d already been well established when you met Jack, he was just completely politically uneducated and didn’t believe in watching the news because ‘If something is that important, I’ll hear about.’

He also didn’t know the difference between Senate and the House of Representatives.

In hindsight it’s a miracle your relationship lasted as long as it did.

“Thank you again for letting us borrow some of these cuties.”

“No big deal, it’s a great chance to get some of the animals adopted.” He nods in Bucky’s direction. “Seems like he might be taking one home.”

You turn around, finding Bucky holding the white kitten in the crook of his elbow, the little thing is stretched out with its arms straight above its head, belly up and fast asleep.

You resist the urge to groan, finding a pet friendly rental in DC is a fucking nightmare.

Then you watch as Bucky looks down to acknowledge the kitten, ever so delicately scratching under its chin with his free hand.

Worth it.

“Turns out he’s a cat person.” You say, turning back to Jack.

This time you really take the opportunity to study him, all the ways he’s changed. He’s shorter than you remember. He also started dyeing his hair black. It looks bad. He’s less imposing and handsome than your brain dreamt him up to be.

It’s hard to find anyone handsome when they’re in the same room as Bucky.

Jack still has the same eyes, vacant. Bright and engaging, not a whole lot happening behind them.

You hadn’t ended on bad terms per se. It was mostly a mutual break up, with each of your agreeing your lives were just too different. He wanted a golden retriever, Sunday night pasta dinners, and a house so loud he never has to hear himself think.

You need quiet.

“That cat hasn’t let a single person pick her up since she got to the rescue. I’m not letting him leave without her.” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’ll take much convincing.” You smile. “It’s good to see you Jack.”

“Yeah you too, you look good y’know.” He says

Oh you know.

“Thanks, you look happy.” You mean it. “I should get back to work though. Someone needs to make sure babies get their foreheads kissed.”

“Like I said, you’re a big shot.” He pulls you into another just a little too tight hug. “You think he’s gonna win?”

You give Bucky another look, this time surprised to find him watching you. You can quite read his expression, but you never can. The sleepy little kitten in his arm is pawing at his chest trying to get his attention.

“Yeah I do.”

With that you finally escape, grasping onto Bucky’s attention like it’s a lifeline. You use the few steps it takes to reach him to shoot off a quick text, make sure there was nothing on fire, and then you put your phone back into your pocket.

Looking up you give Bucky a smile. “You know they have dogs here too right?” You ask, tone light and facetious.

“Who was that guy.” Bucky asks, always straight to the point.

“My contact here.”

“He seemed awfully friendly.”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip Barnes.” You smile, stepping a little closer, bringing a hand up to pet the baby in his arms. “If you must know, we used to date.”

He hums. “Seems like he’s still interested.” The kitten stands on his forearm, leaning against his chest while it stretches. “If you are I mean.”

You would laugh if you weren’t so surprised. The conversation was beginning to tip toe on that line of unprofessional, you could hear the sirens beginning to wail inside your head. But Bucky is looking at you with all of his attention as he waits for your answer. It’s the same stare that always makes you melt, so you ignore the alarms.

You’re not stupid, you know what he’s really asking.

Are you interested? Single? Looking?

You’re just surprised he cares about the answer.

“I know he isn’t.” You answer, choosing your words carefully, “He has two little girls at home and a gorgeous wife who wants all the same things as him.” You finally leave the cat in his arms alone, resisting the urge to coo as it reaches for you with its paw. “I wasn’t ready. I would’ve kept him waiting too long for all those things.”

It’s a more honest answer than you would normally give, but it’s Bucky. You feel safe with him holding the truth.

He nods, and you notice the slight twitch of his lips. Like he’s fighting a smile.

“I think I have to adopt this cat.” He says, sparring you any follow up questions. He guides the kitten up to his shoulder, where it quickly makes itself at home.

“I already had one of the interns start the paperwork.” You smile knowingly.

“How do you do that?” He asks.

“Do what?”

He holds the kitten up to his face, staring as if it might answer instead of you, “Know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Bucky knew you only acted in the best interests of the campaign. Each event carefully crafted to boost morale, or fix a statistic you didn’t liked

However, for the first time he wondered if maybe you had chosen this event, just because you wanted to go. Okay maybe it wasn’t the entire reason, he was sure you could back up with a graph and something about polling numbers if he asked.

But after everything you’d done for the campaign, he was inclined to let you have the win. Besides, seeing you in a jersey and jean shorts wasn’t something he felt like he needed to be upset about.

Don’t forget the baseball cap, which it really brought home for him.

Honestly the only thing that really pissed him off about today, was the fact that the first baseball he got to watch in eighty fucking years was a Yankees game.

His Ma would be rolling in her grave, and he told you as much.

“What are you a Mets guy or something?” You ask barely tearing your eyes from the field to look at him.

“Mets?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. He hadn’t found much use for baseball since rejoining the world. Watching it on TV felt too static, but he didn’t have the heart to go to a real game alone either.

“Guess not.” You answer yourself.

“Dodgers were my team.” He explained.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re on the West Coast now.” You say with an over exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan.” It’s not a question, but the way your voice lilts up at the end sure makes it seem like one.

He can’t help himself but take the bait.

“My Ma used to bring me and my sister down to Ebbet’s every Sunday. Could never afford tickets but there was a great park right out the stadium, we could hear everything.” He said, feeling himself start smiling just remembering it. “I’d lay on the grass, close my eyes, and pretend I was inside.”

“I hope you know, I’m picturing this all on black and white.” You cracked, if Bucky wasn’t so caught up the memory, he’d notice that your voice was dripping with fondness.

“Very funny.” He responds.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Only got inside once, just me and Steve. We snuck in when we like 15. He was short enough to pass for a kid and I was fast enough to lose security after jumping the turnstile. Best game I ever saw.” He feels himself smiling while he pictures it, “Even though security kicked us out halfway through the fourth inning.”

“You got into a lot of trouble as a kid didn’t you?” You asked, turning yourself in your to face him. While at least as much as you can turn in a stadium seat.

“Steve did, I just felt guilty letting him get in trouble alone.”

“How selfless.” You joke.

“I’ve always been a man of the people.” Talking was so easy with you. Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself lately.

“I’m sorry but hearing you refer to Captain America as Steve is never gonna stop being weird for me.” You say, taking another sip of your drink. A beer, which had surprised him. He had pegged you for spirits.

“Hearing you call Steve, Captain America is never gonna stop being a total mind fuck for me.”

“Since when do you curse so much Barnes.” You ask, tilting your head in a way Bucky found so cute he thought he might explode.

“Since I have to sit through a Yankees game, sober-“ He nudged you with elbow, reaching over you to tap the bottle in your cupholder, “-and since you’re too tipsy to yell at me about it.”

You shrug, apparently not finding much fault with his argument. “It’s not my fault you have a supernatural metabolism.” You take another sip, grinning at him as you do so. “I don’t get a lot opportunities to drink shitty beer and eat greasy food these days, gotta take advantage.” You finish.

“I’m not judging.” He defends.

“Everything has to be a bit of mind fuck for you though doesn’t it?” You ask. No malice despite the harsh choice of words, just curiosity.

“Who’s cursing now?” He elbows you.

“No seriously. I mean, it can’t be easy, and yet here you are, still trying to make the world a better place.” You lament. For the first time ever, Bucky thinks you might just feel sorry for him. Not because of his past, but because of his decision to go into politics. Which is fitting for you.

“Sure, it’s hard.” He admits, “Ebbet’s is a bunch of apartments, people don’t even go dancing anymore, the Dodgers play for LA, a hot dog costs a month’s rent-“ He pauses, taking a deep breath, “-and Steve is gone.” No matter how many times he says it, it still tastes bitter. You’re right, his entire world had been turned upside down, twice.

“Trying to be good is the only thing I still know how to do.” He finishes. His words hang between you for a moment, and he’s worried he’s said too much.

“People do still go dancing.” You respond.

“They don’t dance the way they used to though. I don’t think I could keep up now.” He says.

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.” You smile, “I’ll have to take you when this is all over.”

Bucky is too busy reading into that last sentence to try and respond to it. The idea that you think about spending time with him even after the election is enough to send him into a tailspin.

A few minutes of quiet pass between you. You shake your head, taking another swig before speaking. “You don’t give yourself enough credit Bucky.” You say, finally leaving it at that.

Bucky is grateful, he wasn’t sure how he had veered so far off course. Somehow he’d managed to ruin a conversation that he swears was beginning to border on flirting.

Don’t get him started on how flirting as changed.

You’d bumped his shoulder and laughed at enough of his jokes that the old Bucky would’ve asked you out by now. But he didn’t know if either of those things meant what they used to back then. He was pretty sure they did.

He was also pretty sure you’d had at least three beers. You’re the closest to relaxed he’d ever seen you. Laughing freely, not worried about optics, or the political implications of Bucky being seen eating cracker jacks. If he knew you as well as he thinks he’s starting too, you probably have some ‘no dating clients’ rule anyway. It wouldn’t be fair for him to make a move now, not when you could finally breathe.

Regardless of if you were flirting or not.

Besides you wearing jean shorts and it was the first time he’d ever seen anything above your knee and staring at your thighs was the closest thing to drunk Bucky had felt in years. He wasn’t of sound mind to be making decisions like that.

“You’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met,” You smile, and your hand reaches over to touch his resting on top of his thigh. “And I’ve met a lot men.”

Bucky feels his brain get dangerously close to exploding.

Somehow, he still manages to find words. “It’s not all selfless.” He confesses. Turning the hand yours was resting on upwards and lacing his fingers through yours.

It’s as forward as his confidence can afford right now.

He squeezes your hand and then releases it. Bucky stands up and resists the urge to stretch his back because Jesus, these seats are uncomfortable. He gets ready to walk away, with the plan of shaking a few hands, and getting you a pretzel (for alcohol absorption purposes of course. It has nothing to do with an comment you made about craving one).

Before he leaves he bends over and whispers his last admission in your ear.

“I’m not trying to make the world a better place. I’m still trying to make him proud.”

8:00 A.M.

That’s when your flight leaves, which means it will board around 7:15 A.M.

So you should really be at the airport by 6 A.M. Your entire team has TSA Pre-check so it shouldn’t take too long but it’s better safe than sorry.

That means you have to leave the hotel by 5 A.M to get to JFK in time.

You need an hour to shower, and get ready so you look some version of human so you can hit the ground running when you land in DC. So wake up at 4 A.M.

You look down at your phone and sigh, 10:45 P.M. If you fell asleep right now you’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to move.

Surely it had nothing to do with the man sitting across the table from you. Bucky raises his eyebrows, giving you that stupid, handsome, knowing look.

“Your brain is working.” He says, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. This time you let yourself stare stare at them.

You had gotten back from the event a little over an hour ago. A charity gala for some businessman’s tax write off. It was a great opportunity for him to rub some elbows, smile and make small talk with all the right people. It was your last stop on his mini Brooklyn tour.

You had joined Bucky, acting as his -strictly professional- plus one. It was out of your normal scope of responsibilities, but Bucky had made a very convincing argument, something about how you were better with names, and faces, and how if you didn’t go he’d end up sulking in a corner all night.

It made the most sense for you to go. Keep Bucky company, feed him names and information. Maybe one quick dance.

It had nothing to do with the fact that saying no to him is quickly becoming impossible.

Definitely nothing to do with wanting to see him in a suit.

“I’m doing the math on when we need to get to the airport.” You tell him.

“Knew it.” He says, “Is that your way of saying we should call it a night?” He asks, but doesn’t move an inch.

He’s giving you an out.

You shake your head. “I’ve done more with less sleep.” You take a sip of your drink. You feel wide awake but you’re pretty sure it’s not from the alcohol. “What about you Barnes, need your beauty rest?”

Bucky smiles, he had shrugged his jacket off when you first sat down. At some point the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone. You’re not even sure when he took the tie off. “Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.”

You had worn a long black dress, formal enough to blend in without drawing attention away from Bucky. It also looked so good on you it was bordering on unprofessional.

You had drank, eaten, and made so much small talk you’d probably have a sore throat tomorrow. Yet when Bucky asked if you were up for a night cap, you once again found yourself struggling to get that two-letter word off your tongue.

You didn’t want say goodbye just yet, and there was something about having him all to yourself that you were starting to become addicted to. So you sat down at a table in the nearly empty hotel bar, and you couldn’t help but think about how you probably looked like a couple to the rest of the world.

“Can I admit something?” You asked, tilting your head.

Bucky nods. “Anything.”

“I didn’t think you stood a chance.”

Bucky almost chokes on his drink. “Jesus, that’s reassuring.” He scoffs.

“You had terrible optics, no political background, and everyone who I asked about you either hated you or was scared shitless of you.” You explain.

“I do have a bad history with politicians.” He cracks. “If I was so hopeless, why’d you take the job?”

Your walls are lowered enough that you give him the real answer. “Needed a change. Didn’t hurt that I thought you were cute.” You take another sip, as if it will hide the heat spreading across your cheeks.

Bucky hums, if he was going to say anything else you don’t give him the chance.

“Bucky you’re my unicorn.” You sigh, cue another embarrassed sip, “You’re a good man, willing to take feedback, and running for all the right reasons.”

You let your words sit there in the silence, biting your lip to force yourself to stop talking. Christ you’re nervous, you’re never nervous, why is he making you so nervous?

“The other guys must’ve been real assholes.” He says, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to him accepting the compliment.

“This is the first time in ten years I want the person I’m working for to actually win. I want you to win Bucky.”

You wouldn’t normally risk being this honest, this open with a politician, but you were beginning to feel like that word fit him less and less.

Or maybe it was the forced professionalism that was ill suited.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you hate your job sweetheart.”

You’re already rolling your eyes when you hear it.

Sweetheart.

Your heart stutters, your fingers twitch, your face flushes.

“Love the job, hate the people.” You manage to choke out, finally downing the rest of your glass in an attempt to collect yourself. Buy yourself a little time before you have to talk again. “I get the chance to help make the world better, by making sure the right people are in charge of it. But at the same time I’m the reason Whitmore ever got in office.”

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Whitmore? I fucking hate that guy.”

You nod, grimacing.

Preston Clay Whitmore IV. You worked for him back when he was running for Senate in Texas, and using all of his Daddy’s money to do it.

“It was my first job, I was his communications consultant. God I hated him.” You shake your head, “But I was fresh out of college, green and broke.”

“A deadly combination.” He offers.

“He thought he was the next Kennedy, and he talked like it. Every single interview, debate, and ad sounded like Preston thought he was gods gift to humanity.” You can still hear his catchy little stupid theme song now.

Whitmore’s a comin’ to Whip DC into shape!

“How’d you turn it around?” He asks, a smile playing at those gorgeous lips.

Okay maybe you are a little buzzed.

“I made him drop the Roman numerals to start.”

You weren’t super enthusiastic about him, and you certainly weren’t thrilled about being in the South. Yet Preston’s father knew all the right people, you knew getting him into office would mean a career. A great one.

You don’t mean to bore Bucky with all of the details of Preston’s campaign, of his miraculous win, and how he ended up being elected the youngest Senator in Texas’ history. But the way he listens, the way he asks you questions. You almost think he enjoyed it.

Suddenly he’s telling you about how he recently got his hands on a tape of one of Steve’s old USO shows, and how he wishes he could hold it over his head.

You’re telling him about how you worked two jobs in high school in order to save up for college.

Then he’s promising to take you to Wakanda someday, once things have settled down some, how it’s nothing like how you picture it.

“I’ve got a few friends from when I lived there.”

You swear your jaw almost hits the floor, “You lived there?”

“Yeah for a few years,” he laughs, “They helped straighten my brain out, made it possible for me to almost be like a real person.”

He smiles, finally polishing off his drink.

“Why do you drink if it doesn’t affect you?” You ask.

He shrugs, the glass still in his hand. “I still like the taste of a good drink, that’s why I didn’t bother with beer or any of the crap being served at the game the other day.” He puts the cup back on the table.

“I think it still has a placebo effect on me too a little bit. Even though I can’t metabolize it, I still feel like it smooths the edges.”

You nod, understanding.

You can’t help but finally look at your phone again.

1:45 A.M. Shit.

You look back up and meet Bucky’s knowing gaze.

“We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” He asks, this time he shrugs his jacket back on.

“Afraid so.” You answer, voice softer than you expected. “You have to go back to your apartment or can you get a room here?”

He shakes his head, “I got a few things I wanna pack up, plus I have to get Alpine ready.”

You smile, brightening at the mention of your new favorite feline. “You decided on a name!” He nods, his smile just as wide.

“Can I walk you up to your room?” He asks, finally standing.

God you almost forgot just how taller he is.

“You don’t have do that Bucky I’m all the way on the 8th floor.” You stand too, at some point you had kicked your heels off and you can’t be bothered to force them back on, instead leaning down to pick them up in one hand.

“Humor me. Please?” He gives you the eyes, ones you can only describe as begging. The ones he uses whenever his not getting his way, “It’d make me feel less guilty for keeping you up so late.” He takes the shoes out of your hand as he speaks, completely dwarfing them in his grasp.

“I guess it is the least you can do.” You joke, starting to walk towards the elevator. You don’t get far before Bucky catches up and quickly takes the heels out of your hand.

The ride up is spent in silence, but not the awkward kind, like the day at the barbershop. It’s softer, warmer and like the air between you is humming.

Your door is all the way at the end of the hallway, and if you were in tune enough with your body to remember just had badly your feet hurt, you’d probably complain about it.

But right now, with Bucky so close so you can’t bring yourself to worry about a blister.

However, it was only a matter of time before you got to your door. While digging the hotel key out of your purse, you turn around to face Bucky.

“Thank you again, for tonight. And for walking me up to my room.” You nod toward the door, still not moving to open it.

When had he gotten so close? Less than a foot was between you now.

Bucky smiles, looking down at the floor, then back up to you. “Least I could do after you saved me from a night of getting people’s names wrong.”

You laugh, it borders just enough on being a giggle than you feel your stomach turn a little. “Seriously, I had a really good time tonight Bucky.”

You feel yourself leaning into him, it’s not entirely conscious. The smell of his cologne is drowning out the voices screaming: Back up! Move away! Too close! Danger! Danger! Danger!

But he’s leaning in too. With him, it feels the opposite of scary.

“Me too.” He says, his voice is so soft now, and you know this proximity isn’t lost on him.

You feel yourself move before you can actually think about it, your heels lifting up from the ground, your hands rising and settling on his broad shoulders.

And then you kiss his cheek.

As you pull away, it’s like you’re stuck in slow motion. A slow sink down while your hands drift from his shoulders to pecs.

Your eyes are shut, too afraid to open them and see his reaction when-

Bucky leans down and presses his head against yours, forehead to forehead. His chest brushing against yours as you each breathe, or in your case, try to. His eyes are closed too. His brows scrunched the way like when he’s thinking really hard about something.

Your body feels like a live wire when he’s this close. All rational thoughts are completely overwhelmed with the desire, no- the need to kiss him.

You angle your head, tilting your chin and just like that- contact.

He only takes a few seconds to respond.

He’s softer than you imagined, catching your top lip between his and treating it with such care and the whole moment feels so much more, gentle, than you had expected it to.

Not that you had been thinking about it or anything.

He pulls away, but you’re quick to grab one of his a lapels, ensuring he can’t go far. You do your best to read him, before either of you can open your mouths and ruin this.

You can’t decide if he wants to kiss you again or apologize. You’re not sure which you want either.

“I don’t do this.” You say, sounding a lot more breathless than you intended. “Kiss clients, I mean.”

“I know.” He says.

“We really shouldn’t do this.” You add, not sounding even a little confident.

“I know.” He says.

“I have a rule about it.” You try, sounding even weaker.

“I figured.” He says.

But Bucky has made up his mind, with his free hand (which had at some point made its way to your hip), he slowly guides you until your back is flat against the door to your room.

Your hands are still frozen, clutching his jacket. Your knuckles almost white with tension. Your noses are almost touching.

“Just one more.” He says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips back to yours.

Distantly you hear him drop your heels, and feel his hand come up to cradle the side of your face.

He’s not as gentle this time, the force behind his kiss is greater. It’s more confident, hungrier. You can’t help but melt into it, hands climbing until they find a home behind his neck.

You’re hungrier this time too.

You feel your body filling with want and need. The urge to bite and claw him, then kiss and stitch him back together. If you were anyone else you could let it consume you. Part of you wonders if he would let it consume him. The way he’s kissing you, it’s like he already has.

When you break for air, you’re suddenly aware of just how tightly he’s pressed himself against you. How delicious warm, firm, and broad he is.

He drops his head against your shoulder, pressing it into the crook of your neck. You feel him release a long, deep sigh against your neck as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

You allow yourself to run your hands through his hair, just once. Working up the strength to get the words out.

Bucky presses one last soft kiss to your neck and then detaches himself from you.

Wordlessly, he picks up your heels, fixes the strap that had fallen off of your shoulder, and manages to grab your long discarded key card.

He fixes you with a look, one that you hadn’t seen before. It’s reverent, deep, and knocks any words you had out of your mouth.

“After?” Is all he asks.

But you know what he’s asking. “After.” You answer, a firm nod to accompany it.

You don’t need to say more than that, as if the kiss had also created your own short hand.

He smiles, and leans forward to unlock your room. Propping the door open with one hand, he waits until you’ve stepped inside it to hand you your heels, and your key card. As if he can’t resist, he also presses one last chaste kiss to your forehead.

“See you in a few hours sweetheart.” Finally he turns around and he leave.

You stand in the door way dumbfounded until you hear the elevator ding, and then you finally close it.

Your typically nighttime routine takes twice the time it should, with frequently interruptions of muttering “what the fuck was I thinking?” and deep reflective pauses to try and remember what his lips looked like when they were well kissed.

When you finally fall onto the bed, the last thing you see is the digital clock blinking at you, or more accurately taunting you.

2:30 A.M.

“Shit.”

Bucky is Dragging.

He didn’t make it back to his apartment until after three, the walk took him twice as long as it should have because he was too busy thinking about you.

What else is new?

However, this time, his thoughts were clouded with memories, instead of hypotheticals. He remembered how you felt beneath his hands. How you tasted. How you smiled against his lips. How you wanted it as badly as he did.

By the time he’s packed, and the cat is finally stowed away in her travel carrier (a mesh backpack one of the interns had picked up) it’s time for him to head to the airport.

Safe to say the lack of sleep isn’t helping his clarity.

He’s trying his best to listen to what the flight crew is saying, Something something cat, something something landing, something something drink service.

He’s too busy ogling you. And too tired to try and hide it. You were sitting across from him, nose deep in a packet someone had handed to you while boarding.

Normally Bucky would try to sleep on this flight, after all he had kindergarteners to read too once he got to DC. Or something, he honestly wasn’t even sure what he’s rushing back for. All that matters is that he should be sleeping, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.

Since sitting down you’d been able to spare him a glance, and a tight smile, but that was it.

Maybe you had changed your mind? Sure, your agreement last night wasn’t super fleshed out, but he thought the implication was clear.

After, meaning after the campaign.

He just needed to make sure. God it made him feel like a little boy, even just to admit it to himself.

He clears his throat, and waits for you to finally meet his eyes. “You get any sleep last night?” He asks, if the way your eyes droop are any indication the answer is no.

You shake your head, “About an hour, if I’m lucky.” You tell him, but you smile again, this time it looks more like your own. “You?”

He shakes his head, “Too much to think about.”

You hum, and he knows you’re acutely aware of the staff surrounding you in the plane. Each one is either napping or too engrossed in their own tasks, but still too risky.

“You’re in the home stretch now, little more than two weeks to go.” You say. Placing the files you had been pouring over to the side. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Despite the mention of the rapidly approaching election, Bucky can’t help but relax as you talk. “I was thinking about after.” He says. It’s as on the nose as he can get.

Your smile widens. “You need sleep to get to after, Bucky.”

“Too nervous.” He shoots back.

You shake your head, stretching your legs out in front of you, until the toe of your shoe touches Bucky’s.

“No reason to be nervous. It will still be there.”

That was all he needed to hear.

“It’s worth waiting for.” He says. It didn’t quite make sense in the conversation you’re having out loud. But in the real conversation, the one being had under a layer of professionalism, he’s saying:

You’re worth waiting for.

Based on the way you duck your head, embarrassed. He knows you heard the second one.

“Before you try to sleep, there is something else we should talk about.”

And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the professional. Your voice changes in a way Bucky can’t quite define, but he’s been spending enough time with you that he can hear the difference.

“We’re going to up your security, we have three more guards who will be joining your rotation when we land.”

It catches Bucky totally out of left field. “Wait, what?” He asks.

You nod, “I know it sounds dramatic,” you try to appease him, as if you can already hear the argument on his tongue. “But there have been three credible threats made against you in the past forty-eight hours.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Is it really neces-“

“Yes.” You cut him off, “I don’t care that you’re built like a tank Bucky.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his face at that, “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He relents, and he feels the shit-eating grinning that’s still plastered across his face. “Any thing else?”

You smile, pleased. “The social media team has drafted a post about Alpine- just stating you’ve adopted her and laying on the cuteness factor. Permission to post?”

“Yea that’s fine.” His eyes dart to the seat next to him, where the little creature is curled in a ball. It’d only been a few days, but it was nice to have a cat again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You nod, pulling out your tablet and he hears your (now French) nails tap at the screen.

Were they like that last night? He was pretty distracted, but he surprised he didn’t notice. The novelty of getting to touch you had turned just about everything but the memory of your lips to mush.

“You’re going straight from the airport to Howard Stark Elementary. The plan is for you to tell a few jokes, color a few pages, and read them a Doctor Seuss book or something.” You explain, “It’s grandparents day so there will be other people your age.” Bucky would have believed you if it weren’t for the way you started smiling at the end of the sentence.

It was more of smirk actually. Like you thought you were hilarious.

Even when it was at his expense he was inclined to agree. He doesn’t let it show though, keeping stoic until you break.

“Kidding.” You promise. “Then it’s off to a luncheon with a few of the other candidates. You should be done by three, and then you’re free to nap.”

“Thank god.”

“You mind if I put a suit fitting in your calendar for this week?” You sound like you’re asking, but Bucky knows it’s really just your way of telling him it’s happening. “You should have a new suit ready for election night.”

You make a good point. He had plenty of suits, but he wouldn’t mind having something a new for the big day. “Only if you help me pick it out.” He offers, playing right into your charade of his control.

“Of course.” You agree, standing up and your arms above your head. It causes your blouse to ride up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Then you- as casually as possible- look around.

You must be satisfied by what you see, because when you walk next to Bucky’s seat and lean down so you’re next to his ear. He feels your warm breath hit his skin, and the smell of your perfume has the hair on his neck standing up. He almost doesn’t hear what your whisper.

“As if I’d miss the chance to see you in a suit.”

Then you’re gone, turning around and making your way up to the bathroom as if you didn’t just send him into a tail spin.

Maybe flirting hasn’t changed that much.

You were honest on the plane.

Hell would freeze over before you miss a chance to see Bucky in a suit. Especially after the other night.

But it wasn’t just your new obsession driving this shopping trip.

He was going to win. You wanted him to look devastatingly handsome when he did.

You could feel it now, it was completely in his grasp. You were used to quick results, but this had been unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You’d never seen a candidate jump this far into the lead after only two months.

The numbers looked great. You felt confident saying that despite your very unprofessional bias.

Speaking of-

You’d been back in DC for a week and still hadn’t been alone since. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it since the plane.

Did that even count?

Sure, you’d stared at eachother about it, and smiled about it, and brushed eachothers hands about it, but no words had been spoken.

Inside this shop was the closet you’d gotten to privacy. Just you, Bucky, and the old man measuring his inseam.

Much to your surprise, the tailor, Eddie, was Bucky’s pick.

Even more surprisingly, the two of them hadn’t shut up since you walked in the door. You had sat down on one of the chairs in front of the mirrors while Eddie began the fitting. Trying your best to figure out who the hell replaced Bucky with this middle school girl.

“So,” you ask, after a lull in their conversation finally presents itself. “How did you two meet?”

Eddie perks up, as if he just remembered you were there. “We live in the same old folks home.” He tells you, just as Bucky is saying “Neighbors.”

If you had a water you would have done a spit take.

“I’m sorry the same, what?” You ask, lifting a finger in Bucky’s direction as you add “just Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, completely oblivious, as most old men are. “We live in the same apartment complex. Lincoln Estates.” He confirms, too busy measuring to notice your smirk. “Boss man over here just moved into the penthouse.”

“Bucky you told me you moved, but you never said where!”

“On purpose.” He says, voice flat.

Before you can comment, Eddie continues. “Yeah it took some convincing to get the HOA on board, but he technically meets the age requirement. Plus I told them having a congressman in our building might actually get the city to do something about the messed up sidewalk.”

It’s like Bucky can see the jokes forming in your head, “It’s an active adult complex!” He defends, jostling so much that Eddie has to pull him back into place.

“Mhm.” You hum, biting your lips to keep from laughing. “It’s a beautiful building, its by the hospital right?” You ask.

Eddie nods, “Yeah, it’s great! We also have a physical therapist who works out of the building. Plus, there’s a proposal to add a pickle ball court on the roof.”

You nearly choke. “That’s amazing!” You add, completely overdoing your enthusiasm.

Bucky melts in front of you, his face a brighter shade of pink with each passing comment.

Eddie taps Bucky’s shoulder, “Almost done, just gotta run to the back for a few minutes.” It’s innocent enough, but Eddie winks as he says it.

As soon as he’s gone Bucky speaks, “They were pet friendly.”

You don’t ease up, “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“That was the plan.”

“So you were just going to let me figure it out when I saw shuffleboard in the lobby?”

“Why are you in my lobby?” He fires back.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no shuffleboard in the lobby.” He laments,“Honestly, the apartment itself is normal.”

“Are there handle bars in your shower?” You ask.

Bucky sighs, it’s obvious he will not be winning this round, “They’re very convient.”

You stand up, walking over to a display of ties. You run your fingers over the different fabrics, stopping when your fingers land on a baby blue one. “Bucky do you know how much of your appeal as a candidate relies on the fact that you’re not an old man?”

“I thought my appeal was being an Avenger.”

“Avenger adjacent.” You add, part of your job is to keep him humble afterall. “Yes, that’s a lot of it too, but so is your physical age. If we take out the popsicle years, you’re about to become one the youngest senators on the floor.”

“Popsicle years?” He asks, making that stupid, cute questioning face he always gives you.

You give him a quick, but apologetic look, realizing how that sounded, “Seriously Bucky, just try to keep a low profile in the building for a bit. Last thing we need is someone’s Nana spreading gossip about you.”

He winces and you fix him with a stern, ‘What does that mean?’ look.

You grab the blue tie and walk over to Bucky. “I promised to bring Captain America to the next Barbecue.” He admits.

You’re standing in-front of Bucky now, so close your toes almost touch. Wordlessly, you bring the tie up and around his neck, tucking it under his collar. “You like it there?”

He nods, “I do.” You can feel the weight of his eyes as you begin to tie his tie. You try you best to focus on the steps, but the way he’s staring makes it hard not to mess up. “They play music I actually know, and treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

You smile. “Then that’s all that matters.”

He smiles back. Clearing his throat as you finally pull the knot tight. You let your hands linger this time, the way they had wanted too that day in the barbershop. You rest your palms against his chest, finally lifting your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still pissed you didn’t tell me though.” You tease.

“Promise not to do it again.” He says. His tone isn’t quite as airy as yours.

Just as you’re about to back up, his hands find your hips. The short distance between you feels so charged, trying to come up with any words feels impossible.

You have a rule and you already broke it once. You’re not trying to get in the habit of breaking it again, not when you’re so close to the finish line. But you can smell his cologne, feel his breath, and it all makes you dizzy.

You should say something. Tell him you shouldn’t, tell him it’s not a good idea, tell him Eddie will be back any second.

“Hi.” You whisper.

Fuck that is not what you were gonna say.

“Hi.” He smiles back, pulling you just a little closer. He looks down at the tie, “Blue?”

“Matches your eyes.” You try and make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, a futile attempt attempt to break the tension. You realized it had the opposite effect of when you feel his grip tighten.

“Bucky.” You warn, but still not dropping your hands.

He ignores it. “What if I fire you?” He asks

You laugh. Unable to help it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.” You exhale.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “One week, then you’re taking me dancing.” He says. You tilt your head up towards him, l body all but melted against him at this point and you give in. Leaning up onto your toes you’re just about to press your lips to his when-

“All right Buddy you are all set!” Eddie’s voice booms as he walks back into the room. You and Bucky jump apart like guilty teenagers.

Bucky recovers quicker than you do. “That’s great Eddie, what do I owe you?”

You pick up your bag, and do your best to try and fight the heat in your cheeks. “It’s my treat.” You insist, reaching into your purse to grab your card.

“No way.” Bucky fights back, his wallet is already opened on the counter.

“I’m the one who insisted you get a new suit Bucky.“ you fight back.

“It’s my treat.” Eddie says. “Consider it your house warming present.”

You can tell Bucky is stunned, “You sure it’s not a bribe to get that sidewalk fixed?” He jokes.

“Next one is free if you pull off that miracle.” Eddie smiles, and then not so gently adds, “Now get out of my shop and go flirt somewhere else.”

You laugh, embarrassed. “Thank you Eddie.” You look over at Bucky. “You do good work.”

“I know.” He winks.

The sun beats down on you as you step outside. Eager to get to air conditioning, you walk ahead of Bucky, joking about how he was going to sweat through his new suit.

He’s about fifteen feet behind you, halfway through a comment about how he won’t miss New York winters (as if DC is that much warmer) when you hear the car come to life. Your hand is a foot from the door when the world erupts.

There’s a sudden breeze, then a flash of heat. You feel yourself fly through the air, before you back crashes into something hard and jagged. Then you hear the blast, the reverberation of it shaking the ground you landed on.

Your body starts to catch up, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Your leg is throbbing and you can feel yourself coughing, but you can’t hear a thing over the ringing in your ears.

You look around, trying to find Bucky, but everything is covered in a blanket of smoke. Distantly, you register the car. The entire frame is on fire and either it flew across the street, or you did.

Then it all goes black.

It was like the entire thing had happened in slow motion.

One second you were laughing, smiling at him like you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else- the next thing he knew you were rumpled against a brick wall, covered in dust, blood, and your leg bent beneath you in a that definitely wasn’t natural.

Bucky was far enough away that he only had a few bumps and scrapes. He didn’t even need stitches.

You weren’t so lucky, and you didn’t even have serum on your side.

Every single Doctor who came to check on you marveled at the fact that you had managed to get away with just a few broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, and a fractured leg.

Nothing absolutely this felt lucky to him. He spent three hours waiting for you come out of surgery. It felt like you had been seriously hurt, and it was his fault.

If he had gotten to the car first. If he hadn’t sent the extra security home early. If he had taken a separate car instead of making some lame excuse about saving gas just to be closer to you. This wouldn’t have happened.

Bucky has never needed help with coming up with new and inventive ways to feel guilty and he had plenty of time to do so while he waited for you to wake up.

As an act of contrition he forces himself to just watch. Watch you breathe, watch your fingers twitch, watch your monitors and try in vain to decipher them.

No pacing, no yelling, no tracking down the men who set it all up. None of the things he’d have done if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hear your voice in his head telling him not to.

Telling hum how violence doesn’t suit him, doesn’t match the Bucky he’s become. A man he’s trying very hard to be right now.

You also keeps telling him to call his therapist, but that’s not happening.

Somewhere around hour two he had taken off the tie, it was dirty, dusty, and speckled in your blood from when he lifted you out of the rubble. Now he just kept wrapping and unwrapping it in his hands, anxiety radiating off of him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s doesn’t matter how many people tell him you’re going to be fine. Their words don’t change how small you look in the hospital bed, how cold your hands feel when he tries to hold them. The bruise from where you hit your head looks brighter every time Bucky can bring himself to look at it, dark purple staining your forehead.

He’s exhausted. A few hours of sleep would do him a world of good, but he can’t sleep until he sees the whites of your eyes.

Bucky has always hated hospitals. He hated them back in when he’d go visit Steve as a kid. He hated them in the war, when they were just tents help to other by rope and a bandaid. He hated them in Wakanda, when he was getting his bearings, relearning how to be human.

He hated them most, when he was a visitor. Being patient comes with a certain degree of acceptance. There’s a surrender that comes with being a patient too, being able to let someone else make all the hard decisions for him.

As a visitor there is no comfort. He sits in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, and waits. He waits for doctors to come with news, he waits for you to need anything. Waits to to feel useful. The rest of the waiting is just a reminder of how no matter what he believes, what he trains for, or what he does, he has no control.

Looking at you here, connected to tubes is a reminder of why he has can never let his guard down. He knew better than to get close, he certainly knew better than to start whatever this thing between the two of you was. He’s already convinced himself that he’s going to get as much distance from you as possible as soon as-

You wake up, or more accurately you groan into consciousness.

Your eyes crack open, lips parting like you’re trying to speak. At your side your hand lifts, stretching as much as it can towards him.

Bucky grabs your hand, holding it between both of his. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers.

You hum, craning your head with a wince towards the untouched glass of water on your table. Bucky grabs it wordlessly and brings the straw to your lips, “Small sips.” He encourages. You nod, closing your eyes as you drink.

When you finally pull away, you fix him with a worried look, as if he’s the one laying in the hospital bed.

“You look,” You clear your throat, “-like shit.” You voice is hoarse. He knows how smoke inhalation feels, like swallowing around glass. That’s without having been intubated.

Bucky is sure his relief is palpable, his entire body unclenches. “Then you probably shouldn’t look in the mirror sweetheart.” He says, presenting you the cup for another sip. This time you take the cup from his hands. “You got one hell of a shiner on your forehead.”

You lift a hand to your temple, recoiling when you make contact. “I’ll get bangs.” You say, not giving it another thought. Dropping your hand back to your side, you take a deep breath, or you try too, but a wince interrupts it. “It was really bad wasn’t it?” You ask.

Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. He doesn’t want to say that you’ll be in a boot for at least three months. That you’ll be out of work for two. Doesn’t want to tell you that if you had been six inches closer to that car you’d be dead.

“What happened?” You whisper.

Of course you don’t remember, you were ten feet into a brick wall, how could you? Never-mind the concussion to the mix.

“Car bomb.” He explains, “Turns out you were right about needing the extra security.”

“Add it to the list.” You smirk at that, lips cracked from dehydration. You look down, noticing the bump of the bandages around your leg. You bring a hand to your ribs, gently feeling at the wrap there as-well. “Shit.” You whisper.

He nods. “Was worse than really bad.” One of his hands crept up to cradle your hand, two fingers pressed firmly to your pulse. He needs to feel anchored to this moment, to the reality that you’re okay.

He’s fixed his gaze on the blankets covering you, when all of sudden you start to cry.

Your chest heaves with silent sobs and a few scattered tears run down your cheeks. Then you let out a pathetic whimper than Bucky can’t for the life of him understand.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He tries to soothe, moving so he’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to your legs. He brings a hand up to cradle your face, sweeping away the tears with his thumb.

You nuzzle into his palm, resting the entire weight of your head against it while you mumble something.

“Honey I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, buts it’s okay. You’re okay now, everything is fine. You’re only gonna be in a boot for three months! The rest will heal on its own with some rest.” He explains, smoothing your hair as he speaks.

“I almost died.” You explain, slower this time. “And now I’m gonna have bangs when you win!” You add, sounding even more wrecked.

Already thinking about work. You’re still you. Under the scratchy voice and bruised skin, you still have all of your priorities out of order. You still have your sparkle. Something Bucky had spent the last several hours afraid you’d lost.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He promises, “We have a week until the election, no need to pull out the scissors just yet.” He reminds you.

“Six days.” You bite back. The ghost of a smile on your face as you calm down. You nod towards the nurses chart on the wall, “It’s tomorrow, only six days left.” You explain.

“My apologies.” He jokes. Dropping his palm from your face back to your hand.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you?” You ask, eyes looking him over, taking in his disheveled state. Bucky nods, fighting a yawn as you say it. You give him a real smile this time, all of your warmth directed squarely at him. “Better not be blaming yourself Barnes.”

God, you know him better than he gives you credit for. “That’s because it is my fault.” He admits, suddenly finding great interest in the floor.”

“No.” You say, voice firm.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t-“ He stops, choking on the words.

“Did you put the bomb in the car Bucky?” You ask. Tone sharp and unyielding. He instantly recognizes it, having heard you use with anyone who tries to challenge you. He’s never heard anyone succeed.

“No.” He answers, still unable to look at you. “But that doesn’t change-“

“Bucky.” You interrupt, “Look at me.” He listens, as always. “This is not your fault.”

He wants to fight with you, to yell that is, to give you a hundred different reasons why you should run in the opposite direction.

“I got hurt, because someone wanted to hurt you.” Knife - twisted. “Both of those things can be true, without it being your fault. Okay?”

He nods, “Okay.” He says.

“It’s my pity party, don’t make it about you.”

He almost laughs at that, there’s something about you that makes wallowing so much harder. Besides, you’re you’re giving him that smile, how could he.

So he chooses to believe you, at least until the voices start up again.

“I talked to your boss.” He says.

“Oh?” You ask.

“Some wannabe congressman.” He elaborates.

“Oh!” You giggle, catching on. “How’d it go? He’s a real hardass.”

“He was tough,” he plays along, “But I managed to convince him to give you PTO for the next four months.”

“Wow.” You pretend to be surprised, “That’s very generous considering my contract is up in a week.”

“Mmm, he said something about that too.” You widen your eyes, “Said he had big plans for you.”

You nod, smiling wide. “I can’t wait to hear them.” The second half of your sentence is lost to a yawn.

Bucky feels lighter as he watches you snuggle into the blankets. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl in next you, but he’s been fighting those kinds of thoughts since Brooklyn. He hasn’t earned the right to that domesticity- yet.

“You should go home. Sleep, feed your cat. Maybe go crazy and take a shower.”

He nods, already picturing the stink eye he’d get from Alpine when he got home. He still wasn’t used to having a roommate. “A shower is probably a good idea.” He says, standing up.

“Thank you,” you say, and Bucky looks at you quizzically. “For staying,” you explain, “I was so worried about you, waking up and seeing your face was-“ You stop, and he watches you search for the right word. “Everything.”

He leans over, kissing the crown of your head, something thats quickly become a habit. “No where else I would have been.” He answers. “Call me later?” He ask.

You nod, “I promise.”

This was arguably worst than being in an explosion.

Okay maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but never in your career had you been forced to watch your victory from the comfort of your deeply uncomfortable couch. If this injury has taught you anything, it’s that you really need to invest in better furniture. It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually spend time in your home.

You also didn’t have any food in the house, which is why you were still waiting on your third DoorDash of the day. No pity party was complete without a snack.

Back to the torture at hand.

On your screen, in gorgeous technicolor you watched in real time as it was revealed that the voters chose Bucky as New York’s newest Congressmen.

He had given a wonderful speech, short, succinct and powerful, like him. You had proofed it so of course it was perfect. Then as the crowd applauded you watched as the team you had spent the last several weeks of your life managing, celebrated without you.

Blue confetti rained down, getting tangled in his hair, and blurring with his gorgeous blue tie (you had a replacement delivered to him after seeing how ruined it was at the hospital). Sure they had all been calling and texting you throughout the night, you knew they missed you. Almost all of them had already sent you a congratulatory text

Almost all.

The entire day, the one person you didn’t hear from was the person you wanted to talk to the most.

Bucky was avoiding you.

At least you think he is, he wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You knew first hand how chaotic election days were, add to that how Bucky often forgot his phone even existed. A week ago you would’ve written it off as nerves clouding his mind. Two months ago you’d have forgiven it as him having other people to celebrate with.

That was before three things happened:

1. He kissed you so well, you forgot you’d ever been kissed by anyone else.

2. He spent all night at the hospital, waiting for you to wake up.

3. He spent all week texting, FaceTiming, and calling you non-stop. Partly because you were working remotely to get the campaign across the finish line. Partly because ‘he needed to hear your voice again.’

‘Needed too’ until this morning.

He was all vague promises of a plan and sending you cute photos of Alpine, until today.

Maybe this was his plan, ruin you for all other men, and then ghost. You were pretty sure he doesn’t even know what ghosting is, but it’s happened to enough times that you’re skeptical.

To top it all off, you can’t event drink. Your special cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics ruling it out completely. It was a sad predicament, just you, the dry bowl of cereal you had for dinner, and the eleven o’clock news.

It had been almost forty-fives minutes since the results were annouced, and still no word from Bucky. After triple checking your ringer is on, you shut the TV off. It was almost time for your next dose of Tylenol, hopefully it would give you the extra push towards sleep.

Knock knock knock.

For a moment you panic, no one knocks on your door. You don’t know your neighbors, and then you remember.

DoorDash!

Sacrificing grace for speed, you hobble over to the door. You weren’t used to maneuvering with the boot, still cringing everytime time it scraped against the floor.

You opened the door without thinking, looking down expecting to see a brown bag of greasy comfort. Instead you see black dress shoes.

Ones you instantly recognize, you bought them after all.

Your eyes work their way up slowly, clocking the brown bag clutched in his hands. Then the rest of the way to his handsome face.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party somewhere Bucky?” You ask.

He gives you that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah I should be.” He says, and despite how pissed you were five minutes ago, you let him in.

In all your time together you had never felt scared of Bucky. Nervous? Sure, but never scared. Except for right now. Staring at him in your apartment, watching him put the bag of food on down, you were scared. Not of the man, but of your very big, heart pounding in your chest feelings for him. Scared because you had let yourself fall, hard. You had let yourself plan and dream and fall asleep every night thinking about how you would grab him and kiss him the second they announced he won.

Then he ignored you all day. Had he finally realized your organization was annoying? That having a plan A, B, C and D wasn’t called being prepared and was actually called being crazy.

He was watching you too now, and despite your fear, it was like your body came to life under his gaze. A week without seeing him in person made being this close feel electric. Then Bucky broke your gaze and it was like all the sparks died.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person.” He explains, coming closer.

A sense of doom creeps up your neck as you watch him approach. You’re stuck in the entryway, as if the boot on your leg has become a cement block and your body can’t be bothered to try and move it.

This is it, you think he’s here to tell me, whatever this almost was, is over.

“You’re fired.” He says, his voice is monotone but his face is wearing an expression you can only describe as a satisfied grin. It feels a little tone deaf given the circumstances.

You open your mouth, hoping to find a biting comeback, or even a sour ‘congratulations’ would work, anything to show him you are not on the same wavelength when lips find yours.

Bucky kisses you, and it’s so obvious he had been holding out on you in Brooklyn. He’s cradling your face in between his palms, but this time he’s not holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s not the desperate hunger and grabby hands from New York

This time it’s all softness. It doesn’t take long for you to melt, hands finding his neck and making a home there. You both relax into the kiss, all of the stress, the tension, and blurred lines finally lifted. All that’s left are two people.

You kiss Bucky in until your lungs feels like they will explode. Pulling away Bucky follows you, trying to chase your lips- briefly succeeding, before finally settling for resting his forehead against yours.

You catch your breath, lungs weak, leg going numb from standing on it for so long. lips smiling so wide you’re afraid your face might split in half. Delirium.

“You skipped your party to fire me?” You ask. Tone light, giggles interrupting each word.

Bucky nods and his hands travel to your waist, where they plant themselves firmly. He lifts you and brings you that last foot forward so your chest is pressed to his.. “Knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate.” He explains, lips brushing yours as he says it.

You want to ask him more questions, does he have to leave? can he stay forever? what does this mean? was the food still hot when he brought it in?

Instead you kiss him again. When you break away this time it’s because your lips are numb.

“I know today was crazy, and I should have called you back, I wanted to so badly. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to handle hearing your voice without coming here.”

It sounds a bit dramatic, but he says it so earnestly, you don’t question it. “That’s a good reason.” You whisper, “If you had come here and kissed me like that I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

Bucky tried to kiss you again, but it’s sloppy, both of you smiling too much into the kiss. “You gonna keep me?” He asks.

You nod, shoving the suit jacket down off of his shoulders you can you rest your hands there. Feel all of the strength and power there. Bucky is pliant under your touch, letting it fall to floor with a soft thump. “Yeah, Brooklyn’s gonna need to find someone else.” You answer, “Besides you ruined my job, how am I ever supposed to work with someone else now that I’ve had you.”

Bucky kisses you again, one hand snaking up under your shirt to ghost over your ribs.

“Had an idea for that.” Bucky says he pulling away, but still not detaching. You tilt your head, silently asking him to go on. “Gonna need to adjust my team, now that I’ll be sticking around in DC. There’s one job I need to fill.” He said explains, “You’d be around me constantly, telling me what to do and what not to do.” You smile.

“I do have some recent experience with that type of work.” You offer, “Need me to email you my resume?” You ask, bringing one hand up to scratch your nails down the back of his neck. You watch gleefully as he shivers beneath your touch.

He shakes his head, “You’re overqualified.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Chief of Staff.”

If it wasn’t for the boot (and the concussion) you’d jump on him. Spend every day with him, and actually do good?

“I accept!” You answer, pressing your chest against his, afraid the ball of light forming inside of it will explode if you don’t glue yourself to him.

After months of calculated touches, and fighting your instincts, the freedom to hold him is addictive.

“Thank god.” He whispers and kisses your forehead, neither of you have stopped smiling. “There’s one other job though.” He says. “It would mean sneaking around, and flying under the radar.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You say.

“Mhmm, it is. Comes with the risk of spending even more time with me, maybe forever.”

“Don’t think that’s long enough.” You respond, distantly wondering who is this sappy, boy-crazy girl and what has she done with you?

Bucky squeezes you again, as if he’s making sure you’re still real. “I’ve got a lot of shit to unpack, you sure you wanna take all that on?”

You nod fervently, “I can handle it Barnes.”

He presses one more kiss to your lips. “I know better than to doubt you.”

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I have no expectations posting this, I just started writing and couldn’t stop! I love these two so much. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck, love you say it back

[mannien]

real people

chapter eighteen (finale)

18+

the final part.

Content Warning: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, angst, mention of pregnancy, enemies to lovers to strangers, fluff, mention of sex, misunderstanding trope bc why not, and omg I am not ready to say goodbye to these characters I want to cryyyyyyyy. super long author's note at the end

Series Masterlist

Series Playlist

"This is nice," Gwen says, her eyes closed as she stands with her arms up, allowing the breeze to brush over her skin. Her loose, white shirt flies behind her and the waves gently kiss at her feet. You're not sure why she keeps saying that - this is nice - but you hardly go an hour without hearing those words pour from her mouth, drenched in contentment.

The sunset has caused the sky to match her hair, the sand cooling down under your palms. You watch as the ice in your sangria melts, letting the sound of the waves relax you. Not that there's anything causing you any stress right now - having been in Mexico for a week now, you're completely zen. But there is one thought that threatens to disturb your peace.

"Do you think he'll be here?" You can't help but ask her.

Her head turns to the side, her eyes fluttering open. She knows who you're talking about without having to ask for clarification. "He's the best man," She reminds you. "Of course he'll be here."

"This early on, though?" You wonder, grabbing fistfuls of sand. "The rehearsal dinner isn't until Friday."

Gwen turns so she's fully facing you, a blank look on her face. "I know what you want to hear, but I'm not going to lie to you," She begins. "He's here. Just landed today, actually."

Your stomach churns and you nod, looking down at your lap.

"What?" She asks you, taking a few steps closer. "Are you really that nervous to see him?"

"I haven't seen him since..." You trail off, shaking your head.

"Then maybe it's about time you did," She says bluntly. "I mean, for Christ's sake, it's been what? Three years?"

"I know, but..." You mumble, feeling dumb. "It's weird. We were together for such a short period of time, and now we've spent so much time apart... but I still-"

"Don't," Gwen cuts you off curtly. "I swear to God, don't say it."

"I wasn't gonna say love," You claim. "I just mean, I won't know how I feel until I see him."

"Well, then," She chirps. "Good thing both of you brought dates."

"He brought a date?" You ask, feeling nauseous at the thought of seeing him with someone else.

"Mhm," Gwen confirms. "But you have Pietro, so you're both in the same boat, which is good.

"Yeah," You utter dryly. "Great."

Gwen stretches before holding her hand out to you. "C'mon, we need to get ready. If we miss dinner again, Sharon will make me sleep on this beach," She says before grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet.

The two of you make your way back to the resort, but this time, you're no longer zen. You're a bundle of nerves.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, you turn to the side to get a look at yourself at all angles. Ever since your conversation with Gwen on the beach, you've felt a pit in your stomach and it's weighing you down, making you want to do nothing more than crawl into bed and hide from the world.

There's a knock at the door which makes you jump slightly, before it swings open. "Hey, you," Pietro says as he walks in with a grin. "You look incredible."

Relaxing a little with his presence, you smile at him in the mirror. "Thank you, P," You reply. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep - just need to use the bathroom," He says as he walks towards it.

"Ugh, please don't clog it again!" You call out as he walks past you.

With a sly grin and a squeeze of your ass, he swings open the door. "I won't," He swears as he walks in, and you know better than to believe him.

"Why do I fuck you, again?" You call out, shaking your head.

Pietro opens the door again and pokes his head through. "Because I'm a damn good fuck, baby," He says with a wink. "Your words."

Rolling your eyes, you fiddle with your hair. "Whatever. Go poop - and hurry, because Sharon will kill me if I'm late!"

While you wait for him, you sit on the bed and decide to scroll through social media. You notice that Steve's got a new story up, so with a soft smile you open it up, expecting to see a photo of him and Sharon - but it's a photo of a gift-wrapped box with a Rolex on top of it. Gift from the best man, the caption reads. With a gasp, you close Instagram and put your phone down. And immediately, you hate how affected you are, just from a mere mention of him.

Fuck, you're screwed.

"I'm ready!" Pietro announces as he walks back out the bathroom.

"Did you wash your ha-"

"Yes, I washed my hands," He cuts you off with a laugh as he walks over and takes your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Moving in closer, he gives you a soft kiss. "You really do look so fucking good."

"No," You say sternly. "I refuse to be late to this dinner, P."

He tilts his head, giving you the soft-eyed, ever-so-slightly-desperate look he knows drives you crazy. "Gimme ten minutes, baby," He mumbles.

You narrow your eyes at him and push him back. "No. You'll mess up my hair and makeup," You whine.

"C'mere," He whispers before kissing you, once, twice, three times.

You melt into it, allowing yourself the respite of his physical comfort from your overthinking head, but then your mind conjures up the image of Sharon's pissed-off expression, which is enough motivation to give you the strength to pull away. "Let's go," You decide firmly. "It's Sharon's wedding week. I'm not gonna stress her out anymore than she already is."

Giving in with a sigh, he nods and takes a step back. "Alright," He says, following you to the door. "Have I told you how sexy you are when you're being all considerate for your friends, and shit?"

The resort has been booked out in its entirety by Steve and Sharon for the week, allowing them to spend a few days with their nearest and dearest before the big day on Saturday. So far, Sharon's been spending the days with her bridesmaids, Steve with his groomsmen, and each evening, everyone comes together to have dinner. It's been fine so far, but today's the first night that all the groomsmen are here - which has you almost shaking as you and Pietro make your way to the dining hall.

"What's wrong? Nervous to see everyone?" Pietro asks you as your heels click against the marble floor. "You've already met 'em all before, right? Oh, wait, shit. Isn't your ex here tonight?"

He swings the doors to the hall open and, of course, it seems you're the last ones to arrive. Thankfully, Sharon doesn't look annoyed in the slightest, as everyone turns to look at you.

"They're here!" Sharon squeals, standing up with her glass of wine raised up. "Come in, sit down!"

Pietro's got his arm around your waist, so when he begins to walk in, even though your feet feel planted to the ground, you can't help but move with him. But your eyes stayed glued to him.

Bucky.

It's like time slows down. He looks so different, but also exactly the same. And he's staring back at you. A small part of you is acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting by his side, but everyone else melts away into irrelevance when you're looking at him. It's the first time in three years that you've been so close to him - sitting at opposite ends of a 25-seat table - but it feels as familiar as though no time has passed at all.

"Red or white tonight?" Steve asks you as he stands up to pour you a glass of wine.

Ripping your eyes away from Bucky and looking up at Steve, you let out a huff. "Brown," You reply curtly before grabbing a bottle of whisky from the middle of the table and pouring it into your glass.

Steve chuckles before pouring Pietro some wine, and you take a long sip. Next to you, Gwen gently nudges your stomach. "Way to be subtle," She hisses under her breath. "You guys just stared at each other for, like, five minutes."

"Shut up," You whisper, before you smile widely at Sharon who's sitting opposite you. "You look amazing, Shar!"

And she really does - this whole week, she's been glowing. "Thank you," She sings, still standing. Clearing her throat, she taps her glass of water with her fork, getting everyone's attention. "Alright. Everyone is officially here! Besides, like, our family, and everyone else," She begins with a soft laugh. "Steve and I are so, so grateful that you've all taken time out of your incredibly busy schedules to come and spend the last few days before the wedding with us. Ever since Steve and I started talking about getting married, we really had only one priority - to have a relaxed time with our best friends. Mexico has always meant so much to him and I - ever since the school trip episode of Sunset Lake, and all the times we returned together since - so it only felt right to get married here. In four days, Steve and I will be standing at the altar, with all of you there- but until then, we can eat, relax, get pampered, and party!"

Everyone holds up their respective glasses and cheers along with her, and Steve stands up and gives her a kiss. You grin as you watch them, so entirely in love. It makes you yearn for that feeling. Sure, sleeping with Pietro is fun and fulfils your needs, but you haven't felt a deeper connection to anyone since... Bucky.

You dare to steal a glance at him. He's pouring his date a drink- you recognize her. She's from some TV show that was big on Netflix or Hulu last year. Not his usual type, but then again, he's been linked with all sorts of women over the past three years. And he could say the same about you.

Before long, the food is served, so you can distract yourself with hummus and pita. You have conversations with Sharon and Steve, Gwen and Peter, and a few hushed comments fly between you and Pietro, but as it's such a big group, you can't venture out much further than them. Not that you particularly want to.

She finds him funny, that much is for sure. She pulls him arm whenever he makes her laugh, which is often.

"Her name's Jean," Gwen tells you, knowing you too well to not realize what it is you're thinking. "They work together. They've been spotted out at dinner a few times since."

"I feel sick," You utter, grabbing your napkin.

"Don't worry- you have Pietro, so you're on equal ground with him right now," Gwen says in an attempt to comfort you - as if the thing you're upset about is that Bucky is one-upping you.

"Pietro is nothing more than a human dildo to me," You whisper bitterly. "Bucky's actually dating that woman. With emotions."

"That's mean," Pietro chimes in as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, resting his chin on your other shoulder.

"Shut up. You're lucky I let you anywhere near me," You say to him with an eye-roll.

He bites down on his fist and leans in closer to Gwen with his head at your chest. "Isn't she so sexy?" He says lowly, to which she just snorts.

While everyone else continues chatting and drinking, you can't help but fall into the darkest depths of your mind.

He doesn't want you anymore. He probably hasn't for a while. You wonder how long it took him to officially be over you. You thought you might have been starting to get over him until you saw him tonight. All the feelings just came rushing back, hitting you like a truck. The last thing you wanted all those years ago was to become a stranger to him- but it seems like it might be too late.

Suddenly, you feel a kick under the table. You frown and look up to see Sharon giving you a pointed look as she taps her phone. While Gwen and Pietro chat, you look down at your phone to see a message from Sharon.

SharBear

I need to meet you tonight once everyone's in their rooms. Midnight outside reception. It's important. Please!

Without hesitation, you respond.

You

I'll be there.

Your mind is swirling with all the things Sharon could possibly want to speak to you about - has something gone wrong with the wedding plans? Has she suddenly got cold feet? You pace at reception for ten minutes before she finally appears.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I was waiting for Steve to get into the shower," She says in a hushed voice as she rushes over from the elevator and grabs your hands. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Of course, Sharon," You say, deeply concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's perfect!" She replies instinctively with a chirpy smile, before letting out a sigh and letting her face fall. "But... it might not be."

"What's going on?" You ask her, pulling her away from the worker at the front desk who's giving you odd looks and towards the entrance of the hotel.

She looks around the lobby, making sure nobody's around before she speaks. "I need... I need you to buy me something," She utters.

You frown as you lower your voice. "Like... drugs?" You whisper. "Something to help you relax? Pietro might have a xanny-"

"No, not like that," She cuts you off with a mild look of panic in her eyes as they meet yours. "I need, um... I think I need a pregnancy test?"

Up until now, you would've liked to think that you'd be the calm, collected friend during crises. That you'd be the level-headed leader keeping everyone's panic at bay, coming up with an action plan and swiftly carrying it out without fault. But instead, you suck in a loud gasp and slap your hands over your face. "Sharon!" You let out, your yell muffled by your hands.

"I know, I know, it's crazy," She says as she shakes her hands. "It's just so I can be sure, before I drink myself into oblivion this week."

"That's why you haven't been drinking," You say with wide eyes as everything falls into place in your head. "And you didn't eat the edibles yesterday!"

"I'm just being careful, until I can be sure," Sharon says. "Now, you're my best friend and the one I trust most out of everyone here. I can't trust the resort workers not to leak it to the press, so I can't ask them or even order one online in case they snoop. So it has to be you, Y/N."

Taking in a deep breath, you nod, accepting the responsibility. "Yes. I can do this," You tell her, keeping your voice firm. "I can do this for you."

"Great. There's a pharmacy about a mile away, it's open twenty-four hours. Steve and I stopped there when we landed, to get... condoms," She says, wincing.

"Yes, got it," You say, trying to remain calm. "I'll call a taxi and-"

"No public transport," She cuts in quickly. "Everyone in this city knows the wedding is this week. They all know we're here. If a cab driver recognizes you - I can't handle the scandal, Y/N."

"So what do you want me to do?" You ask her, shaking your head. "It's not like I can walk a mile in the middle of the night!"

Just then, someone walks into the hotel. It's, of course, none other than Bucky, holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm. You can practically see the cogs turning in Sharon's head as she looks at him.

"Sharon, no. No, Sharon," You say gravely, holding her arms tight. But it's too late.

"Bucky!" She calls out, making you die inside.

"Hey," He replies, while you stare at the floor. "What are you both doing down here so late?"

"We, um, have a little issue," She tells him. "Just a little visit from Aunt Flo, you know?"

"Oh, right," He mumbles, and you can't help but feel a shiver at the sound of his voice. Get it together.

"Yeah, so... would you be able to give Y/N a lift to a pharmacy?" She asks him while you grimace. "So she can stock up on tampons, and stuff."

"Sure," Bucky replies. "Let's go."

"Thank you so much!" Sharon exclaims, giving him a hug before coming back to you and placing her hands on your shoulder. "And thank you. I love you."

"You're lucky I love you, too," You mutter, before turning to face him.

He holds the helmet out to you and you take it before following him out, shooting Sharon one last glare on your way.

"So, the pharmacy?" Bucky asks as he taps on his phone.

"Yeah, Sharon said there should be one about a mile away?" You respond, your voice pathetically small.

"Got it. Let's go," He says while sticking his phone with the map on on the handlebar and getting on the bike.

You take in a deep breath before putting on the helmet and getting on behind him, planning to hold onto the handles located behind you for the entirety of the ride - but the second he rides off, you instantly clamber to wrap your arms around him. It may be awkward, but you'd rather that than die before the wedding.

The ride is quiet, save for the sound of the engine. The streets are pretty bare, being in a less-populated area, and the sky is full of stars. After a few minutes, you take off your helmet so as to feel the fresh air on your face, and to get a proper view of the starry night. Soon, you arrive at the pharmacy, and Bucky parks up outside. When you jump off and he sees you without the helmet on, he sighs.

"I would really rather you keep that on during the ride," He says lowly.

"Sorry," You utter, slowly backing away towards the shop. "Want anything?"

He simply shakes his head, and you nod before turning and walking into the pharmacy. Thankfully, there's a box of face masks at the entrance so you grab one and wear it. The man at the counter doesn't seem the type to keep up with celebrity news, but you want to do all you can to keep things under wrap. You walk through the aisles until you get to the shelves with pregnancy tests, and decide to grab one of each of the five brands available, knowing Sharon's the type to want to double and triple check. Along with the tests, you grab a chapstick, for no other reason than to make it feel like a normal shopping trip, though the combination of Sharon's news and being back on Bucky's bike has you feeling like you're having an out-of-body experience.

Just as you put the tests and chapstick on the counter, you feel a presence behind you. You turn your head to see Bucky standing there, holding a bag of chips. And his eyes are on the tests.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Without a word, you toss four ₱500 notes on the counter and take the plastic bag from the worker before stuffing in the tests and chapsticks and walking out the store. When you get out, all you want to do is scream. He thinks you're pregnant, or at least potentially so. And you can't even correct him because then you'd be outing Sharon. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Ready to go?" He asks as he walks out of the pharmacy, as casual as ever. Fucker.

"You're so annoying!" You can't help but explode at him once you rip the mask off your face.

Taken aback, he raises a brow. "Excuse me?"

"If you wanted fucking chips, why didn't you just ask me to buy you chips?" You ask him, frustration dropping from your tone.

"What is your problem?" Bucky asks you, taking a step closer.

"I clearly asked you if you wanted anything, and you said no," You hurl at him.

"I changed my mind," He says flatly.

"You changed your mi- you're such a dick," You hiss, turning away.

"Will you calm down?" He calls out. "It's... not a big deal!"

"Not a big deal?" You all but scream, turning back to him. He thinks you could be pregnant with Pietro's baby. He thinks you're that close - that you'd be that reckless because you're that locked in with fucking Pietro. And he doesn't seem to care.

"Yes, it's not a big deal," He doubles down.

"Whatever," You huff before spinning back on your heel and storming away.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice booms behind you, but you're too irritated to think or act rationally. You simply continue stomping away, too stubborn to accept a ride back to the resort with him. Safety be damned. You have pregnancy tests and chapstick to defend yourself with.

The rumbling of his bike gets louder and after a few seconds, he pulls up next to you. "Get on the damn bike, Y/N," He orders you sternly.

"Fuck you," You spit, walking even faster.

He trails slowly behind you, his bike swaying side to side as he does his best to keep the slow pace. "You're going the wrong way, dipshit," He says, and it feels like the air turns twenty degrees colder.

The old nickname makes you falter in your steps, but you continue moving. "Maybe I'm taking the scenic route," You utter.

He speeds up for a second before turning his bike in front of you, stopping you from going any further. With a glare, he lets out a huff through his nostrils. "Get on the bike. I'm tired, and I don't have time for this," He says curtly.

"Then go back to the hotel and get in bed," You say with your arms folded across your chest. "I'm sure Jean's waiting for you."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. "What, are you jealous?" He asks, to which you scoff.

"You wish!" You all but yell. "Just go. I'll call an Uber."

"It's almost 1am. I'm not letting you get a cab alone," He says bluntly. "Get on the bike, we'll go back to the hotel, and we can pretend like this night didn't happen."

A dry laugh leaves your mouth of its own accord. "I've heard that before," You mutter bitterly.

Without a word, he holds the helmet out to you. You roll your eyes before grabbing it off him and getting on the bike, as much as it pains you to give in. This time, even though you're terrified, you keep your hands firmly on the handles behind you, refusing to let him think you want to touch him. Although it hurts to be back at square one with him, it's easier to focus on being annoyed at him than to realize he's over you.

Once you get back to the resort, you clamber off the bike and pull the helmet off, putting it down where you were sitting. He sits and types on his phone.

"Thanks for the ride," You mumble like a child being forced to show manners.

He just grunts in response.

The next morning at breakfast, you're inwardly stressing as you try to find the perfect opportunity for you to transport the five pregnancy tests in your bag to Sharon's without anyone seeing.

"Y/N, sit down!" Gwen calls out before grabbing your hand and yanking you down onto the empty seat next to her.

You give her a smile. "I actually just need to speak to Shar-"

"Eat first," She cuts you off sternly as she places a pastry onto your plate.

"Ooh, those look good," The person sitting on the other side of you comments. You turn to see none other than Bucky's date, Jean. "Could you please hand me one?"

Of course she's lovely and polite. Fuck's sake.

"Sure," You reply with a smile as you grab the platter and hold it out to her.

She grabs a square croissant and puts it on her plate with a bashful look. "Thank you. God, this is so surreal," She says with flushed cheeks. "I'm just, like, a huge fan of you."

Damn. She's making it really hard to hate her.

"That's so sweet, thank you," You reply.

"It's just crazy being in a room, practically on vacation, with a group of people I look up to," She continues with awe in her eyes. "Oh, I'm Jean, by the way. I... I'm here with... uh..."

"It's alright. I know you're Bucky's date," You tell her with a soft laugh. "I'm not sweating over a six-month situationship I had three years ago, don't worry."

A throat clear behind you. "Morning, everyone," Bucky says, squeezing her shoulders before taking a seat next to her.

"Oops," You whisper to yourself.

"Morning, sunshine," Jean greets him sweetly with a kiss on his cheek before she turns back to you. "So, I have to ask you: what was it like working with the Norman Osborn? Was it everything I dream about?"

"Oh, and more," You answer her emphatically. "He's just... a genius. It sounds cliché, but that's really the only way I can describe him. Being on set with him alone was flabbergasting, but being directed by him? I genuinely felt like a new woman every day. A new actress, should I say."

"Wow. I am so jealous," Jean says. "And the movie was incredible. You're gonna think I'm lying, but I literally watched it in theatres, like, twelve times."

"So, you're who I need to thank for the box office success," You say teasingly.

"You were so robbed at the Oscars this year," She says with a scoff. "Like, I know the other nominees were great, but none of them held a candle to your performance."

"I was just grateful to be nominated," You tell her, giving her the PR-approved response.

She narrows her eyes, leans in, and lowers her voice. "Yeah, but you were also thinking, what the fuck? Right?" Jean whispers. "Don't worry, it's a safe space."

With a delighted laugh, you lightly push her arm. "Of course not," You say, before whispering, "Maybe."

After spending the entirety of breakfast laughing non-stop with Bucky's girlfriend, much to the surprise of everyone, you soon become acutely aware of the tests in your bag.

As everyone gets up to return to their rooms and freshen up before the day's activities, you pull Sharon to a quiet corner. "Hey," You whisper. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," She answers with a quick nod. "Haven't vomited today, but we'll see how long breakfast lasts."

"Uh, I've got the... things," You utter, giving her a pointed look as you shake your bag.

"Oh! Yeah, great, thank you so much," She says, holding your hands. "How was it with Bucky? I hope it wasn't too awkward? He didn't see, did he?"

Opting not to tell her about how he saw you buying the tests and how you subsequently screamed at him in the street, you nod. "It was fine," You lie. "Do you want them now?"

"Yes," She says, holding her bag open next to yours. "Just... don't be suspicious."

Trying to act casual, angling your bags so that nobody behind can see them, you slowly transport the tests one by one from your bag to hers.

"Fuck, how many did you get?" She asks with wide eyes.

"I figured you'd want to be really sure," You tell her with a shrug as you drop the last one in.

A smile breaks out on her face. "You know me so well," She says, pulling you in for a hug. "Thank you. You're the best."

"Do you wanna take one now?" You ask as you pull away. "I can come with you."

"I'm gonna wait until tomorrow," She tells you. "When Mom's here. I need her with me in case it's... yeah."

"Of course," You say with an understanding nod, though the sentiment doesn't reach your heart. Not having a mom in your life means if you were in Sharon's position, it would be her or Gwen you needed by your side - and for some twisted reason, it has you feeling bitter that you wouldn't be their chosen pregnancy-test aide. You know it's irrational and unfair to feel that way, but you can't help it.

"Okay, let's go back to everyone before they wonder what we're talking about," Sharon chirps as she takes your arm and leads you back to the group.

Jean gasps and rushes over to you when she sees you. "Hey, have you been to the spa yet?" She asks you excitedly.

"I haven't, actually," You tell her. "Been too busy helping Sharon out with wedding stuff."

"You have to come," She says, grabbing your hand. "They are incredible here. Bring Pietro, too - it can be like a double date at the spa!"

Realizing that that means Bucky will also be there, you falter. "Uh, I don't know if Pietro will-"

"If Pietro will what?" The man himself  asks as he appears, hugging you from behind.

"Oh, we were talking about spending some time at the spa," Jean tells him. "You're down, right?"

"Absolutely," He answers.

"So, it's settled!" She exclaims with a giddy grin. "We'll meet you there in an hour."

"Can't wait," You say half-heartedly.

You all but melt into the warm hot tub, closing your eyes and letting all your stress go with the steam. Pregnancy tests. Exes. Forget it all.

"Mind if I join?" An all too familiar voice asks.

Opening your eyes, you see Bucky stepping down into the tub. "Doesn't seem like I have a choice," You mutter.

There's a few moments of blissful silence, and you close your eyes again, electing to pretend as though he isn't there. The sound of Pietro and Jean racing laps in the swimming pool fades into the background, and all you can hear is the bubbles fizzing-

"So, a six-month situationship, huh?" Bucky abruptly cuts into your thoughts. "That's how you look at it?"

You let out a deep sigh, refusing to let him bait you into giving him a reaction. "What else would you call it?" You ask him.

He doesn't answer, but you're not foolish enough to think that's the end of the conversation. "So, you pregnant?" He asks bluntly.

"No," You reply.

"Took all five tests?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"Were you always this childish?" You ask, opening your eyes to glare at him. "I'm none of your business anymore, Barnes. I haven't been for three years."

He's staring at you. "A heads-up would've been nice," He says bitterly. "Y'know, that 'see you later' actually meant fuck you, I'm done."

"I wasn't done," You correct him gravely. "Though you obviously were."

"Are you kidding me?" He asks with a dry laugh.

"Oh, sorry, all the times you tried so hard to contact me must've got lost in the mail," You say flatly.

"Contact you? And when was the best time? When you were dating your co-star while filming in Australia? Or maybe when you came back and started dating those other schmucks?" He spits.

"You cannot be serious," You say gravely. "Says Mr. 'Dating Three Women At Once'!"

"Really? You of all people believe what the media said?" Bucky asks incredulously.

"Oh, fuck you!" You yell, standing up.

"Fuck you," He returns just as harshly, standing up as well.

He's looking down at you with a look in his eyes you haven't seen since you first met - that day on Steve's yacht when you first debuted your fake relationship to the world. It sends a shiver down your spine. Full of rage and seemingly genuine hatred - and it makes you want to kiss him.

Bucky tries to stay strong, but his eyes betray him, flickering down to look at your drenched, bikini-clad body, the same body he's been missing for three years. He remembers all the places he left marks, and all the places he kissed it better.

"I never forgot how I felt," He says in a hushed, rushed tone.

"You didn't even blink at the possibility of me being pregnant with another man's child," You point out coldly.

"Listen to me," He utters, grabbing your wrist. "I thought about you every single minute. I still do."

"Bucky, shut up," You whisper, highly aware of both Pietro and Jean making their way over.

"Tell me you don't feel the same," He challenges you. "Tell me you don't want anymore. That you don't love me anymore."

"What the fuck, Barnes?" You hiss.

"If you can tell me you don't love me anymore, I won't bring it up again," He says.

You raise a brow.

His jaw clenches for a second. "But if you can't, I'll spend every waking moment getting you back," He finishes.

With a pit in your stomach and a lump in your throat, you shoot him one last glare. "You're too late," You utter before pulling your wrist out of his grip and leaving him there alone.

Friday evening arrives, and with it, the rehearsal dinner. Steve and Sharon's families have also arrived at the resort, meaning there's a lot more people around the table which makes it a heck of a lot easier to ignore Bucky's stares.

"What is going on between you?" Gwen asks you in a hushed voice as you're served by the waiting staff. "He hasn't stopped looking at you all day, with that weird, intense stare. Did you speak to him?"

With a shrug, you pick up your glass of wine. "It's Bucky. He's always weird and intense," You answer lamely.

"Oh, my God. Did he say something to you?" She presses. "You have to tell me. Are you guys... sleeping together?"

"What? No," You answer instantly. "What do you think of me, Gwen?"

"I don't know; when two people with history reconnect, there can be major sparks," She says while cutting into a roasted potato. "All the feelings come rushing back."

Instead of validating her theory with a response, you begin to eat.

"Holy shit. You did reconnect, didn't you?" She hisses. "I knew it!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," You say plainly.

She lets out a sigh. "Look, if you realized that there are still strong feelings between you, that's not a bad thing."

"Not a bad thing? He's got a girlfriend!" You whisper-shout, grateful for the sound of cutlery on porcelain drowning you out.

"Hasn't stopped you before," Gwen lets out before gasping at herself. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I mean - what he had with Natasha wasn't even real-"

"I get it, Gwen, it's fine," You cut in, and the two of you leave it at that.

While you're eating, Sharon gets out of her seat and walks around the table to you, smiling and squeezing the shoulders of everyone she passes on her way. When she gets to you, she brings her mouth to your ear and lowers her voice. "Can you come to the lobby with me?"

Once again, you're filled with anxiety and dread as you follow her out of the room. She holds your hand tight, and neither of you say a word as you walk to the lobby.

"Everything okay?" You ask once you get there, making sure the receptionist is out of earshot.

Sharon takes in a deep breath. "I took the test. Well, all five tests," She begins, a mixture of worry and fear in her eyes. "And... they were all positive."

You slap your hands over your mouth. "Oh, my God!" You all but scream, thankfully muffling your voice with your hands.

"I know!" She exclaims, breathing in and out quickly.

"That's amazing!" You tell her with a wide grin. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," She whispers with teary eyes.

"Have you told Steve?" You ask her, to which she shakes her head.

"Not yet. I just... I don't know how," She admits. "My mom said I should just tell him, but... what if he gets scared? What if it's too much for him and he gets cold feet?"

"Sharon, that man looks at you like you hung the moon and stars," You tell her, holding her shoulders. "He loves you more than anything. The last thing he would do is leave you alone, especially if he knew the truth. Love isn't something you can just... throw away. Forget about. You can only confront it, and accept it... and... denying yourself of it would be the biggest disservice you could do to yourself."

She narrows her eyes. "Are we still talking about me being pregnant?"

You raise your brows, and let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. "I don't know," You say in a small voice.

"Okay, well, I want to do something special for him," She tells you. "He's always planning so many nice surprises for me, and I want to do the same. So, I need your help."

"Anything," You tell her.

A sly grin grows on her face. "I love you," She says.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask her with a frown. "Like you've done something I won't like?"

"Well, I thought you might need some help setting it up," She begins, glancing behind her. "So, I enlisted another pair of hands. The only other person I trust with my life who wouldn't go to the press."

Before you can ask her exactly who she's talking about, none other than Bucky walks into the lobby with an expectant look on his face. "Hey, Sharon. What is it you needed my help with?"

She looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes. "I don't want him to know it's for me, yet," She whispers to you. "Don't want him to know before Steve. You can tell him the truth once Steve knows."

With a sigh, you swallow your pride. "Uh, fuck. It's me, Barnes," You say flatly, hating every second of this. "As it turns out... I am pregnant."

He looks taken aback.

"And she wants to surprise Pietro," Sharon chimes in. "Can you help her set up the surprise on the beach? At this point, we don't want anyone knowing that doesn't need to, or that we don't trust."

With a nod, Bucky keeps his face free of emotion. "Of course."

You're convinced that you died and this is hell, because you've experienced nothing worse than setting up a 'We're Pregnant!' message on the beach with Bucky, who thinks the pregnancy is yours, and that the father is Pietro.

Bucky seems to have an artistic eye as he sets out the flowers around the words in the sand. You're lighting the candles, wondering how it got to this.

"This is so weird," You mumble.

"Yep," He replies curtly. "Didn't imagine this would be happening three years ago."

"It's been a long time," You say. "A lot has changed."

"You haven't," He says, looking down at the sand. "Still just as gorgeous."

A soft laugh leaves your mouth. "Should you be flirting with a pregnant woman?"

Bucky looks up at you, into your eyes. "Do you love him?" He asks you.

You struggle with the lighter, letting out a frustrated huff before answering him. "It started out as just sex," You say truthfully.

"Like us?"

You snort. "I guess."

"Do you love him?" He asks you again.

"Let's... not do this now," You suggest.

He lets out a long sigh and sits up. "When it ended with Natasha... my first thought was you. Carol told me to wait, at least a few weeks, so it didn't look like I was just jumping between you. I also didn't want to overwhelm you, or take attention off the fact that you won the case," He tells you. "Then you left New York to film in Australia. And the rumors about you and Luke... I just thought it would be best to leave you to it. You were working abroad. It wasn't the right time."

"Then I came back, and you were dating someone else," You remember.

"Wasn't dating her," He mumbles. "Emma and I were just friends."

"Well, it didn't look like that, and I didn't wanna reach out just to hear that you had moved on," You tell him truthfully. "I... I don't think I could have handled hearing that. For it to be final. Outlined clearly. I guess it was easier to live with the vagueness. The hope that... maybe we just needed time, and eventually we'd find each other again. But I couldn't listen to you telling me you were with someone else. I just couldn't."

He lets out a shaky breath. "I felt the same," He admits. "I know I'm a fucking coward for not trying harder. And now I'm too late."

"You're not a coward. You were just protecting yourself," You say lowly, before looking around. "I think we're done. Thanks for your help."

"Of course," He mumbles.

Sending Sharon a quick text telling her it's ready, you get up to leave. Bucky begins walking away, a look of dejection on his face, when you grab his hand. "Hold on. Just... wait here with me," You say, pulling him behind a rock.

"What are we doing here?" He asks you with a frown.

"Just wait," You whisper, looking over the rock. A few minutes pass before Sharon and Steve walk out the hotel.

"What are they doing here?" Bucky wonders. "Want me to stall them while you wait for Pietro?"

"Wait," You repeat, feeling the confusion emanate from him.

As Sharon and Steve make their way down to the beach, you hold your breath. Steve seems confused to the babble leaving Sharon's mouth, until they get to the candles and message in the sand. They stop. He's looking down at it. He looks back up at her, and she's grinning at him. With a laugh, he swoops her into his arms and spins her around.

You turn to look at Bucky, who just looks absolutely lost.

"What... they... huh?" He utters.

"The tests weren't for me. They were for Sharon," You reveal. "And this whole thing was for Steve, not Pietro. Sharon was just really scared of everyone finding out, and wanted Steve to know before anyone else."

Bucky's lips part in shock, and he just stares down at you. "So, you and Pietro..."

"We just sleep together every now and then," You admit. "I just... wanted to bring someone in case you brought someone. Which you did."

"Jean and I aren't... we're just friends," He tells you. "We're working on a film together. I mentioned that I wasn't bringing a plus-one, and she asked if she could come with me so she could network."

"So..." You trail off, your heart racing.

"So..." He echoes, raising a brow. "I still love you. I still want you more than I've ever wanted anything else. If I have to spend another three years proving myself to you, I will."

"Bucky... I... I love you, too," You say, the words finally flying free. "I don't want to waste any more time. But... I have a lot to think about," You tell him. "And a conversation to have with Pietro. But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. The big day," He says, looking as though he's holding back from doing something he wants to do.

"Yeah. Very big," You say awkwardly. "Well... good night."

He takes a step closer to you, and you forget how to breathe. Looking down at you, he cups your cheek in his hand. "Good night," He replies.

Swallowing thickly, you nod.

How the fuck are you supposed to get any sleep tonight?

The wedding ceremony is beautiful. The love Steve and Sharon have for each other is evident in their vows and the way they look at each other, and you can't help but notice the glow on Sharon's face. However, the reception is when the real fun starts.

You've been pouring water shots for Sharon whenever someone wants to do a round with her, because she isn't ready for everyone to know about the baby yet. As her maid of honor, you've barely had a chance to sit down, having to fight all the small fires that arise to make sure she doesn't realize anything's wrong. You're grateful once the cake's been cut and the dance floor fills up, meaning you can finally relax as the party goes on.

"It's so unfair that you're breaking up with me," Pietro whines as he looks you up and down. "In that dress? You're killing me."

"Get a grip, Maximoff," You say with an eye roll.

"C'mon, let's dance!" He says, pulling you onto the dance floor before you have a chance to say no.

It's an upbeat song at first, one that you can simply clap along to so as not to make a fool of yourself - but then the band switches to a slow ballad.

"Everyone, grab someone you care about and let's dance a little slower," The singer says.

Bucky suddenly appears behind Pietro, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, man. Mind if I steal her from you?"

Only looking slightly intimidated, Pietro nods. "Of course, man. Have fun," He says, giving you a grin before walking away.

As the song begins, a rendition of Can't Help Falling In Love, you smile and shake your head. "Did you request this?" You ask him, placing your hands on his shoulder.

"Who? Me?" He asks with faux innocence as he takes your waist in his hands. "I don't know what you mean."

"Cheesy fucker," You mumble, unable to keep the smile on your face.

This song reminds you of one of the best days you ever spent with him - when you met his family. Losing them was another painful thing you had to deal with when you left Bucky, and getting to see them again is one of the things you're most excited about.

"How is everyone?" You ask him. "Rebecca?"

"She's doing well," He says with a smile. "She's a teacher at our old school."

"I miss her," You tell him. "I miss them all."

"We can see them soon," Bucky tells you. "They've never stopped asking me about you. Ma will probably faint when I tell her you're mine for real this time."

"I'm yours?" You ask teasingly. "Prove it, Mr. Barnes."

He lets out a breathy laugh before moving in closer, holding your body to his, and bringing his lips to yours in a soft kiss. It was everything you've been missing and more. You feel just as safe with him as you did all those years ago.

When he pulls away, he shakes his head. "I can't believe I ever thought I could keep you at a distance. At the start, when I did everything I could to ignore my feelings," He says. "All you ever were was perfect. And I let fear keep me from being with you."

"We both did," You tell him. "And nobody can blame us. We'd never been in love before. Never thought we ever would be. But you came into my life, and... you taught me love. Showed me what it's supposed to be. And I want to spend my life loving you, without judgement, without hiding from the world. I love you, Jamie. No amount of time could have ever changed that. I never moved on, never forgot. I'll always be yours."

"And I'll always be yours," Bucky swears. "I'm gonna look after you, always. I went through life without feeling anything real before I met you. And you made me feel it all. Anger, hate, irritation."

"Damn," You utter lowly.

"Joy, appreciation, love," He adds with a smile. "It's like I was only pretending to feel those things before you made me really feel them. You lit a fire in me. Made me real. You made me real. I want to spend the rest of my life thanking you for that."

"I wish I could tell the Bucky from three and a half years ago that he'd be saying all this one day," You say with a grin. "He'd lose his fucking mind."

"Ah, he was a dick," He says flippantly. "Didn't know a thing."

"He was a dick," You agree, leaning in. "But... he was also really good in bed."

A smirk pulls at his lips. "Yeah? You enjoyed getting hate-fucked by him, didn't you?"

You bite down on your lip, squeezing his shoulders. "So. Much," You utter.

Bucky glances around the thinning-out dance floor and looks back at you. "How about, once we're done here, I take you up to one of the rooms, and fuck you like I hate you?" He suggests, sending a shiver down your spine. "What do you say? For old time's sake?"

With a grin, and ruined panties, you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him before repeating, "For old time's sake."

super long a/n incominggggg

the fucking end.

so here we are. i am so not emotionally prepared to say goodbye to real people. the past eighteen weeks have felt so, so incredible (eighteen weeks??? they went so quick omg), and exactly what peak tumblr felt like for me, back in the method acting and suburban pleasure days. for those who have been following me for a while, you probably noticed i took an extremely long hiatus starting in about 2023, only really posting the odd one-shot here and there. real people was my first series back and . oh my God. the support was instant and overwhelming. it felt like a community again. my love for writing was reignited and, though there were one or two weeks when i hit writer's block and had to rush to get a chapter out, for the most part it genuinely felt like this series wrote itself. the storyline of actors fake dating has been sitting in my drafts for literal years. since before my marvel era. since before my anakin era. since an era none of you knew... my harry styles era. yep. i had a really weak intro drafted of a harry styles fanfic with the same concept. it was just called "real". and that was in like... 2016/17. so to be here now, almost a decade later, with a full series based on 16-year-old kinana's idea written and complete that I'm so proud of is so damn surreal. I genuinely would not have been able to write this without your love and support so thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and sent me lovely messages week in and week out. you are the reason this series exists. i hope i can continue to bring you more stories. i might take a short break from posting anything for a few weeks, work on some drafts. maybe think up a new series. and work on some old ones. i'll see you soon. i love you all.

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buy me a kofi <3

[mannien]

real people

chapter seventeen

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

content warning: actor!bucky x actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, angst, mention of revenge porn.

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"I can't even begin to express how angry I am," Pepper says lowly. "Why would you do this to yourself? And before you roll your fucking eyes at me, just take a second to realize what it is you're putting at risk - this isn't just about looking like a homewrecker in the media, this could affect your case and lead to Thor winning. Do you get that?"

You sit and stare out at the water as the waves crash on the beach. Usually, you'd think Pepper was just overreacting and being a control freak, but this is the first time in your career that you know she's right. You thought you could sneak around with Bucky during the point in your career when you're under the most scrutiny and not get caught, and now you see how foolish that was. How foolish you were.

"I don't care what you do once the case is won and once his contract with Natasha is over - but right now, you are on strict lockdown. You will not travel without me knowing, you will not meet anyone without me knowing - you will eat, sleep, and breathe only with my permission," She says firmly, taking you aback. "Yeah. It's written into our contract of employment, actually. I never thought I'd have to exercise it, but you leave me no choice. You're reckless and it could ruin us all, so for the next however many months, you're effectively grounded."

An instinct in you wants you to protest - to scream about how she can't do that to you - but deep down, you know that it's probably best. You have nothing left - no pride, no strength, no ego. Nothing to give you the ammunition to argue with her, so all you can do is obey.

"Can I... can I at least just call him once last time to explain?" You ask her, barely recognizing yourself because of how weak and small you sound. "If I just disappear on him, he'll only try and find me and make it worse."

She sighs and rubs her temples for a few seconds before responding. "Five minutes," She utters with her eyes closed.

You rush out of your seat and out of the beach restaurant, making your way to the shore where you can be sure nobody is around with a hidden camera. After dialling his number, you hold the phone up to your ear, sitting down on the sand. It rings once. Twice. Eight times before the robotic voice comes through telling you to leave your message at the tone.

"Fuck," You whisper just as the tone sounds out. "Uh... shit, I really didn't want this to be a voicemail. Actually, it's probably easier this way. Or maybe that's the coward in me. Hey, Jamie. God, this sucks. I'm so sorry to be leaving you this message but... I don't really have much time. Pepper's putting me on lockdown, meaning I can't do anything at all without her knowing. Which means, uh, I can't see you. For like, a few months. During the trial and I guess until you and Natasha break up. I won't even be able to call or text you, let alone see you. So I guess... this is me saying goodbye? Not forever, but... for a while. And I don't just want you to sit around and wait for me, so... I think it has to be over between us." You wince at your own words, trying to keep calm and not cry while you're still on the phone. "I'm sorry it has to be like this. I have to go now. I love you. I hope you'll still... I'll see you later."

With that, you hang up, immediately regretting everything you said and all the things you didn't say.

"I've upset you, haven't I?" Gwen reads off the script from behind the camera. "Talk to me. You know you can trust me."

"Last Tuesday, when you were high out of your mind, you said something," You say. "It seemed like you were... asking for more than just friendship from me. As if you... might even..." You trail off, unable to get Bucky out of your head for even a single minute. The script hits too close to home, and before you know it, you're crying for the eighth time today.

Gwen turns the camera off and comes around to hug you, letting out a sigh. "It's alright, honey, we can leave it for today," She says, stroking your hair. "You've got until the end of the week to send your audition tape in, right?"

"End of the month," You correct her between sobs.

"Right, so let's just take it easy today," She says.

"I just hate how I left it," You cry. "Hate that it was a voicemail. I can just... see him listening to it."

"And you can't at least text him?" Gwen asks.

"Pepper took all my phones," You tell her, wiping your face.

"I can't believe she can do that," She says with a huff. "You're basically under house arrest, but stricter."

"She wouldn't if it wasn't in my best interest," You say as you walk over to the couch. "As much as it sucks, it's what I need. I don't trust myself not to contact him, or do something else to fuck up the case."

"I could never be a celebrity," She mutters as she sits next to you on the couch and rests her head on your shoulder. "Remember when I tried to be an influencer for, like, a month? One mean comment and I took down my account."

You snort. "It was barely even a mean comment. Someone just asked why you were eating fro-yo for breakfast," You point out.

"I could sense the judgement!" She claims, before humming. "Maybe I shouldn't go on that date with Peter, after all."

"What? But you've been crushing on him for, like, ever," You say. "He's a pretty private guy, anyway. You could probably date him for a good few months before anyone found out. Then just break up with him over fucking voicemail and everything will go back to normal."

With a wince, she wraps her arms around you, hugging you tight. "It'll be over soon. Once Thor's behind bars, you're free to do what you want," She says calmly.

"What if Bucky catches feelings for Natasha? If I'm out of sight, out of mind, and he forgets how he feels about me?" You wonder as your thoughts spiral. "He's been friends with her for years. They probably have chemistry - more than I had with him at the start. Oh, God."

"Y/N," Gwen says firmly, grabbing your face and forcing you to make eye contact with her. "D'you think you'd ever forget how you feel about him?"

"Never," You answer instantly.

"So, how could he forget about you when he feels the same?" She asks you pointedly. "If anything was gonna happen between him and Natasha, it would've happened by now."

You let out a long sigh, knowing she's right but still refusing to let go of your frustration. Resting on her arm, you mumble, "Got court tomorrow. Can you come with?"

"Of course," She replies, holding you tight. "Love you."

"Thanks," You utter. "Love you, too."

The sight of Thor sitting smugly in his tight suit is one the worst parts of being in court. Every time he walks in, he can't help but look directly at you, silently telling you that he can't wait to win and he has no doubt that he will. You sit next to Andy, your lawyer, with Pepper and Gwen behind you in the stands. There are some journalists but no cameras, just the court artist in the corner sketching away.

It's been fifteen minutes and you're ready to go home. The past few sessions have started to feel like the same points are being made over and over again, and you're bored of Thor's lawyer, Gregory Hyde, trying to make you out as a liar.

"I'd like to call a new witness to the stand, Your Honor," Gregory announces, catching your attention.

The judge permits it and Gregory gives the officers at the doors a nod. You hear the heavy doors open as you continue facing forward, wondering which PA or extra they've managed to pay off to speak out against you this time.

"Your Honour, and the Jury, I present James Barnes," Gregory says, and you feel like your heart has stopped beating.

Sitting up, you turn your head to see Bucky walking down the aisle, a look of shame and discomfort on his face. Gwen gasps behind you.

"What the fuck?" You hiss to Andy, who just shakes his head.

You know just by looking at Bucky that he doesn't want to be here - he must not have been given a choice. He spares you a glance as he walks past you, led by an officer onto the witness stand. Taking in deep breaths, you do your best to remain calm, refusing to give Thor and his lawyers the reaction they want.

A court official stands in front of Bucky and asks him, "Do you swear that any answers you give today are the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

Bucky swallows. "Yes," He replies.

You feel sick to your stomach.

Gregory makes his way up to the front of the court, hands in his pockets and a look on his face even more smug than Thor's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. Could you tell me the name of that woman sitting over there?" He asks, pointing at you.

You meet Bucky's eyes and immediately regret it, quickly looking down at your lap instead.

Bucky answers, giving him your full name.

"And could you please tell the jury what your relationship to Y/N is?" Gregory questions.

"We used to date," Bucky answers flatly.

"Right. And was this before or after she was with Mr. Odinson, do you know?" Gregory further presses.

Bucky takes a second to reply. "After," He says.

"Did she cheat on you with Thor?" Gregory throws at him. "I'm just trying to get the timeline right here."

"She did not cheat on me, ever. Not once we entered an exclusive relationship together," He answers firmly.

"Would you say you and Y/N were close, Mr. Barnes?" Gregory asks.

"Yes," Bucky replies stiffly.

"And did she ever express discomfort with being filmed or photographed by yourself?" Gregory throws at him.

Bucky's jaw clenches. "She told me that what Thor did was a complete violation of her trust," He says firmly. "She didn't give him consent to film her."

Gregory simply nods. "I'm referring to your relationship with her, Mr. Barnes," He explains. "Did Y/N ever allow you to take photos or videos of her during intimate moments?"

Taking in a deep breath, Bucky sighs. "She may have, on some occasions," He answers vaguely.

Gregory takes a step back and picks up the small remote control for the television to the left of the judge. "Why don't we all take a look at this?" He calls out, before flicking to the next picture - and it makes your stomach twist.

It's from Ljubljana- someone took a photo of the two of you in the wildflower meadow post-sex, when Bucky was taking pictures of you. Whispers emerge across the courtroom and some members of the jury make some notes. You could scream.

"Order!" The judge demands, banging his gavel before giving Gregory nod. "Proceed with the questioning, Mr. Hyde."

"Mr. Barnes, can you confirm whether that is yourself and Y/N in that picture?" Gregory asks him, failing to hide the smirk from his face.

Bucky looks just as taken aback by you as he stares at the photo. "Uh, yeah. That's us," He replies.

"As you can tell by both your states of undress, it seems like you're taking pictures of Y/N post-coitus - is that right?" Gregory asks.

"Objection, Your Honor," Andy finally intervenes, standing up. "Relevance?"

The judge holds his hand up and says, "Overruled. Continue, Mr. Hyde."

You want nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole as you shrink into yourself. This is worse than you thought - lower than you thought Thor's team would go.

"So, Mr. Barnes, please answer the question: is this a photo of you taking a picture on your phone of Y/N post-coitus? During what seems to be an intimate moment?"

"She knew I was taking the picture-"

"It's a simple yes or no, Mr. Barnes," Gregory cuts him off.

Bucky looks like he wants to kill him. "Yes," He utters.

"Right. So, we can all agree that Y/N is known to partake in creating evidence of her sexual activity," Gregory says, facing the jury.

"That moment between us has nothing to do with what Thor did without Y/N's consent," Bucky spits.

"I'm not suggesting it does," Gregory replies simply. "I'm just establishing the fact that Y/N has previously allowed - even encouraged - intimate images to be taken of her. This is a pattern of behaviour."

It looks like Bucky is struggling to put his words together, which is painful to see. "She trusted me. She consented to the photos being taken. She knew that I wouldn't leak them. Thor filmed her without her knowledge-"

"That's all for now, Mr. Barnes," Gregory interrupts him, looking awfully proud of himself as he turns to the judge. "That'll be all for this witness, Your Honor."

"Mr. Barber, will you be cross-examining the witness?" The Judge asks Andy, who nods and stands.

That feeling of nausea still sits in your stomach. You can't bring yourself to look at Bucky. Andy walks out to the front, calm, cool, and collected. Having not prepared for this situation with him, you have no idea how he's going to handle this and whether questioning Bucky will even do any good for you.

"Mr. Barnes, we know you took this photo of Y/N," Andy says, gesturing to the screen. "You said earlier that she trusted you."

Though he knows he can trust your lawyer, Bucky is still on edge. "Yes," He replies lowly.

"Did you ever share that picture with anyone else?" Andy asks him.

"No," Bucky answers without hesitation.

"Did she give you her permission to post or share it publicly?" Andy continues.

"No," Bucky answers.

"Did you ever record Y/N during sex or intimacy without her knowledge?"

"Never."

"And if, let's say, a former lover of hers had done so, and then shared that recording against her will, would you consider that a violation of her trust?" Andy questions him, walking closer to the witness stand.

"I would consider it a disgusting betrayal," Bucky tells him bluntly.

Andy doesn't say anything for a few moments, letting Bucky's words hang in the air for a while. Some members of the jury make notes. You turn back to look at Pepper, who gives you a reassuring nod, though the concern in her eyes is unmissable.

"Mr. Barnes, as a public figure, you must know what it's like to be followed, harassed, and have your words and actions manipulated by the media," Andy begins again.

"All too well," Bucky replies with a nod.

"And so, in your relationship with Y/N,  did you have boundaries? Did she make it known when something crossed the line?" Andy asks him.

"She was always honest with me about what she needed and wanted," Bucky says.

"Would you say she's a person that values privacy?" Andy wonders.

"Absolutely," Bucky answers quickly. "Like most people in her line of work. Privacy is important to her and so is being able to own the way she's portrayed by the media."

"And so, if she was to allow for an intimate moment to be captured by a lover, would you say that's her being careless? Or is it more a sign of comfort with that person?" Andy says, in an attempt to make the difference between Bucky and Thor astronomically clear.

For the first time, Bucky meets your eyes, and it's like time stops for a second. He keeps his eyes on you as he says, "It meant she trusted me. That she knew I'd never do anything to hurt her."

"Right," Andy mumbles, taking a few steps back towards the jury. "Mr. Barnes, when was the last time you saw Y/N before the tape was leaked?"

"We were broken up, but I saw her at a party," Bucky says. "She was actually speaking to Thor and from the looks of it, rejecting his advances."

"Objection!" Gregory yells out. "Speculation, Your Honor."

The Judge nods, holding his palm up. "Objection sustained. Mr. Barnes, please refrain from making assumptive comments. Continue."

Eager to move on, Andy nods. "When Y/N found out about the leaked tape, did she speak with you about it? If so, how did she react?"

"Well, like I said, we uh, we had broken up when it happened, so she didn't call me until a few days later. I'd never heard her sound so panicked," Bucky recalls, a look of pain on his face as he thinks back to that day. "She sounded broken, and exhausted."

"Did she seem proud of what happened? Happy at the publicity it gave her?" Andy asked, echoing the points that Thor's team have been making since the start of the case.

"She was humiliated," Bucky corrects him. "Ashamed. Even though she had nothing to be ashamed of."

"Do you know of her profiting from the leak in any way?" Andy presses.

"The opposite. She lost work because of it," Bucky tells him. "And she told me she was afraid she wouldn't be taken seriously in the industry."

"And did she ever tell you that she knew she was being filmed?" Andy asks him.

"No. She was completely blindsided," Bucky answers flatly.

"So if Mr. Odinson is claiming that Y/N knew she was being filmed, do you agree with that?"

"No," Bucky says curtly.

"And did Y/N ever give you a reason to doubt her honesty?" Andy questions.

Bucky remains firm. "Never."

"So, just to be clear," Andy says, facing the jury. "Mr. Barnes, a man who loved and trusted Y/N, asked for her permission for any intimate photos he might have taken of her. And he kept his word by keeping those photos private. Yet Mr. Odinson, who filmed her without her knowledge or consent, and then leaked that footage in a textbook act of revenge porn fuelled by his anger of her rejection, wants you to believe that he acted with consent and approval. The truth is plain and simple, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury." With that, he walks back towards you. "That'll be all, Your Honor," He calls out before lowering his mouth down to your ear. "We've got this fucker."

You're sitting on the roof of Pepper's house, smoking a cigarette by yourself. The almost black sky is lit up by stars, and a cool breeze strokes your skin. After the day you've had in court, Pepper didn't want you at home by yourself, so she brought you to her place to stay a few nights while you're still on lockdown.

You hear the stairs creaking before the hatch up to the roof opens, and expecting Pepper or one of her PAs, you remain still, staring up at the sky. It isn't until they sit next to you and the smell of his aftershave hits you that you realize it's him.

"Jamie, what the fuck are you doing here?" You ask as you turn to him. "If Pepper finds out-"

"Pepper invited me," He cuts you off, allowing you to relax a little before he frowns. "Since fucking when do you smoke?"

You snort, glancing down at the cigarette. "I quit a while ago, but desperate times," You utter before taking another drag.

"Here," He says, holding out his hand. When you give it to him, you half-expect him to toss it off the roof, but he surprises you and takes a drag.

"Since when do you smoke?" You throw back at him, used to him treating his body like a temple.

"Desperate times," Bucky echoes, smoke leaving his mouth with the words as he hands the cigarette back to you. You continue sharing it, handing it back and forth in a peaceful silence before you throw the butt away.

"How have you been?" You ask him carefully, once the silence stops being peaceful and begins dangerously venturing into awkward territory. It's been a week since you left him that voicemail, and it's all you can think about.

"Awful," Bucky answers truthfully. "Not as bad as you, of course, but... fuck, I miss you."

You bite your lip and nod. "I'm sorry about today. I had no idea they'd bring you in," You say.

"It's not your fault, baby," He mumbles, rubbing your back. "I just hope I didn't say anything that fucked it up for you."

"You were perfect," You tell him. "Andy was actually really glad they brought you in. He says it gave him an opportunity to show the jury just how bad what Thor did was."

"Oh, by comparing it to our perfect relationship?" He asks teasingly.

"You were perfect," You repeat with a whisper, resting your head on his shoulder. "Thank you. I... it was rough seeing you up there getting questioned by Hyde, but it... I always feel better when you're in the room. Makes me feel like everything will be okay."

"Because it will be," He promises, wrapping his arm around you. "I'll make sure of it."

"How are things with... Natasha?" You ask, almost nervous to say her name out loud as if it will unleash his feelings for her and make him realize he wants her more than you.

"Fine," He replies, his tone a little curt. "Just a few months left."

"Months are so long," You mumble. "Do you... have fun with her?"

He doesn't reply instantly, which makes you want to die. You lift your head up so you can see the look on his face. It's blank.

"Do you think you could catch feelings for her?" You ask him plainly.

His face drops as he meets your eyes. "Y/N," He utters lowly. "I am in love with you."

"But... you're friends with her. She's beautiful and talented," You list off.

"Like all the other women I work with," Bucky says. "Am I gonna go fall in love with all of them, too?"

You shrug. "Maybe."

He snorts, shaking his head. "I wish you could see into my mind," He mumbles.

"So, describe it to me," You request. "Your mind."

"There's a huge shrine in there, dedicated to you," He tells you, pulling you onto his lap with your legs on either side of his. "And the sound of your name bouncing around. Every minute. Just you. Like some old TV channel that only plays reruns of the same show, except every episode you watch, no matter how many times you've seen it, you spot something new. I am in love with you, and that isn't a feeling that ever dulls or that I could ever be distracted from."

You smile down at him with your hands on his shoulders. "Yeah, same," You utter.

"That's all I get?" He wonders with a raised brow.

"I love you," You whisper, giving him a soft kiss before pulling back with a frown. "Pepper only let you come over because she knows I needed it. Once you leave, this is like... goodbye. I'm so sorry about the voicemail. It was terrible."

"It's my fault for not picking up. I was filming," He tells you. "I... listened to it over and over, all week, just to hear your voice. Even though it killed me to hear you so hurt."

"I don't want you to go," You say, clinging onto him. "I just want to be yours. I don't wanna wait."

"I know, baby," Bucky says against your lips. "I tried to get out of it, but-"

"It's not your fault," You tell him, before frowning. "Actually, it is. If you weren't so stubborn about not being in a relationship, we wouldn't be in this mess. So fuck you, Barnes."

"I'm sorry," He says with a wince. "I should've known better. Should've known from the moment I met you that you'd sink your claws into me."

"I just hate it when you kiss her," You admit with a whisper, looking down. "It... feels horrible. I know it's not real, but you're both really good actors, so it looks fucking real."

Bucky cups your face in his hands and kisses you deeply. He's hoping the words he doesn't have the strength to say reach you with his kiss. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I love you.

A sudden rapping on the hatch makes you jump away from his lips.

"Time to go, Barnes!" Pepper's muffled voice comes from within.

"Shit," You whisper, getting off his lap and standing up.

"Aw, fuck," Bucky mumbles, standing up too.

"I did mean what I said in the voicemail," You say, unable to look him in the eyes. "I think we should... have a clean break. No waiting around or strings attached. Definitely no sex. Just... wait it out. Until your contract's over. I don't want to give the media any more ammunition."

He nods, knowing you're right. "I think that's what best," He says, even though it kills him to say it.

"That means no contact," You clarify, looking up at him. "Not until the dust from everything has settled and we can be together freely."

"Yeah," He whispers with a nod.

"I... I'm gonna miss you," You say as your eyes well up. "A lot."

"I'm gonna miss you, too," He responds, taking a step towards you and taking your hand. "Just know that whenever you think of me, I'll be thinking of you, too. Got the shrine up here, remember?"

"I love you, Jamie," You tell him. "I always will, no matter what."

"I love you, my gorgeous girl," He replies, stroking your cheek. "Always."

"I... I guess I'll see you later?" You wonder, your heart thudding.

He rushes forward and gives you a kiss. It feels final. When he pulls back, he looks wrecked, still holding your hand when he says, "I'll see you later."

damn </3

Final Chapter >

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[mannien]

We Keep Running Into Each Other

Summary : Bucky falls in love with a struggling journalist, but neither of them were ready for a relationship… until now. 

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

Warnings/tags : Friends with benefits to Lovers. Suggestive content. Cursing. Little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, TFATWS-Bucky Congressman!Bucky, bit of fluff!!!!

Word count : 16.8k

Note : This story starts around TFATWS and ends right before Thunderbolts. Enjoy!

The bookstore was quiet now. Most of the book club people had filtered out after an hour or so offering their usual waves and lukewarm opinions on the week’s pick. Tonight, it was The Bell Jar. Heavy, emotional, a little too on-the-nose for your current mental state. You stayed behind, your pen hovering over the last page as you pretended to reread a passage you’ve memorised three times already. In reality, you’re avoiding the blinking cursor on the empty Word document waiting on your laptop at home. Another missed pitch. Another editor ‘passing for now.’

“You’re not a fan,” said a voice from across the room.

You looked up to see James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been watching you for longer than you’re comfortable admitting. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up just enough to reveal a hint of metal. You already knew it’s vibranium— you already knew a lot of things about him, but it was different seeing it up close, like it doesn’t belong to a man who once jumped out of planes and shattered skulls with his bare hands. “Not a fan of what?” you asked, raising a brow.

“The book.” He pushed off the doorframe. “You’ve been stuck on the same page for ten minutes. You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with Sylvia Plath.”

You snorted. “Maybe I am.”

He smirked, folding his arms. “She’d probably win.”

“She’d definitely win,” you say with a grin, snapping the book closed and tossing it on the table. “Depressed girls with typewriters are dangerous.”

You’d know, you were one. Still, Bucky watched you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are real, and what you’re faking.

You held his stare, refusing to shrink under it, and told him your name, because you might as well right?

He nodded. “I’m Bucky.”

You smiled faintly. “I know.”

His eyes narrowed for a second—but it wasn’t hostile.  You shoved your stuff into your bag. “I don’t mean like that. It’s just—” You shrugged. “I’m a journalist. Or I try to be. Comes with, you know… obsessively knowing things.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “You do profiles?”

“Sometimes.” You hesitated. “Lately it’s more… copywriting for blogs that publish people’s hot takes on ethical non-monogamy and pistachio milk brands.”

That made him smile. Not much�� just a brief lift at the corner of his mouth, but it counted, right?

“So,” he said, “what’s a smartass doing in a book club like this?”

You grinned. “Research.”

“For?”

“Human behavior,” you said casually. “Actually, you’d be a good topic to write about. You’d make a great tragic anti-hero. Real brooding appeal. It’d get clicks.”

He stepped closer now, helping you up from your seat. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I’m avoiding work.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Silence stretched for a second too long. Then, he asked, “Are you free?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a bar a few blocks over. Good whiskey, if that’s your thing. Got crappy lighting”

You stared at him, at the scars barely hidden beneath his collar. The twitch in his jaw when you looked too long. You felt the heat building behind your chest—not quite attraction, not yet. But the potential to. 

“Alright,” you said. “But I’m warning you—I flirt when I drink.”

He opened the door for you without breaking eye contact. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

—

He did say the lighting was gonna be crappy, but the bar was still darker than you expected. It had its charm, though, with brick walls and the kind of jazz playing in the background that made everything feel like it was happening in sepia. The bartender didn’t blink twice when Bucky walked in, which probably meant this wasn’t a new spot for him. He slid onto a stool, and you followed without thinking.

“Two whiskeys,” he said to the bartender, glancing at you, and you nodded.

“You come here often?” you said with a smirk, knowing full well how cliché it sounded, but you needed something to break the silence.

He snorted. “That’s my line.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever used a line in your life.”

His eyes sparkled, then chuckled. “Not since 1943.”

You leaned your elbow on the bar. “What was it? ‘Say, doll, wanna share a malt and talk about the war effort?’”

“Close.” He gave you a dry but amused look. “Steve was shy when it came to girls, so I had to do the heavy lifting for the both of us.”

The drinks arrived. He slid one toward you. 

You took a sip. “You’re better at this than you think, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “At what?”

“Conversation,” you said, tapping the rim of your glass. “Making people feel like they’re not talking into a void.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

Instead, he asked, “What about you? You’re not shy, but you haven’t really said much about yourself.”

That made your lips twitch. “You think I’m not shy?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you talk a lot to keep people from looking too close.”

You blinked. Not because he was wrong—he wasn’t—but because he’d hit the nail so cleanly after only one meeting, you almost spilled your drink.

“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning back, “You sound like my mother.”

He smiled, just a little. “Didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I know.” You swirled the whiskey in your glass, staring down into the amber. “I just… don’t usually have people say that out loud. Most guys I meet don’t exactly want to know the why behind my sarcasm.”

“I do.”

“Well…” you shrugged. You probably shouldn’t trauma dump to a famous stranger, but you needed an outlet to talk to, so… might as well, right? “I’m a mess. I haven’t written a good piece in weeks. I’m broke, chronically tired, and emotionally constipated.”

“That supposed to scare me off?”

“Most people run from the second I talk or feel too much.”

“Most people,” he said, tilting his head, “aren’t me.”

You laughed under your breath, remembering his full name from an article you read a couple months ago. “Okay, James.”

He stiffened slightly. Not in anger, but the name hit a bruise.

“Sorry.” you corrected, “Bucky.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Just weird, hearing it like that again from someone that isn’t my therapist or a supervillain. Feels… old.”

“Everything about you feels old,” you teased, nudging his boot with yours beneath the bar.

He laughed, and the conversation was easy from there.

You finished your drinks. You didn’t touch each other again, not yet, but your legs stayed close. You noticed the way his fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bar and how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

And when you both stood to leave, he walked you home.

—

Last night wasn’t a date. You told yourself that. Told your friends that. Told your reflection in the mirror that.

But then, you keep meeting between book club.

You ran into him outside your favourite grocery store four days later. You’d think the chances of Bucky Barnes needing kale and almond milk on a Tuesday afternoon were close to zero, but here you were.

Then you bumped into him again at the park. You were nursing a coffee and your latest rejection email on a bench. He was walking alone without a destination and no headphones on— like he didn’t know what to do with himself if he stopped moving too long. He sat down beside you, and that conversation lasted an hour and a half. 

And it happened again. At a cafe. And again. At the library. And Again. At the dentist’s office.

The sixth time, you exchanged numbers.

Then, you started texting. It was never anything dramatic. It was just… links to articles, quotes from books. “This reminded me of you” with no context— and it was a photo of the sky when it turned gold at sunset.

He started sitting next to you at book club after that.

He never said anything about it, never made a show of it— but every week, he claimed the chair to your left like it had always been his. Sometimes his thigh brushed yours. Sometimes your knees bumped and neither of you apologised.

Sometimes, you didn’t take notes at all. You just listened to the way he spoke when he actually cared about a character, or how his muscles tightened when someone made a flippant comment about trauma they didn’t understand.

Because of Bucky, book club became the highlight of your week (even if you did get bored sometimes and developed a whole cipher system with Bucky while everyone else was talking about Jane Eyre).

Then… he missed a session.

No text. No warning. He just didn’t show.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he owed you anything.

But your phone stayed within arm’s reach that night. And the night after.

And when the text finally came—after three days and too many imagined worst-case scenarios—you almost dropped your phone reading it.

sorry i missed book club things got messy and didn’t want to drag you into it

You typed a reply quickly.

Are you okay? Where are you?

He got back to you immediately.

safe now can I see you?

You tilted your head, considering your answer.

Yeah Where were you thinking? Bar?

Bucky didn’t respond after that.

—

You didn’t expect the knock.

You’d half expected him to disappear for good. Or to text you some vague “something came up” text that meant he was in mortal danger.

But thirty minutes after you last texted him, at 1:14 a.m., there he was— knocking against your window like he wasn’t standing four stories up on a Brooklyn fire escape.

You blinked and pushed the window open. “You’re insane.”

He gave a crooked shrug. “You said I could see you.”

He climbed in, but only halfway, just to glance around your apartment. His eyes landed on your laptop—open, half a draft blinking on the screen—and then on the half-eaten bag of trail mix on your desk.

“This is sad,” he teased.

“Don’t judge me. It’s freelance life.”

You stepped aside, but instead of going in, he sat down on the ledge of your fire escape again, like he’d done it a hundred times before. You sighed and ducked out the window to sit beside him.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You just sat shoulder to shoulder in the dark. It was cooler than it had been last week, and you noticed the way he rolled his shoulder like something was still sore.

“You okay?” you asked after a minute.

“No.”

You nodded. “Wanna talk about it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “I saw that article you wrote. The one about the Flag Smashers.”

You braced yourself.

“You said they had a point.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he let out a deep breath, “I kind of missed book club because we’re going after them.”

You froze. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His metal fists curled. “I mean—we’re not hunting them down like animals. Sam and I… we were trying to stop it from getting worse, from doing something they’d regret. It’s just—” he shook his head—“messy.”

You nodded slowly. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I wasn’t defending what they did. But they’re angry. Displaced. It’s hard not to look at what the world’s become and think, God, someone has to break something to make people listen.”

He looked down. “That’s probably what Karli would say.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “That’s what scared me.”

Bucky leaned against you, and you carefully put your head on your shoulders. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not like I think she’s wrong. Just… I’ve done things I can’t take back. I know where that path ends.”

You scooted just a bit closer. He sounded like the weight of the world was draped over his shoulders like an old coat he couldn’t take off.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that,” he said, voice rough.

“Don’t worry about it.”

There was another bout of silence, and for a while, you basked in him

Then you turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re tense as hell.”

He glanced at you. “What?”

“You’ve been rolling that shoulder for ten minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

You reached over before he could finish protesting, your hand finding the spot near his collarbone. He flinched— but didn’t stop you.

“Relax,” you whispered, fingers pressing gently into the muscle. “Jesus, it’s like a steel cable.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a groan—and tilted his head just enough to give you better access.

“You keep this up,” he muttered, “and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to seduce me.”

You smiled without looking at him. “If I was trying to seduce you, James, you’d already be in my bed.”

He let out a real laugh at that, but then he stopped abruptly.

You could feel the moment shift—like heat rising under a volcano.

His voice was quieter when he said it. “You ever think about it?”

Your fingers paused. “Think about what?”

“This.” He glanced at you. “Us. Kind of… doing something about the tension.”

Your hand slipped away from his shoulder carefully. “You mean sex?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Yeah.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. “Yeah,” you said, just above a whisper. “Of course I have.”

He looked at you. “And?”

“And I think we’re both a mess.”

He didn’t argue. 

“You told me you missed your court-mandated therapy two weeks ago,” you spelled it out for him gently. “I’m averaging three articles a month. Four if I get lucky. I’m emotionally exhausted, financially unstable, and one wrong email away from moving back in with my family.”

He smiled, a little crooked and a little sad. “You think I don’t know I’m a mess?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I think you do. That’s the problem.”

You placed a hand on his metal arm and met his gaze. “Neither of us is in the headspace for a relationship.”

His teeth clenched, but he didn’t look away.  “But,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “One way or another… we should do something.”

Your heartbeat ticked up. “You’re serious?”

“I think about you all the damn time,” he said simply. “I think about how you talk. How you laugh. How you look when you get pissed off in book club and start flipping through your notes.”

“We’re not stable,” you reminded before he could spiral, even though you wanted to say you loved staring into his eyes and finding the ocean, even though you wanted to let him know you found him to be the only person you could breathe around. “We’re not dating material. We’re barely friend material.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

And you knew he did.

You knew because he carried every broken piece of himself like it was still dangerous. You knew because you did the same.

“So what then?” you asked. “What are we even talking about?”

He met your eyes. “Just sex.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m serious,” he said. “No pretending it’s anything else. No promises.”

You tilted your head. “And you think that’s gonna be enough?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I feel like I’m losing my mind half the week. And when I’m around you, I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“I don’t mean it like some sappy shit,” he corrected himself. “I just mean — you’re easy to be around. You get it. The mess. The anger. The bad sleep. You don’t try to fix me.”

You were quiet.

“And when you touch me,” he added, “I feel like I’m still human.”

That nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You shouldn’t say things like that, you thought, because I’m already halfway in love with you.

You didn’t say it, though. 

Instead you said, “Okay.”

His brow lifted. “Okay?”

“Sex,” you said. “Just sex. When we’re both clear-headed and want it.”

His voice shifted—playful now, “Do we want it now?”

You looked at him, at the way the moonlight caught the angles of his face, the tension still hanging on his frame like armour, His eyes were warm, but his mind was probably still spinning.

You gave him a faint smile, “You’re not clear-headed right now.”

He glanced down at where your hand still rested on his, fingers splayed.

“No emotional triage sex,” you said again, quieter this time. “Remember?”

He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to keep it with his hand for a second longer. His touch was careful, and it made your throat tighten. “Fine,” he murmured. “Then I’ll sit out here until I’m calm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll freeze.”

He smirked. “Worth it.”

“You’re such a guy.” You stood, brushing your hands off on your pajama pants. “I’ll be on the couch. Try not to catch hypothermia out here, old man.”

He gave you a mock glare as you slipped back through the window, leaving it cracked open behind you.

—

Twenty minutes passed.

You weren’t sure why you kept checking the clock. You’d pulled an old blanket over yourself, curled sideways on the couch having finished an article, one eye half-watching the blinking cursor on your laptop screen across the room. But your thoughts were back on the fire escape. On him.

You were about to get up—maybe to check, maybe to call him an idiot again—when you heard the scrape of boots on your floor. You looked up.

There he was, hoodie unzipped now, hair a little messy from the night air. 

He didn’t say anything. He just walked across the room, took off his shoes and sat beside you.

Then slowly — like checking for permission — he slid down, tucked his arm under your head, and pulled you in. His body curled behind yours, as he rested his cheek just barely against the back of your shoulder.

You didn’t move. You just let yourself be held.

And after a while, when your breathing slowed and your thoughts finally stopped chasing themselves — you felt his fingers slip gently over yours, and his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

So… no sex. But just comfort. Just him. You weren’t complaining at all.

—

A week later, he was late to book club. Which was no surprise for Bucky Barnes — but this time, you knew why.

He had just stepped off a plane from Riga hours earlier. Still, he made it — slipping into book club quietly, just past the first half hour, with a henley beneath his jacket and baseball cap shadowing his face.

You caught his eye as he dropped into the seat beside you. 

“Just got off the plane,” he whispered, breath warm in your ear, “didn’t want to miss it.”

You blinked, heart skipping a beat. “You flew all the way back for this?”

“No,” he said, a teasing edge under the weariness. “I flew back for you.”

You swallowed, heat blooming behind your cheeks.

The rest of the night blurred into a haze. Words floated like smoke; their meaning lost beneath the thumping of your heartbeat. His knee brushed yours beneath — annoyingly impossible to ignore.

When the last page was turned, the group dispersed, and the chairs scraped across the floor, you stood to face him. “You walking me home?”

His tired smile was all the answer you needed. “Always.”

—

The walk was silent. Not the awkward kind, but the charged kind that hummed under your skin and made every footstep feel like it echoed louder than it should. The streetlights overhead cast golden pools on the sidewalk, and every few steps, his arm would brush yours — too casual to be deliberate, too frequent to be accidental. You’d forgotten to bring a jacket, but you barely felt the chill.

“So,” you finally said, your voice quieter than usual. “Riga, huh?”

“Another mission.” Bucky huffed out a tired laugh. “Got back less than three hours ago.”

“And still came to book club to and I quote,” you teased, “‘See me?’”

His shoulder bumped yours. “Yeah.”

You looked over, and the half-smile on his face wasn’t teasing. It was tired, yes, and a little crooked, but sincere.

“I’m glad you came,” you said before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dress it up or tuck it behind a joke.

He didn’t look away. “Me too.”

You reached your building and stopped at the stoop, one hand gripping the railing absently. The city moved quietly behind you—- the hum of traffic a street over, the flicker of a neon sign across the way. His shadow pooled across yours. You turned toward him. “Do you want to—” You hesitated. You hadn’t planned to say it. It wasn’t a line. “Come in?”

There it was again — that flicker of surprise in his eyes.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took one step closer. You could smell the faint warmth of his skin, the soap still clinging to him. His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You moved up the stairs ahead of him, heart hammering like it was trying to make itself known through your ribcage. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. He followed without a word.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. The spill of the city through the windows was enough. Your apartment was small, familiar. 

You slipped off your shoes slowly, suddenly hyperaware of every motion, especially of his eyes on you.

When you straightened, he was still by the door. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you.

Neither of you moved.

“Do you want a drink?” you asked, quieter than you meant.

“No.”

You swallowed.

He took a step toward you, and you didn’t back away.

When he was close enough that you could feel his breath, you tilted your head up, eyes locking with his. There was something in his eyes that made your stomach twist — like he’d already imagined this moment a hundred times, and now he was here, he didn’t want to rush it.

“I’ve been thinking about last week,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “But I didn’t want to— I didn’t know if you still want…”

Your hands were already sliding up his chest, curling in the fabric of his shirt. “You’re thinking too much, Barnes.”

And then you kissed him.

Not shy, but slow at first — mouths brushing, — but then he groaned low in his throat, and kissed you back with years of tension behind it. His hands slid into your hair, fingers tightening and tugging gently. You gasped against his mouth, and his tongue slid against yours.

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, his metal arm anchoring you to reality.

He broke away first, barely — his forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy.

His mouth was still hovering over yours, breath warm and ragged, the sweat between you thick enough to drown in.

“That what you wanted?” he murmured, voice  dark.

You swallowed, fingers still twisted in his henley. “It’s a good start.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and then you kissed him again, harder this time.

There was no slow build now. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. He tasted like salt and jet lag and something distinctly him, and you couldn’t get enough.

You turned and walked backward, tugging him with you, fingers sliding under his shirt, greedy and fast. He followed wordlessly, eyes locked on yours, hunger darkening his gaze.

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and you pulled him down with you. The couch creaked beneath the sudden, tangled rush of limbs, but you didn’t stop, didn’t care. You reached for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. His chest was scarred and beautiful, warm skin over muscle you wanted to memorise with your hands, your mouth. His dog tags clinked between you.

He leaned down again, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he was searching for answers in your skin. Your back arched, offering more, needing more.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his back. He shivered. His hips bucked forward against yours, and you loved the way he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Your shirt was gone next. Then the rest — clothes shed like molted skin, until there was nothing left between you but barely-touched want.

He looked at you for one breathless second — long enough for you to see it, just a flicker of awe, maybe even fear. Then his mouth was on yours again, and he was moving — slow at first, then deeper. You gasped into his mouth, body arching into him. “Bucky—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just let go.”

So you did.

You moved together in a rhythm that was messy and perfect, frantic and slow, too much and not enough. Every sound you made — a gasp or a moan, his name on your lips — made him lose control a little more.

He cursed into your shoulder when you clenched around him, when your nails scraped his back, when your hips lifted to meet every thrust like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.

Your fingers threaded into his hair. And then — the moment hit, like fire swallowing oxygen. You shattered under him, his name a broken cry on your lips, and he followed right after, groaning into your neck as his body locked against yours.

For a long time, he had his hand in your hair, your leg still curled around his hip, both of you coming down with aftershock.

Then, you said it. The thing you’d both been hiding behind. “It’s just sex, right?”

You didn’t know if you meant it. Your voice was casual, but your heart was anything but. You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up on one elbow, brushed some hair out of your eyes, and looked like he could see straight through the lie.

Then he smiled — that crooked Barnes smile that you never quite understood but adored anyway. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

—

It became a thing, because of course it did.

Every Thursday night — after book club, after someone gave a half-hearted review of whatever novel they'd half-read — Bucky would walk you home, or he’d invite you over to his, no matter how tired he was. No matter if Sam had him chasing leads across borders the day before. No matter if you’d argued in the middle of a group discussion over whether the protagonist was morally gray or just an asshole.

By the time you got to the door, it was already understood. You’d leave it cracked open behind you as you kicked off your shoes.

Some nights, you didn’t even speak. He’d press a kiss to the back of your neck while you stood by the kitchen counter. You’d melt before the water even hit your lips. Then the glasses would be forgotten.

Clothes disappeared between rooms. Sometimes in the hallway, sometimes the couch, occasionally — recklessly — the window. His hands on your thighs, your mouth on his shoulder, your fingers threading through his hair. Again and again.

It wasn’t gentle, not always. Not at first.

Some weeks, after missions, his hands would grip you a little harder. You knew what to do. You’d pull him onto you and let him use you until the tremors stopped. No emotional triage sex be damned.

You never asked what he’d seen. He never asked why you were typing furiously into 3 a.m. drafts you never submitted.

Other times, it was quiet. Like that fourth week — when you had cramps, and he still came by, and you told him “I’m not in the mood” and he said, “I didn’t come for sex,” and then climbed into bed with you fully clothed and let you curl into him like a furnace, letting the pain bleed out of your spine. He didn’t leave that night. 

Some Thursdays, you’d talk. Bodies tangled under sheets, your leg thrown across his thigh while you shared wine straight from the bottle. He asked you what you liked to read outside of the club. You asked if he ever watched the Voltron cartoons.

Once, you kissed him before he touched you — and it felt dangerously close to strings. He pretended not to notice. Later, as you straddled him on the couch, riding him with desperation, he gasped your name like it meant more than your body.

You pretended not to hear that, either.

It was just sex. Except it wasn’t.

He started keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom. You started texting him about non-sex things. Groceries. Headlines. Memes.

He never stayed past Friday morning. You never asked him to. But every Thursday night, he came back. Like clockwork.

—

This week, he texted you a few hours before book club.

can’t make it tonight. something came up. raincheck?

​​You stared at the message longer than you should have.

No explanation. No voice note. No dumb emoji that he didn’t know how to use. You didn’t respond right away.

You had news — big news — the kind you’d imagined telling him face-to-face, maybe over takeout on your couch, legs tangled under the blanket he claimed was too small for him. 

You… got a job offer six days ago. You accepted it five days ago. And this time, it wasn't an underpaid freelance gig or an op-ed that paid in exposure.

You’d landed an offer from The District Post, a rising political publication based in D.C., one of the few that still let its journalists write with teeth. You hadn’t told him you’d even applied. 

You were supposed to move next week.

And now, he wouldn’t even be here tonight, and you didn’t know if he’d have the time to see you before then.

Still, you typed out your reply.

Okay. Be safe.

That night, you skipped book club. You couldn’t sit in that room tonight, not with his usual empty chair beside you.

Instead, you poured a glass of cheap wine and tried to write — something about your neighborhood, a think piece you were rushing out before the move. But you couldn’t focus. The words didn’t sit right. Everything felt off.

Then you flipped on the TV.

And there they were.

The Live Breaking News banner flashed red across the screen. Chaos outside a GRC meeting in New York, emergency broadcasts, armed guards, panic. And then— Captain America.

His wings outstretched, the shield gleaming under spotlights. He dropped into frame like a meteor.Your breath caught.

And behind him— Bucky. Charging into frame, metal arm glinting, catching falling debris like it was nothing. Bruised, sweating, while people screamed around them. Cameras were everywhere.

You watched, transfixed, all while Sam gave the speech. "You have to do better. You’ve got to step up. Because if you don’t — the next Karli will."

You looked closer at the screen. Bucky stood off to the side, watching his best friend with pride. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, not like he used to be.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you blinked and tasted salt. You sat in silence long after the coverage ended, the glow of the screen flickering across your empty apartment.

Then your phone buzzed with a new email.

Subject: GRC PRESS PASS — URGENT APPROVAL From: assignments@thedistrictpost.org You are credentialed to cover the post-summit GRC press briefing in Manhattan. Captain Sam Wilson and Sergeant James Barnes will be present. Due to your proximity and recent work, you are our lead. Be there by 9:30 a.m.

You were being sent… because you were closest to the scene. Because somehow your strange, messy, not-a-relationship with Bucky had placed you at the epicenter of something bigger than both of you.

Tomorrow, you’d be there in a professional capacity — with your press badge, a recorder, and a deadline — and you’d have to ask questions like he wasn’t the man who kissed your neck and stole your pillows and never stayed past Friday morning.

You’d have to see him like the rest of the world did. And worse… he’d have to see you that way too.

As a reporter, and not the person who massaged the tension from his shoulders, who whispered against his skin, “just sex, right?”

You set the glass in your hand down and on the edge of your bed, and all you could think about was how his toothbrush was still in your bathroom.

You thought about throwing it out. You didn’t.

—

The press conference wasn’t supposed to be your moment.

You were just another journalist in a sea of microphones and recycled questions, trying to keep your hand steady while the world tilted just a little from everything that had just gone down with the Flag Smashers, with Karli, with Cap—Sam.

People around you were fawning over the new Captain America, swooning at his speech, trying to get quotes that would fit well in a tweet. Soundbites. Clicks. Validation. But not you.

You were tired of the bullshit, of the "how does it feel to have the shield again" questions lobbed toward Sam like a beach ball. Instead, you watched Bucky in his uniform that looked like a rushed fitting— his eyes filled with that haunted, half-there, half-wanting-to-leave-the-building-already look. 

And then he saw you in the crowd.

He blinked—once, twice—like the universe had glitched. His lips parted slightly, and his brow twitched like he wasn’t sure if you were real. You caught the moment his eyes dropped over your face, your mouth, the line of your collarbone visible just above your blouse. It was familiar territory.

You were trying your best to act like you hadn’t had his hand wrapped around your thigh eight nights ago while you bit down a moan in the crook of his neck. Still, you raised your hand.

And when they called on you, you didn’t hesitate.

“Mr. Barnes,” you called. “Do you think public perception of you has changed after this incident?”

The room froze around your voice. Even Sam glanced over.

Bucky stared at you like you’d sucker-punched him. Not because the question was aggressive—it wasn’t. It was…  professional.

But you knew him. You’d had your fingers on his pulse. You were the last person to run your hands through his hair while he came undone in a bed that still smelled like him.

He blinked again, a double-take this time. Like he didn’t quite trust that you were really there, asking that.

“I… don’t know,” he said finally, with a smile he could never help when he saw you. “I don’t… really care anymore.”

You nodded and scribbled something that wasn’t a word into your notebook, just to give your hands something to do.

The press conference moved on. Sam answered a question about international cooperation. A woman from the GRC said something diplomatic and vague, but you didn’t hear any of it.

Because Bucky Barnes was still watching you like he was peeling back every layer of distance, until only the truth of a week ago was left: your nails in his back, his breath against your skin, and the look on his face when he realised he didn’t want it to end.

When it was over, you didn’t wait around. You’d done your job. You’d asked your question.

You slipped out toward the back hallway, but he followed.

—

You were almost down the steps of the building when you heard your name followed with a "Wait—hey."

You turned.

And there he was, cutting through the crowd with that signature Bucky Barnes boyish smile he reserved for you like no one else existed. Which, for that split second, maybe they didn’t. 

His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, jacket slung over one shoulder, and his ridiculously blue eyes locked onto you.

He slowed down when he got closer, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle.

And then, softly, almost to himself. “Wow.”

You smiled, shy all of a sudden. “Hi.”

He blinked, and it took him a second too long to respond. “I—wow. Look at you. Invited to press.”

“Bucky,” you said with a smile, feigning offense. “Are you saying a press pass means I’m finally a real journalist?”

That made him laugh, the sound low and rough. “I just…” he started, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

You tapped your badge, the lanyard swinging lightly against your chest. “Got a job.”

He leaned in to read it, his brow lifting. “The District Post? Isn’t that—”

“In D.C.,” you finished. “Yeah.”

His smile almost dropped, like you had pulled the floor out from under his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, wow. That’s—shit, that’s huge. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you said, lips tugging into a small smile.

His eyes fell to the sidewalk. “So… you’re moving?”

“Next week,” you confirmed.

“Oh,” he said again, but softer this time, like it hadn’t really sunk in until now.

You tilted your head, watching him. “What, you gonna miss me, Barnes?”

And he met your eyes again. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Of course.”

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest, traitor that it was.

You let the moment sit between you— the heat, the knowledge that whatever this was didn’t feel finished. That those nights weren't just some casual thing, no matter how both of you had tried to play it cool.

And maybe you were both cowards, not texting, not calling, not saying what it meant. But you refused to let it swallow you whole just yet. Instead, you grinned and crossed your arms.

“We still have a week,” you said suddenly, quieter.

He blinked. “What?”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Before I go. I still have a week.”

He gave you half-smile again, the one that always made your stomach flip.

“Well,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Guess I should make it count then, huh?”

You raised a brow. “What, suddenly you’re sentimental?”

He brushed a knuckle against your wrist, tentative, like he was asking permission to feel again. “I…,” he started, “I just want to help you spend your last few days in New York. If that’s alright?"

You looked up at him. Let your voice drop, teasing again—because too much honesty all at once might break you both. “Depends,” you said. “You buying takeout?”

He grinned,  the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “Only if you promise not to mock my taste in diners this time.”

“I make no promises.”

He laughed again, and sure, maybe there was still a thousand miles of uncertainty ahead. But for now, you still had a week.

—

The week was over before you knew it.

The morning sun spilled across the sidewalk as Bucky hauled two of your heavy suitcases up the subway and into the train station, the rest of your belongings already en route. He saw you fumble over your ticket but didn’t move, eyes flicking over to you like he was trying to commit the moment to memory.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t thinking about the fact you’d been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. You glanced at him, that familiar flicker of something between amusement and frustration rising. “Yeah. The train is in thirty minutes.”

He nodded, biting his lip like he was holding back a dozen things he wanted to say—and some he probably shouldn’t. You’re letting her go, he thought bitterly, you’re letting her leave without knowing how you really feel.

You had a real shot now — a steady job, a life starting to bloom beyond the chaos that followed him around like a shadow. He remembered the first time he saw the lanyard last week. The pride in your voice should have made him happy. And part of him was.

But another part—one he refused to admit—was drowning. 

She’s gonna meet someone out there, he thought, eyes flicking back to you, someone who can give her the kind of life I can’t right now.

He was jealous just thinking of some random guy touching you the way he did last night. He wanted to beg you to wait, to tell you he’d get there — someday. But he knew, It wouldn’t be fair. Not to you.

So instead, he kept quiet.

You caught his gaze, eyes narrowing. “You gonna say something or just stare at me till I leave?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was gonna say... thanks.”

“For what?” You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“For this last week,” he said quietly. “For not making it weird. For just… letting it be.”

You laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “We’re not a thing, Bucky. Just friends.” 

Liar, you thought to yourself.

He chuckled, shaking his head like he was amused by your insistence. “Right. Friends.”

You didn’t say anything. You knew exactly what he meant.

As he handed you your suitcase, he stepped back toward you, closing the distance.

“You sure this is it?” His hand caught yours, fingers around your wrist.

You held his eyes, the heat sparking between you like a live wire. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”

He leaned in, hand sliding from your wrist up to cup your cheek “We’re just friends,” he whispered.

You nodded. “So,” you said, teasing, “this is just how friends say goodbye?”

Without another word, Bucky’s lips found yours—soft at first, then deeper. You kissed back, heart pounding, the world shrinking to the two of you right there on the sidewalk.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Text me when you get there,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded.

“I’ll miss you,” he admitted, quieter now.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Me too.”

And just like that, you were walking toward the train.

When Bucky got home, he read your piece on him and Sam, and pretended you were still there.

—

For a while, you and Bucky kept in touch like you said you would. Those first few weeks were filled with late-night texts and lonely phone calls — the kind that made the distance seem smaller, like you could almost reach through the screen and touch him on the other side. But life, as it tends to do, got in the way.

You both got busier — deadlines, news stories, and endless responsibilities pulling you in a thousand directions at once. The daily messages turned into weekly check-ins, and the weekly check-ins into texts that came sporadically. Before you knew it, you only texted every three months.

"Hey. Hope you’re good." "Hey. Still alive." “I think I’m gonna grow out my hair.”

You’d text a quick update. A joke. A picture of some mundane thing that made you think of the other. Nothing demanding — just enough to say, I'm still here.

You both knew it was a far cry from where you started. No more late-night talks about everything and nothing, no more teasing banter that stretched until sunrise.

But that was okay.

Because sometimes, that’s how life works.

—

A year slipped by like sand between your fingers.

Your work had become a grind — not in a bad way, just in that all-consuming way where your days blurred together in drafts and deadlines and a phone that never stopped buzzing. You still got the occasional “How are you?” text from Bucky. You answered most of the time. Sometimes it took a few days. Sometimes longer.

Then, one morning, while half-listening to a pitch meeting, a colleague offhandedly mentioned a sister company’s political beat — “Big story this week. James Barnes is running for congress. Wild, right?”

You nearly dropped your coffee.

“Barnes?” you asked, pretending it was nothing. Pretending your chest hadn’t just constricted.

“Yeah, Bucky Barnes. Brooklyn seat. He’s advocating for GRC reform, community policy — it’s a whole thing.”

Of course he was running for Congress. Of course.

It was so him —that need to make the world just a little bit better, though still unsure how? Of course he was trying everything. 

You sat on the news for a couple days. Thought about saying nothing. But one night, after too much caffeine and too little sleep, you caved.

[You, 2:41 AM] Saw the news. Congressman Barnes, huh? Good luck.

You didn’t expect a reply. Not right away. Maybe not ever. But then…

[Bucky, 3:05 AM] Thought I should try something stable.

You started keeping tabs. You watched the campaign videos when they came across your feed. Read a few articles. One photo — him at some community event, sleeves rolled up, squinting in the sun with that smile you remembered too well — made you stare a little too long before scrolling past.

It was weird. You weren’t in love. Right? Just... proud.

And maybe, just maybe, wondering what might happen if you ever crossed paths again.

—

A year after he started campaigning, he got voted in.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes — Brooklyn’s own, sworn in with a navy suit, a firm handshake, and those same blue eyes you remembered from two years ago.

You didn’t text this time— just watched from a distance. Until the day of his first press conference.

You weren’t even assigned to it, not really. But when the opportunity opened to cover local legislative priorities, your badge was already around your neck and your recorder already in your bag. You told yourself it was just another assignment.

You didn’t expect him to notice you. Not right away, at least.

But the second he stepped up to the podium, eyes scanning the crowd of cameras and reporters, he did. He did a full double take when he saw you.

His hair was a little longer, his suit a little more expensive. But he remembered the way your skin felt under his palm.

Then… you raised your hand.

He called on you, because of course he did. He barely even looked at the press sheet. You stood.

"Congressman Barnes," you said, clearly, pretending your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest “You ran on transparency and reform — with the GRC and domestic policy both under scrutiny. Do you believe public perception of you, personally, has changed after your... past affiliations?"

His teeth clenched — but not in anger. It was like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface.

He let out a deep breath. "I think people will always see what they want to see. But I'm here to serve them, not convince them."

You didn’t flinch. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted across his face. “You shouldn’t expect any less from me.”

God, he’s changed. You raised an eyebrow, letting the tension simmer. You wanted to say, Funny. Last time I saw you, you were definitely not behaving diplomatically.

But no, you just nodded and sat down.

He was dead silent for half a second too long. He chuckled under his breath, eyes cutting into yours like the rest of the room wasn’t even there.

He stumbled a little on the next question and cleared his throat twice. The comms director gave him a look like get it together.

—

The press conference ended with the usual flurry — interns chasing stories, photographers snapping the last few candids, aides ushering the Congressman toward scheduled handshakes and photo ops. But you… you moved slowly.

You weren’t supposed to linger, you had your quote. Your headline was already half-formed in your head. But still, you hovered, half-expecting — hoping — he’d break through the crowd, just for a second. And of course, he did.

“Hey.”

Bucky Barnes, up close in a tailored black suit that made him look was a sight to behold. But his voice was quiet, and his eyes were soft — the way only you knew how to read.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said, and he sounded winded like he’d just come off the Senate floor, not a press event.

“I cover federal now,” you said, lifting your press badge with a smirk. “So here I am.”

A long pause formed a chasm between you, bloated with everything you hadn’t said for almost two years. The nights. The slowly drifting apart. The texts that faded from “hey” to “hope you’re well.”

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

God. You swallowed. “We got busy.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You were out there doing your thing. And I was…” He looked down at his polished shoes, then back up, almost sheepishly. “Apparently running for Congress.”

You laughed under your breath. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Woke up one day and wanted to matter,” he said. “I guess… I wanted to do something. Like you.”

His voice cracked just a bit. The way it always did when he let the guard down. When he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t a Congressman. Just Bucky.

“How do you feel?” you asked. “Off the record, of course.

“Felt like I was gonna throw up,” he admitted, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only came from honesty. “Until you asked that question.”

“Oh?” you asked, one brow lifting. “Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

“You didn’t.” He tilted his head. “Well. Maybe a little. But in a good way.”

You let another beat of silence fester before lowering your voice. “You know, the last time I saw you…”

“That night,” he finished, a little too fast, “I remember.”

You looked up at him. “And the morning after,” you said, “you dropped me at the station.”

“I did,” he said, softer now. “Kissed you like an idiot before you left. ‘Cause we were just friends, right?”

You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Right.”

He took a step closer, invading your space just enough to let the muscle memory kick in.  “Was it ever really just that for you?” he asked, voice husky.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped a little closer, too. Close enough to smell the clean linen of his shirt and the warm spice of his cologne.

“Congressman Barnes,” you whispered. “You’re dangerously close to breaking professional boundaries.”

His eyes darkened, locked on your mouth, before his assistant called his name.

“Shit,” he said, reluctantly, “I’ve got a thing in ten minutes.”

“Good,” you said. “That means I can walk away before this gets messier than it already is.”

You turned, but his hand — his human hand — caught your wrist. “I meant what I said,” he told you. “I missed you. I missed this.”

“I missed you too,” you said, just above a whisper. “Even when I tried not to.”

He stepped back, though only barely. “You still trying?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him like you knew. Like only the two of you knew how it really ended — how it never really ended at all.

He let you go. “Dinner?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He smiled. “I’ll take that.”

As you walked away, your heart a livewire under your ribs, he watched you with a look that wasn’t fit for public office — but damn if it didn’t feel like the beginning of something. Again.

—

Your article dropped at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday.

By 8:15, it had already been passed between Capitol Hill interns like contraband. Screenshots on Slack. Circled paragraphs in group chats. Someone in Policy & Strategy made a spreadsheet of who was flayed the hardest.

The article was titled: “The New Faces of Power: An Overview of the Elected Democratic Representatives.”

Bucky Barnes — newly sworn-in Representative of New York’s 7th Congressional District — landed at #3 on that list.

He read it in full by 9:04 a.m., standing by the windows of his DC office, coffee gone cold in his hand. You hadn’t pulled your punches.

It was why you’d gone from freelancer with an uncertain voice to one of the youngest senior political analysts at your publication in just two years. You’d clawed your way up, built a reputation out of clever insight and fearless prose.

You didn't have time for flattery. You didn’t care if your subject wore medals or held office — if their platform wasn’t solid, you said it.

And now, you’d turned that lens on him.

James Buchanan Barnes steps into Congress with a legacy longer than most Representatives’ résumés. He’s got the kind of résumé that makes people feel things — safety, nostalgia, reverence. But policy isn’t about feeling. It’s about doing. And so far, Barnes might be more invested in image than action. Final Verdict: Symbolic. Possibly even performative. The jury’s still out.

Ouch.

And yet— Bucky let the words sink deep. Because you weren’t wrong. Not entirely.

And that’s what made it sting — and what made him respect the hell out of you. You’d known him in a way no one else had. You’d known his heart. You’d had your fingers on his ribs and your voice in his ear and still, you didn’t let that cloud your judgment.

You didn’t shrink from writing what needed to be written. And God, he missed you for it.

He hadn’t realised how much until now, until he saw your name again in bold, crisp font — right there, above an article that had already shaken the morning meetings of half the House aides.

But then he noticed something.

His heart picked up. No way.

It was ridiculous to think you’d—

But he sat down fast. Grabbed his phone. Opened the Notes app.

Under your name, he noticed a little key smash that looked like it had accidentally made it pass editing.

hes mw fcxxet

But he knew it wasn’t.

You and Bucky had developed a custom Alphabet replacement cipher, started out as a game three years ago. It was a book club dare between lovers, made of childhood tricks and spy movies. You’d laughed about it afterwards and curled up beside him, called it “your nerdy little secret,” and buried one in a crossword puzzle just for him the week after you’d left D.C.

He hadn’t thought you’d ever use it again.

But there it was. Carefully embedded in your very public article.

He decoded quickly, like muscle memory. Years apart hadn’t dulled it.

YES TO DINNER

He blinked.

He did it again, just to be sure.

You’d written a critical analysis that dissected his first month in office and still found room to slip him that?

Because that’s what it was always like with you: you could gut him and leave him breathless, and still leave the door open. Still whisper, come find me.

And oh, he wanted to.

Not just because you were brilliant, or beautiful, or impossible to look away from at press conferences. But because you saw him. Not the image. Not the mythology. Him.

And you never let him off the hook.

He’d text you — eventually. Or maybe he’d make a statement and bury his response somewhere in the transcript. Because he could play the game too.

But for now, he sat back in his chair, phone still in his hand, and smiled to himself.

Because you weren’t gone. You weren’t done.

You were still here — dropping ciphers just for him.

—

You almost missed the email.

It was buried under press releases and budget spreadsheets and one thousand lines of “per my last email.” Just another ping in your inbox at 2:03 p.m., from a congressional domain name.

Subject line: Response to Editorial – Representative Barnes

The name made your heart jump, but you didn’t let it show. Not at your desk, not around your colleagues, not when you’d trained yourself for years to be unreadable in a newsroom.

You clicked it open like.

The message was clinical on the surface.

Thank you for your recent editorial in The District Post. I appreciate the critical lens and the historical context your piece brought to the ongoing conversation about congressional transparency and symbolic governance. While I would, of course, offer a more nuanced response to some of your assessments, I recognize the value of this kind of scrutiny. In fact, I’d welcome a longer conversation. nwye mw ycxe rwt fcxxet Kind Regards, Rep. James B. Barnes 2318 Zpxqsmwx Vzpne XJ, Pvm. 7O slxsem rtcfph

Your fingers trembled just a little as you pulled up the decoder in your notes app. It felt like sharing a secret in a room full of people who would never understand.

You deciphered the string, slowly.

COME TO MINE FOR DINNER

And then, just beneath the signature:

2318 Langston Place NW, Apt. 7B Sunset. Friday.

You stared at the screen.

Your lips parted in something between a laugh and a silent what the fuck. You were sitting in the middle of a very serious, very professional office, and suddenly you were weightless.

Because he didn’t just say yes.

He invited you to his place like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t gone a whole year barely speaking. Like you hadn’t told yourself that those nights with him were heat-of-the-moment, never-again things.

You didn’t reply immediately. That would be too obvious. You minimized the window and tried to pretend you weren’t practically buzzing.

But your fingers drummed on the desk, your cheeks felt warm, and when someone walked past and said your name, you had to blink yourself back into reality.

He knew. That bastard. He knew exactly what kind of signal he’d sent.

—

​​The apartment was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but cosy and huge, with wide windows and hardwood floors and a kitchen that smelled like rosemary and garlic and seared butter.

He opened the door in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled halfway, a dish towel tossed over one shoulder. His hair pulled back. 

“Wow,” you said before you could help it, your coat still halfway on. “You clean up.”

He grinned, boyish. “So do you.”

You stepped in. He didn’t hug you — not right away. Maybe neither of you were sure what this night was supposed to be.

But then he brushed your arm when he took your coat, and you both noticed.

You sat on the bar stool by the counter while he plated the steak — cooked perfectly, like he knew what he was doing. There were potatoes, charred asparagus. A bottle of red already breathing on the sideboard.

“This is domestic,” you teased. “Should I be worried?”

Bucky gave a huff of laughter. “Campaign staff made me take a cooking class. Said it would ‘humanize’ me.”

You snorted. “Did it?”

He passed you a plate, eyes flicking up. “You tell me.”

Dinner was slow. Not awkward, not rushed. Like the both of you had been saving this conversation in the backs of your minds, knowing it would happen eventually. The stories started pouring in — how you were promoted after your Ross exposé, how D.C. life was treating you.

He chuckled, chewed, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You’re still the same.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—” He gestured, vague and fond. “Smart. Too good at what you do. Makes people nervous.”

“You?”

“Never,” he said. “You scare the hell outta me in the best way.”

The heat in your cheeks surprised you. He looked down, tongue tucked into his cheek. You nudged the topic somewhere safer, even if it stung a little.You told him how D.C. dating was a disaster — lobbyists who thought they were philosophers, bureaucrats who never turned off the PR charm. “I’ve been ghosted by men with press secretaries,” you said. “It’s bleak.”

He laughed, rubbing his jaw. “That’s rough.”

“And you?”

“New York dating’s a lotta noise,” he said. “Everyone’s either performative or trying to ‘fix’ me.”

“They know you’re now, like, if John Wick and C-Span had a baby, right? You’re not a rehab project.”

“Try telling them that.”

You sipped. “So we’re both un-dateable. Good to know.”

He laughed, a little too loud. “Yeah, no. I went on a couple dates last winter. It’s… weird. I had one woman ask me to sign her shirt.”

You raised your wine glass. “That’s… hot, actually.”

“I declined.”

You both laughed, and it felt… familiar.

Eventually, you leaned back, fork resting on your empty plate. “I saw Sam a couple months ago.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was right after the Ross thing. I was there when… you know, the president turned red,” you chuckled, though that wasn’t an amusing memory by any means. “The next day, he came by the Post, off the record. Just to… check in.”

His brow furrowed. He knew you and Sam had a professional relationship, to an extent, and he was grateful for it. If not him, at least someone he trusted looked out for you. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said softly. “Shaken. But fine. I… visited Joaquin, too. Way too cheerful for someone who broke half the bones in his body, if you ask me.”

He chuckled, nodding.

You hesitated. “I… asked Sam how you were.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “He said you were good. Starting to settle.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Not true?”

He picked up his glass and swirled the wine.

“I’m not unhappy,” he said. “I just… don’t think I ever figured out where I really belong.”

You swallowed. 

And then, he asked, “You?”

You smiled. “I’m doing okay.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s reductive.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”

He tilted his head, watching you like he used to.

Then he stood, took your plate, and moved toward the sink.

You sat there, letting it settle. Taking the scent of his soap and warm spices,

When he turned back, his voice was quieter. “I kept reading you, y’know. Even when we stopped talking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You kept getting better. Meaner, sometimes. But better.” He smiled, almost proud. “I liked that you never held back.”

You bit your lip. 

He stepped closer, one hand still drying on the towel. “Still can’t believe you said yes.”

“To dinner?”

“To me.”

You looked up at him. “We’re just catching up, right?”

He leaned in. “Right.”

“As friends?” You said. 

“Whatever you say,” Bucky nodded, though he never looked convinced when he said that. 

But the way his eyes dropped to your lips — the way yours drifted to the hollow of his throat — it didn’t feel like just friends catching up.

—

Dinner was long gone. The wine was halfway finished, though neither moved to really touch it. 

You were both sitting on the fluffy cotton couch in his living room, the city humming outside the windows like it knew how rare this quiet was.

You had your legs curled under you, holding a cup of warm tea with both hands. Bucky sat on the opposite side, one arm lazily draped over the back of the couch, his eyes on you — not exactly subtle.

You were pretending not to notice.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful tone. “D.C.’s nice. People have schedules. Rules. They hold doors open and write polite emails even when they’re telling you to go to hell.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He chuckled once. “But… it’s not you.”

“Oh?” You arched an eyebrow as you looked at him over your glass. “What is me, then?”

His eyes lingered on your face. “Less structured. Messier. More… sporadic.”

You laughed, though you didn’t take it to heart. “Okay, rude.”

“No, not like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head, and way too sincere for his own good. “You just… don’t belong in a box. You think too fast. You don’t follow rules unless they’re worth following. You’re more… New York.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. You set your cup down gently on the coffee table. “I had a chance to leave, you know,” you said, tone lighter now, “The New York Times offered me more money.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bigger platform. Fancy job title. But I said no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because I have friends here. A community. I… love my job.” Then you added, eyes catching his, “And you. Now you’re here, too.”

Bucky’s ears went slightly pink, but he chose to focus on the former rather than the latter, “Do you love that your job includes tearing into your friend’s political motivations?”

You stilled slightly. “You read my latest?”

“Course I did,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. “You called me ‘possibly performative.’ That was a fun day at the office.”

You shrugged. “Touché.”

“Still stings, though,” he added, quieter.

“I know,” you admitted. “But I said it because I’ve seen you doing your superhero stuff on the field. I know what you look like when you don’t have to ask permission to do the right thing. So forgive me if I think you’re better with your sleeves rolled up, and not behind a podium. Not editing policy drafts.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched slightly, though didn’t look away.

“I just…” you shrugged. “I wonder if this version of you—politician Bucky—is the one who actually is. Or if he’s just… pretending.”

He was silent for a long moment, deciphering your criticism. “I don’t know if I fit anywhere,” he said eventually. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to the apartment, the city, the suit. “This is the first time I’ve chosen something that didn’t involve a gun.”

You watched him carefully. “Why are you really here, Bucky?”

He hesitated. His voice, when it came, was firmer than you expected.

“Because I want to change things. Because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong people are in charge, and I’ve lost too many damn nights thinking about what I could’ve done if I’d mattered.”

Your throat tightened.

“And yeah,” he added. “There are a lot of people here for the wrong reasons. Power, money, legacy. Whatever. But every time I walk through those doors, I get to try. That counts for something, right?”

You smiled, soft and sad. “It does.”

“Besides, Sam and Joaquin are both here.” He leaned in slightly. “And yeah, you being here… doesn’t hurt.”

He held your eyes for a second too long. You looked down, unsure of what to say. 

“You still think I’m better off in the field?” he asked, flexing vibranium fingers. 

You nodded once. “I think that’s when you’re most you. Not when you’re buried in committees and handshakes and kissing babies.”

He didn’t argue.

“But,” you added, “if this is what you want—if this is who you’re becoming—then I won’t be the one to doubt it. I just want you to be sure.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “I want to matter,” he said again. “And if I can’t fix all of it, at least I can stand in the way.”

Fuck, he was infuriatingly sincere, and all you could do was nod.

He watched you for a second, then said, casually, “There’s a state gala tomorrow.”

You looked up from the mug in your hands. “Is that code for ‘I’m vanishing into some secret operation and won’t return for 72 hours’?”

He gave a small smile. “It’s real. Suits and champagne and officials pretending they know what they’re doing.”

You made a face. “Sounds excruciating.”

“Oh, it is,” He tilted his head. “But if you really want to see me perform.” — he gave the word a faintly mocking twist — “you should come.”

You raised a brow. “What, you’re gonna give me a press invite?”

He shook his head once. “No,” he said, “I’m asking you to be my date.”

That statement hung there for longer than it should have.

You blinked. “That’s... bold.”

“Is it?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“You’re about as subtle as a grenade.”

He smiled.

You leaned over, scooting closer. “Is this the kind of event where they serve caviar and pretend the world isn’t on fire?”

“Probably.”

“And you want me there? With my ‘less structured, more sporadic’ energy?”

“I’m counting on it,” he said slyly. “Otherwise I’ll just stand around pretending I support stupid tax policies and end up punching someone.”

You glanced at him. “So this is strategic.”

He looked at you and said, “It’s not just that.”

You didn’t answer right away— considering it for almost a full minute.

“Fine.” You finally said, “But I’m not wearing heels over three inches.”

He gave a huff of laughter. “Deal.”

“And if you make me have small talk with anyone who says ‘let’s circle back,’ I’m walking out.”

“I’ll chase you,” he said playfully.

You turned to look at him. “Will you?”

He just nodded.

After all, he wasn’t letting you go ever again.

—

The next night, you weren’t nervous. Not exactly. Just… hyper-aware.

You’d changed your outfit twice — okay, three times — before landing on something sleek and black. It had a clean neckline and strong silhouette. Subtle enough for D.C., but you in the bones of it. 

Your phone buzzed.

[Bucky, 6:53 PM] Outside.

You smoothed your dress once, checked your lipstick without really seeing your reflection, then grabbed your clutch and headed down.

The car waiting wasn’t flashy, but it was classy. When the door opened and you stepped out under the street light, he stepped out too — and froze.

His suit was black, his shirt was black. It looked tailored within an inch of its life with silver cufflinks and not a tie in sight. He had his collar open, and hair swept back in that lazy way that looked expensive and just a little reckless. It was like he’d gotten dressed while thinking about you.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Wow,” Bucky said, voice quieter than usual. “Just—off the record?”

You tilted your head curiously. 

He let out a deep breath. “You look beautiful.”

You tried not to smile, though it failed.

“Flattery this early in the night might get into my head,” you warned, stepping toward him.

His lips quirked. “Good.”

You both stood there for half a second too long.

Finally, he opened the car door and held out his hand. You took it.

—

The doors clicked shut, the city noise fading. The air inside smelled like his cologne — subtle and clean, a little smoky underneath. There’s a driver, sure, but the glass is up. You’re alone, technically. 

Bucky shifted, resting his left arm casually on the center console, metal fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather. His other hand sat loose on his thigh. 

You glanced over. “So this is you ‘fitting in’?”

He grimaced slightly. “This is me trying not to pull a fire alarm to get out of going.”

You laughed. “And I’m the distraction from your self-sabotage?”

“No,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “You’re the reason I showed up at all.”

Your breath caught just slightly, but you played it off with a wry smile, turning your head toward the window.

“So,” you said. “Is this where you do your best politician impression?”

He groaned. “God, please don’t make me do the voice.”

“Oh no, you have a voice?”

“You know I do.”

You mimicked him, overly formal: “‘The Congressman appreciates your concern and will take the matter under advisement—’”

He slumped dramatically. “Okay, now you’re just bullying me.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

—

The ballroom glittered with wealth and power — not chaotic like press rooms, where you’re most comfortable in. Everyone here wore their masks well with practiced smiles, firm handshakes, and champagne flutes held like accessories to an agenda.

You’d seen a hundred rooms like it, but never quite like this 

Bucky walked beside you like a man who’d rather be anywhere else, yet he’d learned how to make discomfort look intentional. His eyes were always moving — reading people, scanning for more information. 

And people noticed. 

Some recognised you immediately. You could see it in the way their eyes narrowed just slightly, or the pause between sip and smile. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this capacity — not as a plus-one in a dress instead of with a press badge and recorder in hand.

Which made your presence all the more interesting.

Bucky knew it, too.

He introduced you a few times. Politely, not as “a friend” — not as “press.” Just your name. Just enough to let people wonder, is she here for him or for the story?

You smiled graciously every time and sipped your champagne like you weren’t watching everything.

And then it happened.

You were standing near one of the tall tables, Bucky in conversation with two Congressmen and a Defense contractor whose face you recognised — old money and a reputation wrapped in plausible deniability. The topic had started light — committee reshuffling, midterm optics — but Bucky didn’t do small talk well, especially when he smelled bullshit.

“I’ve been looking into the appropriations numbers from the last round of GRC aid,” he said smoothly. “Funny how the oversight committee flagged three anomalies—two of them connected to firms your office vouched for.”

One of the men laughed nervously. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”

“Why not?” Bucky asked, calmly. “Transparency’s a big part of your platform, right?”

One of them looked at you— and he definitely knew who you were.

“This isn’t the place,” the man said again.

Your eyebrows lifted.

Bucky turned his head slightly. “What, because she’s here?”

You took that as your cue.

You smiled wickedly and stepped forward just enough to make them uneasy.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, voice like silk. “I’m off the clock. Everything’s off the record.” You sipped your drink. “I’m just a plus-one tonight,” you added, eyes dancing. Which is complete bullshit, of course, but it was very fun to pretend you weren’t clocking everything. 

They didn’t laugh. Bucky did.

He stood there beside you, watching them shift in their shoes, and take pleasure in it. Not because you were being antagonistic — you weren’t. You were smiling, polite, even charming. But the presence of a journalist with integrity alone made them sweat. 

That’s what he loved about bringing you here.

You didn’t have to say anything.

They still squirmed.

Not all of them, though.

Later in the evening, a young Senator from Illinois approached you both.

“I just wanted to say,” she said, “I appreciated your breakdown of the foreign security budget last quarter. Brutal, but honest.”

You smiled warmer, more genuine. “Thank you. I try not to hold back.”

“You shouldn’t.” The Senator looked at Bucky. “People like you make us better.”

That one stuck with you.

Because for all the ones who looked rattled — who saw your presence as a threat to their comfort — there were others who understood. Who didn’t fear the questions, who welcomed the pressure.

That when you realised Bucky brought you here not to show you off — but to set a tone.

He could’ve brought anyone.

But he brought the one person who made people nervous— as part of his… performance.

And as the night wore on — as the speeches droned and the clinking glasses dulled into background noise — he’d glance at you now and then with a small smile.

—

The ride back was quiet. Your shoes were off the second you got in the car. Bucky had loosened his collar even more, one hand draped lazily on the back of the seat, fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.

When the car stopped outside your place, you didn’t move right away.

He turned to you. “So.”

You looked at him. “So.”

“That wasn’t a complete disaster.”

“Mm,” you said, mock-considering. “You didn’t punch anyone. I didn’t blackmail anyone. That’s a win.”

Bucky snorted. “Low bar.”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He walked you to your door, jacket slung over one shoulder now, tie stuffed in his pocket. 

“Thanks for coming,” he said, “Really.”

You looked up at him, keys in hand.

“You mean for distracting your enemies and inciting mild panic among the morally bankrupt?”

He shrugged. “Exactly.”

You turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open halfway, then paused. You hesitated for one heartbeat

“Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Bucky looked… surprise. “You sure?”

You shrugged casually. “Just don’t make it weird, Barnes.”

“I’m a hundred years old,” he laughed before gesturing to his driver that he was done for the night. “I make everything weird.” 

—

You kicked your shoes off the second you walked in, already sighing with relief. Bucky followed behind you, glancing around with a quiet smile.

“Wow,” he said, soft and sincere. “You’ve really made a life here.”

You turned, one foot curled under you as you leaned on the arm of the couch. “What, you thought I lived in a reporter-shaped room with a desk and no plumbing?”

“I dunno,” he teased. “I pictured you in a shoebox full of press clippings and takeout.”

You walked past him and opened a cabinet, tossing him a glass. “Close.”

He caught it easily and raised it in a little toast. “Seriously, though. It’s nice. It’s… you.”

That mattered, coming from him.

“I tried,” you said. “Stability’s weird, but I don’t hate it.”

You both sat on the couch, facing each other at first, wine in hand, posture still alert. But over the next twenty minutes, the tension melted slowly — minute by minute, like butter on warm toast.

You talked about the gala. About the senator who spilled champagne on her own shoes and tried to blame the caterer. About how politics made everything louder but not always clearer. About Sam. About your job.

At some point, you pulled your hair up into a messy knot and tossed your legs across his lap like nothing has changed. Bucky, to his credit, just adjusted. His hand stayed on your calf, and he didn’t move it.

You were laughing about something — a lobbyist who couldn’t even point out Russia in a map — when Bucky looked at you a little too long.

And suddenly he leaned forward.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of trying-to-kiss-you.

It was slow, like he was giving you the chance to stop it.

And you did.

Gently, you put a hand on his chest and pulled back. 

He froze.

“Shit,” he said immediately, backing off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—”

“No,” you cut in quickly. “No, Bucky. I want to.” You looked at him, heart thudding. “I really want to.”

That was true. God, it was true. You were dizzy from the way his breath had felt on your lips, the heat still buzzing where your hand had rested on his chest.

You watched his metal arm plates tighten, his teeth clenching, trying to understand.

“But if we do this again,” you continued, “it can’t be like it was before.”

“Friends with… occasional poor boundary control?” he offered, one corner of his mouth twitching in a sad smile. That charm has always softened the blow, even now.

You gave him a fond look. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence came back, but it wasn’t hard this time.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

You shifted, taking your legs off his lap and tucking them under you as you leaned back on the arm of the couch. Bucky turned too, mirroring you, knees bumping yours. 

“We should sleep on it,” you said softly.

He raised an eyebrow, then repeated, “sleep on it?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his knee. “Not everything has to explode. We take a second. Let it breathe, y’know?”

“And if I’m already sure?” he asked.

Your heart gave you a small, reckless kick.

You looked at him still. “Then sleep on it anyway. Because I need to be sure, too. And if we want to try again—” You hesitated. “Let’s start properly,” you said, more certain now. “Not with wine and after-gala adrenaline.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, studying you. Then he nodded. “Start again.”

“Yeah.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was thinking something through. Then he smiled a tired, lopsided smile. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed. “Not as terrifying as pretending we’re still just friends.”

“Of course.”

The city hummed low through the window, the buzz of the TV flickering like white noise behind you both.

He stretched out a little, glancing over. “So… if we’re sleeping on it…”

You arched a brow. “You want to crash here?”

His eyes feigned innocence. “Purely in a start-over, emotionally-mature capacity.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “You gonna hold up your end of the truce?”

He gave you a look. “You trust me?”

“I trust me,” you joked, “You, on the other hand...”

“Hey,” he furrowed his eyebrows.

“Kidding.” Still, you got up and walked to the closet to grab a blanket, tossed him a throw pillow (which he barely caught). You didn’t say much, but there was something strangely gentle about the way you both moved around each other — no longer afraid of being too close, but careful all the same.

You showered while he showered in the guest room en-suite. You put on an oversized shirt and returned to the couch to find Bucky already lying down in a shirt some guys left at your place like, a year ago (it was a bit too small on him) — legs curled, arms crossed behind his head like he was trying not to take up space.

You didn’t hesitate, climbing in next to him.

“You always did take up the whole couch,” you muttered.

“Guess you’ll just have to climb over me,” he said innocently.

You narrowed your eyes. “I will smother you with this pillow.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

You rolled your eyes and settled in beside him, both of you a little awkward for a second — arms adjusting, legs figuring themselves out — until it just… worked.

His arm ended up around your shoulder. Your head ended up on his chest. Your knee bumped his thigh and stayed there. 

Eventually, you turned on something dumb on TV — a rerun of Friends or Seinfeld, neither of you really watching. You curled into him, one of his hands toyed absently with the ends of your hair.

And somewhere around 1:42 a.m., though you mentioned something about sleeping in your own bed and Bucky taking the guest bedroom — you both drifted off on the couch, your head against his shoulder. 

—

The next morning, you blinked awake, cocooned beneath your comforter, your cheek pressed into your pillow.

Your mind, at first, didn’t quite catch up. You were home, clearly. In your bed. 

But—

Wait.

You sat up.

The comforter slid off your shoulder, revealing your sleep shirt twisted sideways from the night before. You rubbed your eyes, squinting at the faint ache in your neck and…

No Bucky.

Your brows furrowed as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. You walked down the hallway, and saw that the guest bedroom was empty.

Continuing into the living room, the couch was also empty.

The blanket was folded, pillow fluffed. Everything was neat like he’d never been there at all — except you knew he had. You remembered the warmth of his breath. You remembered falling asleep with his fingers lazily brushing the inside of your elbow.

So what the hell?

And then you noticed it.

A small, folded slip of paper on your coffee table.

Right where the wine glasses had been.

You picked it up, heart thudding with the sudden, irrational hope that it wasn’t goodbye. That he hadn’t walked out and decided this was all a mistake. That you hadn’t imagined the tenderness under all that restraint.

You unfolded the paper.

At first, it was just nonsense.

A familiar, ridiculous mix of letters.

Fcxxet mwywttwj xcqdm?

Your lips curved before you even touched your phone.

You pulled up the old cipher from your Notes app — You typed it in, letter by letter.

DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT?

You stared at it for a long moment, biting back a grin.

So... he’d carried you to bed.

You knew it. You could see it now — him gently scooping you up when you’d both dozed off on the couch, trying not to wake you, probably muttering something like you’re a lot heavier when you’re pretending to be asleep as he navigated the hallway in the dark. 

And then he left without a sound.

You stared down at the note again, fingers brushing over the paper.

You folded the note neatly, slipped it into the drawer beside your bed, and let yourself sink back into the mattress with a small, secret smile still playing at your lips as you got ready for work. 

—

Later that day, Bucky returned from his lunch break late — not intentionally, just Capitol Hill late, which meant five different people had stopped him to ask about pending subcommittees and another wanted to get a “quick quote” on infrastructure allocations (it was never quick).

His shoulders were tense. His tie was already undone by a half-inch, the top button of his collar loosening like it couldn’t breathe.

He stepped into his office and greeted his aide with a distracted nod.

“Anything urgent?”

“Just a note was dropped off for you,” he said, not looking up from his monitor. “Someone from the press.”

Bucky raised a brow.

The note sat innocently on his desk — folded in half, no letterhead, no envelope. Just a slip of paper.

He opened it.

Zem's qw rwt slsdc ptwlxf mde nwtxet mw hwlts. 8VY.

It took less than a second for the corner of his mouth to lift.

He didn’t need the cipher chart anymore. It was muscle memory. Every twist of the alphabet was familiar — like a shared language no one else could hear.

He decoded it line by line, letting the message unfold:

LET'S GO FOR SUSHI AROUND THE CORNER TO YOURS. 8PM.

He closed his eyes and let the smile spread fully now, crumpling the note gently in one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

His aide peered around the door. “Good news?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Yeah. It’s really good news.”

—

The sushi place wasn’t fancy.

It was tucked in the corner, with lantern lighting and wooden booths that smelled like soy sauce and rice vinegar. The kind of place only locals knew — no website, no reservation system, just a handwritten menu by the door and a hostess who warmed up after you ordered the special.

Bucky hadn’t protested. In fact, when he saw the low ceilings, the tiny fish tank by the register, and the man behind the bar rolling perfect maki like a magician, he looked at you and said, “This is charming.”

You grinned. “I know.”

He held the door for you, a hand resting lightly on the small of your back, like it had always belonged there. You tried not to overthink it.

You both ordered too much. The waitress just nodded, unimpressed by your enthusiasm. You ended up with two miso soups, three types of rolls, a shared tempura plate, and a carafe of warm sake.

And for the first twenty minutes, you just talked.

Not flirted. 

Talked.

About terrible campaign ads. About how Bucky’s suit got stuck in the Capitol Hill coatroom for two days. About how your editor now thinks you're “the only one ruthless enough to handle political profiles and deal with it without crying.”

You made him laugh.

He draped an arm along the back of your chair and leaned in while you recounted a story about accidentally calling a senator ‘dude.’

“I mean,” Bucky said, hiding a grin, “still better than the guy calling ‘mom’ during a floor vote.”

You nearly spit your sake.

And something about this felt so normal.

Like this had always been the plan.

You left the restaurant full, Bucky’s hand brushing yours as you walked to the curb.

“This was good.”

You nodded. “It was.”

And then it became a habit.

Tuesdays became a day for sushi. Or Thai. Or that place with the weird tacos in Foggy Bottom you swore would give you food poisoning but kept going back to anyway.

Every Tuesday night — without fail — you had dinner.

Sometimes you argued about who’d pay. Sometimes you or Bucky would cook, and you teased him until he burned the garlic. Sometimes you ordered takeout and sat on the floor with wine and policy memos you pretended to ignore.

You saw him other days, too — but Tuesdays were yours.

Then came the coffees.

First, it was once a week. You brought him a cup to a hearing. He dropped one off at your office on a quiet Thursday. Then it became routine.

Twice a week.

Always black coffee with way too much sugar for him. A latte for you, but maybe iced, depending on your mood. He started keeping one of those silly reusable cups with your initials on it in his briefcase, just in case. You’d pretend not to notice, but you always did.

He sent you articles at 1am with comments like: this senator’s grammar is actually criminal.You texted him mid-press conference while you were in the crowd just to make him break — fix your tie, you look like you’re being held hostage.

And one night, while sitting across from him in a pizza booth with garlic dip on your wrist you realised this wasn’t your old book-club-then-sex habit. This was new. This was… stable.

—

A month or two passed before you even realised.

You’d just come back from dinner — Thai this time, spicy enough to make both of you sniffle over the last plate of drunken noodles. You still had the faintest smear of chili oil on your lips, and your stomach hurt from laughing when Bucky tried to order in Thai and accidentally asked the waiter if the rice was single.

Now, you were in his living room, kicking your shoes off while Bucky headed down the hall to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Gimme two minutes—pick a movie or something. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

You called back, “Copy that, Barnes.”

Except… there was no remote on the coffee table.

You checked under a magazine, lifted a coaster. You beneath a throw pillow with a dramatic sigh.

Still nothing.

So, naturally, you glanced toward the media console. There were two drawers. 

You opened the top one.

No remote. Just a bunch of coasters and a spare charger.

Then the second.

At first, it looked like scraps of paper. Neat ones. Square, all the same size. All stacked and carefully folded. You reached for one without thinking.

Then you saw it.

C zwke hwl 

Your cipher.

The letters stared up at you, jumbled and unreadable at a glance. But your brain, so familiar with this dance now that you’ve regularly been using this to communicate, began decoding line by line.

I LOVE YOU

You blinked. What?

You took a second note.

C'y cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU

You opened another.

C'y rpzzcxq cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU

And another — the handwriting slanted, like he’d written it fast, maybe late at night.

C dpke oeex cx zwke jcmd hwl rwt p jdcze — I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU FOR A WHILE

There were dozens, tucked neatly, like they mattered. Like he wrote them down when he couldn’t say them aloud. Some looked older. Some more recent. Some were on scrap paper, one was on the back of a coffee receipt. They were all different. Some were hesitant. Some were certain. One had been rewritten three times with a slightly different phrasing each time.

But they all said the same thing, all had the same two words:

zwke — LOVE hwl — YOU

Again. And again.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

The remote was long forgotten. Your fingers shook just a little.

“Hey, sorry, took forever—” Bucky said from behind.

You snapped your head back. Bucky stood in the doorway, towel drying his hands, his hair slightly damp from where he must’ve splashed water on his face.

His eyes dropped to the drawer, to the paper in your hand.

And everything in him went still.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

You just looked at him, standing frozen in the doorway like he wasn’t sure whether to run or brace for impact. 

Your voice came in disbelief. “Bucky…” You held up one of the notes. “How long have you been scribbling these?”

He didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the paper to you, and back again.

Then, quietly, almost like it hurt to admit, he said, “Since I moved back here.” He took a deep breath. “But I… I didn’t want to mess it up. Not when we’d just started figuring out what this is.”

You took a step toward him. The room felt smaller now — but not claustrophobic. 

He swallowed. “I kept writing it down because saying it felt too… final, I guess. And you’d said to take our time. So I tried, but it’s always been right there. Right on the edge of—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him for the first time in years, and it was… different. 

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask a question or wait for permission — because it was the answer. The kind of kiss that felt like relief and release all the same, like finally.

Bucky froze for half a second, before you back like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand cupped your cheeks, thumb brushing your jawline  like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the way he made when he finally let go.

When you pulled back — just barely — your noses brushed.

You kept your eyes closed for a moment before whispering, “Next time you feel like writing ‘I love you’ thirty-six times in a drawer, maybe just… try saying it once out loud.”

Bucky gave a huffed breath of a laugh. “Noted.”

His forehead was still pressed to yours, breath shallow between you. 

You opened your eyes slowly, and his were already there — dark, focused, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers still curled into the front of his shirt like you needed him to stay real.

“I’m serious,” you whispered. “Just say it.”

He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing yours again, so close it was barely a kiss. “Okay,” almost restrained. “I love you.”

Your breath caught — not because you didn’t know it, but because hearing it was something else entirely.

This time, he kissed you first.

And this time, it was different — hungrier.

His arms were around you in a heartbeat, hands sliding along your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt. You pushed him back toward the couch, urgency curling in your belly as his mouth opened under yours — heat pouring in, your teeth catching his bottom lip just enough to draw a soft, involuntary moan. You barely made it to the couch. Your bodies hit the cushions in a tangle, knees and hands and breathless gasps, his hands framing your face before skimming down your sides. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you nodded, lifting your arms.

The shirt hit the floor behind you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes raking over your skin like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “God, I missed this,” he said.

You pulled him back in.

The way he kissed you now was different — unhurried, like he was relearning every inch of you. His mouth trailed along your jaw, your throat, teeth raking the curve of your shoulder as your fingers found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, palms flattening against his chest.

He hissed when your nails dragged lightly down his ribs.

“Still ticklish?” you teased, breathless.

“Only when you do that,” he growled into your skin.

You felt his metal hand curl behind your knee, pulling your leg up around his waist as his hips pressed into yours — a sigh slipping from you before you could stop it.

You gasped as his mouth found your chest, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your skin. He made a sound when you arched beneath him. You felt the drag of his stubble, the roll of his hips, the way he was holding back for your sake.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Don’t.”

He slowed down, only for a second. 

“Don’t hold back.”

And then he didn’t.

—

The room was quiet except for your breathing.

You were lying in the dip of the couch, half-covered by a throw blanket you barely remembered tugging over yourselves. Bucky’s body was curled around you, metal arm slung protective over your waist.

You could still feel him everywhere.

Not just physically — though that, too: the ache between your thighs, the kiss-bruised curve of your mouth, the sweet sting of stubble burns on your inner thighs. But it felt as if he’d pressed himself into your bloodstream, rewired the rhythm of your pulse.

You’d thought you remembered what it felt like to be with him.

You had not.

This time hadn’t been frantic or impulsive like it used to be — not fueled by adrenaline or blurred by loneliness. This time had been devastatingly focused, like he wanted to undo every careless moment you’d ever shared before. And he had. Every touch had felt deliberate — like he’d waited years just to relearn how to love you with his hands and his mouth and his whole damn body.

And you had let him.

Your head rested on his chest now, rising and falling with each breath he took. His human hand gently combed through your hair.

Eventually, his voice came. “Does this mess things up?” he asked, voice careful now. “For us? Our jobs?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see him. 

His brow was furrowed — not in guilt, but in genuine concern, mostly because he knew how hard you’ve had to work to get to this point in your career. 

“Honestly?” you said, fingers brushing across his chest, tracing the faint line of an old scar near his ribs. “It complicates things. But that doesn’t mean it ruins them.”

He searched your face for a beat. “You sure?”

“No,” you said plainly. “But I am going to stop writing about you— only because I don’t sleep with my sources… anymore.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. 

“You always were the reckless one,” he said softly.

“Says the guy with a cybernetic arm and a seat in Congress,” you shot back.

He laughed again.

You glanced at the coffee table, you saw your phone light up and you were suddenly very aware of the time— 2:47 a.m.

“We should go to bed,” you said after a minute, not moving.

He made an amused sound. “Now you want to be responsible?”

You tilted your head. “If we don’t go to sleep soon, we’re going to do that again. And then I’m going to be too tired to write in the morning, and you’re going to miss your 10 a.m. subcommittee meeting, and then the Ethics Committee will suddenly care about optics for the first time in history.”

He let out a low groan. “God, that meeting’s going to be brutal.”

“Mmhm. And I’m going to get yelled at for not turning in my op-ed on legislative gridlock, which is ironic considering I just—” you gestured vaguely between your bodies, “—got very thoroughly unstuck.”

He laughed before pushing a trans of loose hair behind your ears, “You really think we can do this? With all the politics, the press, the oversight committees?”

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his cheekbone. “I think we’ve both done harder things than loving each other.”

He looked like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

“Fuck, please say that again,” he said.

You smiled. “I love you, James.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”

You kissed him one more time. “We’ll figure it out,” you said.

And you meant it.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore. Or loneliness. Or lust.

For now, you just had to get him into bed so both of you could get at least five hours of sleep.

-end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

I wonder if I should make a part two where reader is one of the journalists in the press conference that Val arranged in the end of Thunderbolts because she has been covering her impeachment, and her reaction to her boyfriend being in the lineup? and then maybe explore their relationship when their newfound stability is challenged?

Cipher decoder: 

Plain text: abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

Cipher text: ponferqdcbazyxwvutsmlkjihg

[mannien]

come back to me | b. barnes

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationships insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.

-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)

-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift

-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)

The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.

You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.

You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.

Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.

Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.

But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.

For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.

“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.

Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”

His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.

When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”

There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.

“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.

Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.

You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.

She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.

Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.

When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.

Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.

With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.

Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.

His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.

Bucky was the last one to step inside.

He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.

You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.

Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.

“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”

You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”

Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.

They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.

“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”

You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.

Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.

You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.

“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.

“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.

“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”

He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.

You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.

Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.

“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.

You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.

“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.

“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”

The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.

Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.

“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”

You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”

Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.

The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”

Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”

You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.

“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”

You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.

“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.

She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”

The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”

When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.

“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.

“Change of clothes.” Yelena.

“Water.” John.

“A first aid kit.” Ava.

“Snacks, please.” Bob.

“Tequila.” Alexei.

A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.

“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.

Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”

Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.

“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”

It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.

“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.

Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.

You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.

You almost forgot he was there.

After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.

You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.

You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.

Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.

Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.

“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.

You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.

He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.

Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.

How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.

You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.

This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.

His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.

It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.

Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.

The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.

He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.

He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.

That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.

Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.

Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.

He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.

Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.

“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”

“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”

“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”

“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”

Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”

“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.

“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”

“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.

Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.

Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.

“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”

“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”

“You did not intrude–”

“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”

Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.

Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.

It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.

Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.

He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”

This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.

“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.

You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.

“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.

That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.

Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.

Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.

Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”

The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.

“What?” Yelena hums.

“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.

“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.

“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”

Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”

The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”

“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.

Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.

“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”

As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.

“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”

“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”

You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.

“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”

A beat.

“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”

Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.

“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”

And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.

Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.

Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.

It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.

In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.

The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.

You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.

You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.

You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.

Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?

You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.

A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.

You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.

Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.

“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.

“Yes I am.”

“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.

“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”

The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.

Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.

“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”

Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.

“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”

Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.

“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”

You finally look up to meet her eyes.

“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”

You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.

Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”

Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.

“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”

Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”

You pause, breath tight in your throat.

“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”

Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.

“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”

You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.

“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”

This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.

“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.

Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.

You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.

The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.

“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”

It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.

When he left, you sank all over again.

The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.

From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.

You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.

While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.

Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.

Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.

Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.

Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.

Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.

Except for tonight.

The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.

Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.

It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.

At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.

“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.

He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”

You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.

“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”

“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.

“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.

“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”

“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.

Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.

Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”

Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”

“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”

“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”

His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.

Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.

“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”

You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.

Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.

He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.

You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.

“Bucky,” You breathe.

He pauses, waiting for you to go on.

Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”

He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”

You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.

“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.

Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.

“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.

His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.

When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.

He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.

Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”

The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.

Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.

Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.

Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.

You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.

Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.

You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”

Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”

Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”

For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”

“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”

Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.

Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”

“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”

“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”

Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.

“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”

The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.

You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.

“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”

The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.

“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”

You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.

“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”

“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.

“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.

It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.

Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.

Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.

There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.

“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”

The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.

Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”

“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”

“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”

You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.

“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”

Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.

“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”

“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.

“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.

You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.

This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.

“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”

Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”

“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.

“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.

“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”

Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”

Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.

“I love you.” He says out of the blue.

The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.

“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.

Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.

Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.

You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.

“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.

Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.

You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.

Yelena smiles. “Ava owes me twenty bucks.”

[mannien]

This is all I never thought I’d need. So emotional, so good! I absolutely love the friendship with Yelena here, and I’m over the moon with Bucky’s love. Stunning, magical! Thanks for brightening up my day 💓

Aftershock | Bucky Barnes x Reader Part 2 of 2

Summary: After finally waking in the medbay with your pregnancy no longer a secret, you and Bucky navigate the fallout, the healing, and the quiet, terrifying joy of building a life together.

Parts: Part 1

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy-related complications (fatigue, migraines, nausea), medical discussion, nightmares, PTSD symptoms, referenced past violence, identity struggles, discussions of protection/parenting anxiety, references to past injuries, soft!bucky barnes, soft!thunderbolts

Word Count: 17.2k

Author’s Note: i was editing and finishing up part 2 this morning and um. i did NOT mean for it to be this long??? holy shit. it just kept going. i genuinely blacked out and next thing i knew i was crying into my keyboard at 8am. i simply didn’t want it to end, okay. anyway. i hope you love it even a fraction as much as i loved torturing myself over it. <3

The room hadn’t changed.

Not really.

The lights had dimmed with the hour, a gentle shift from sterile brightness into something closer to dusk—too soft to be natural, too cold to be comforting. It cast everything in a half-shadowed haze. The corners of the ceiling blurred. The curve of your cheekbone caught the light, but your eyes didn’t. They hadn’t moved. Not once.

Thirty-six hours.

And Bucky had counted every second.

He hadn’t moved. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. His body had settled into the chair beside your bed with the same heaviness as the grief clawing through his chest. The posture of a man keeping vigil—not for a miracle, not for hope, but for permission. For breath. For proof that the worst had not already come to pass.

Your vitals had trended upward, but cautiously. Hesitant. Like your body was negotiating its way back toward the surface, one breath at a time. He’d watched the numbers climb. Had memorized the pattern of your pulse, the sluggish rise of your lungs. Not like a soldier analyzing a threat. Like a drowning man learning the shape of a lifeline.

He’d stopped blinking after hour ten. Couldn’t risk missing something.

The machines blinked and beeped in time with the tiny metronome of your life. A mechanical lullaby. He hated them. Hated that he needed them. Hated that every sound felt like a verdict.

He hadn’t left your side. Not for food. Not for water. He didn’t sleep. Didn’t really speak. The only movement he allowed was the flex of his vibranium fingers against the mattress, brushing your wrist when your hand lay close enough. Just to feel you. Just to prove you hadn’t turned cold.

Someone had tried to care over the course of the past two days, once. John, maybe. A water bottle. A granola bar. Left neatly on the chair in the corner like Bucky was some feral thing that might be coaxed into eating if no one looked at him too long. He hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t. His body didn’t register hunger anymore. Not while you were still trapped somewhere he couldn’t reach.

And the doctor, he was trying. Bucky would give him that much.

The man’s hands were steady. His tools precise. His voice gentle in a way that had nothing to do with pity. He moved through the room with the kind of patience usually reserved for open flame or grieving dogs. Like he understood the risk. Like he knew exactly how easily Bucky could break something that didn’t deserve it.

But even he was starting to crack.

“Barnes,” the doctor said now, adjusting a new IV bag, this one tinted the color of amber and dusk. Slower drip. “You need to move. Stretch. Eat something.”

Bucky didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on the slight curve of your ribcage where it rose, then fell. Counted again. One, two, three…

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

The voice was more tired than sharp now. Less clinical, more human. Like the man had decided it was worth trying, even if he got nothing but silence in return.

“You’ve been in the same position for twelve hours. That arm of yours may be vibranium, but the rest of you’s still flesh and blood. You’re locking up.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His throat felt like it was full of gravel. “Not really.”

A pause. Then the soft clink of metal on metal as the IV vial clicked into place.

The doctor exhaled. “She’s stable. There’s no sign of cardiac distress. And she’s not going to wake up in the next five minutes.”

“She might.”

“And if she does,” the man said, gently, “I’ll be here. You’ll be the first to know. You’ll be back in that chair before she knows she was alone.”

Still, Bucky didn’t move.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to rot in a chair.”

That landed.

The words didn’t hit like a punch. They hit like something quieter, something worse. Like guilt pressed into the hollows of his bones. Because of course you wouldn’t. You’d tease him for it, probably. Nudge your foot against his, call him dramatic, ask when the last time he slept was. But your eyes would soften. Your fingers would reach for his.

He could already see it. Hear it. And it was that, that finally pulled him upright.

The motion was sluggish. Weighted. The muscles in his legs screamed like they hadn’t moved in years. He didn’t remember sitting down in the first place.

He stretched once. Just enough to hear something crack in his lower back. The pain was dull, but grounding.

The doctor didn’t say anything else. Just stepped aside, letting Bucky pass without another plea.

He paused in the doorway.

“I’ll be gone ten minutes.”

The doctor’s reply was low. Certain.

“I’ll call you the second she so much as twitches.”

The hallway hit like a punch.

Too bright. Too white. Too clean.

Bucky squinted as he stepped into it, eyes burning from the shift in light, the harsh fluorescence striping the floor like surgical tape. His shoulders hunched automatically, spine curling slightly in on itself, like the walls were too narrow. Like the quiet itself might snap.

His left hand stayed curled, hovering near his ribs—tight, half-clenched. Not from pain. Not from injury. From instinct. From the way his body had learned to brace around things it didn’t know how to hold.

This wasn’t just grief. Not anymore.

This was grief wearing new skin. Fear carved into something more intimate.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—couldn’t stop tracing back every moment, every silence, every goddamn detail that should’ve screamed at him and didn’t. Eight weeks. Eight fucking weeks. Through briefings. Through missions. Through nights where you’d fallen asleep half-curled into him, your fingers unconsciously resting just above your pelvis like your body already knew what your mouth wouldn’t say.

He still didn’t know how he’d missed it. 

He was trained to detect the minute. Micro-expressions. Breath patterns. A stagger in a step. He could spot a tell from a mile off. Could read body language like Morse. And yet this of all things, you’d hidden it from him so completely that it made his throat tighten with something far worse than anger.

He didn’t know what scared him more: the possibility that maybe you hadn’t known, or that you had.

His feet moved of their own accord, dragging him through the Tower like a shadow without purpose. No real destination. Just inertia. The need to move before the silence ate him alive.

He reached the kitchen before he realized that was where he’d been going.

It was too clean. Too quiet. Stainless steel countertops gleaming like bone under surgical light. He stood at the threshold for a long beat, staring at the fridge, the sink, the stack of unopened water bottles by the wall. The idea of food made his stomach twist. The thought of chewing, swallowing, breathing, felt absurd.

He took a step back.

Then his ears pricked.

A theme song, overacted and sickeningly catchy, filtered in through the far side of the floor. Something dramatic. Overly lit. Voices rising and falling in practiced drama. Probably another doomed marriage and a fake fight in a bridal shop. The kind of television that felt like being lobotomized slowly with a plastic spoon.

Bucky sighed—long, low—and followed the sound.

The lounge was exactly as he expected: half-lit chaos, a blanket half-draped over the floor, a busted remote wedged between two couch cushions, and snack wrappers forming a loose perimeter around a single, surviving water bottle. The air smelled like cheap sugar and stale skin balm.

Yelena was spread diagonally across the couch, all limbs and bruises and indifference. Her braid was halfway undone. Her face was peppered in healing scabs and yellowed bruises like war paint. Her left arm was in a sling. Her expression didn’t flicker when he entered.

“If you say one word about my taste in television,” she said, not looking up, “I will use the last of my upper body strength to throw you out of that window.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folding automatically. His voice rasped. “Pretty sure that’s Walker’s favorite window.”

“Even better.”

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Just weighted.

She looked at him then. Really looked. One brow ticked up just barely.

“How is she?”

He swallowed. The question landed like a blade. Not because of what it was, but because of how she asked it. No fluff. No hope. Just truth, asked gently.

“She’s…holding on.”

Yelena turned off the TV with a flick of the remote. Static silence took its place.

He crossed the room and sat opposite her, careful to leave space between them. Close enough to talk. Not close enough to fall apart.

Yelena shifted upright, knees tucking under her, good arm slung over the back of the couch. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the stitches in her brow.

“No change?”

“She’s still stable. Breathing on her own now.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s something.”

He nodded too, but it was hollow. Mechanical. Like an echo of emotion he wasn’t sure he still had access to. 

He didn’t know what comfort was supposed to feel like anymore, and maybe he’d never really known. Not outside the tiny, quiet moments he stole when the world wasn’t looking. The curve of your spine when you slept. Your voice in the morning before coffee. The small, human nothings he’d convinced himself were enough.

His hand scrubbed over his jaw, slow. Deliberate. Then it dragged down his face—like maybe if he pulled hard enough, he could get it off. Peel the grief away with skin. It didn’t work, of course. 

He looked at Yelena for a long time before he spoke again. Looked at her like she might hold an answer he didn’t know how to name. Because if you had told anyone, if you’d shared even a sliver of the truth with someone, it would’ve been her. 

Not just because she was your typical partner in the field, but because you trusted her. The kind of trust that wasn’t performative or professional or born of trauma. It was earned. Forged in fire. The two of you had moved like pieces of the same machine, wordless, effortless. A kind of bond he hadn’t dared interrupt, let alone question.

Sisters. That’s what Yelena called you once, when she was half-asleep and bleeding and pissed off and didn’t want to go to the med bay.

So if you had told anyone, it would’ve been her. If anyone knew… if anyone had seen something—

“She, uh… She tell you anything?” he asked quietly.

He hated how uncertain it sounded. How thin.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitated. “Before the mission. Did she seem… off?”

Yelena gave him a look. Flat. Blunt. “She was about to walk into an extraction site with me. We’d just gotten off a sixteen-hour flight and neither of us had eaten anything but trail mix without a wink of sleep. Sure, yeah, she was off. So was I.”

“Not like that.”

Bucky’s voice cracked a little on the tail end. His gaze stayed fixed on the far wall, but his hand twitched. That betrayed him.

Yelena narrowed her eyes slightly. Her body stilled. She studied him now, properly. Like she was peeling back something that hadn’t quite fit since he walked in.

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. His voice was rough when he tried again.

“Did she say anything… about being sick? Not feeling well?”

And there it was.

The silence shifted. Tilted. Not the kind that filled a room. The kind that pressed against it. Dense and dangerous. It made the space feel smaller somehow, like the walls were leaning in.

Yelena looked down at the bandage on her arm. Picked at the tape. Didn’t answer right away.

“You’re not asking what you really want to ask,” she said.

His chest felt like it had been hollowed out and packed with salt.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”

She didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t look at him with pity. Just sat there for a moment, shoulders tense and jaw tight, trying to find the right words and clearly hating every second of it.

“There was a moment before everything went to hell,” she said, finally. “She stumbled—caught herself, but it looked wrong. Not like a trip. Like… something hit deep. She put a hand to her side. Right here—” She gestured across her abdomen. “Like she was trying to cover it.”

Bucky’s gut turned.

“I asked if she was hit. She said no. But her face—”

Yelena frowned, her brows pulling tight. She was still staring at the spot on her own abdomen where she’d gestured. Her good hand hovered there, fingers flexing like she was trying to summon a memory, something small she hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at until now.

“Her face said otherwise. Not pain. Not even fear. Just… panic.”

Bucky said nothing. Didn’t need to.

Yelena’s eyes flicked up to him, and something shifted behind them. A beat passed. Another.

Then: “Wait.”

He met her gaze.

“Did you not know?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Bucky blinked, slow. He felt it hit like a punch, despite already knowing the answer himself. It was the kind of question that didn’t need to be asked, only confirmed. Like grief knocking twice just to make sure it really hurt.

Yelena leaned forward, her expression sharper now, not incredulous, just trying to piece together something she thought she already understood. Her stare was forensic. Dissecting. Like he was a puzzle missing pieces she’d thought were obvious.

“You didn’t know,” she repeated, quieter this time.

He let out a breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth tightening—not with humor. Just restraint. “No.”

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That he could say it like that, flat and final. Like it was just a fact instead of something that had cored him out.

Yelena’s brow furrowed. “But I thought—I mean… you live with her. You’ve been together for what, four years?” Her hands flailed for a second, then dropped uselessly to her sides. “You do her laundry. You finish her sentences. You know when she’s in pain without even looking at her. And you didn’t notice she was…” She grimaced, rolled her eyes a little like the word physically pained her. “Pregnant?”

He didn’t flinch. Just let out a short breath that didn’t quite qualify as a laugh. “Yeah, well. Turns out knowing her better than anyone doesn’t mean I get to know when she’s…” His jaw tightened. He glanced away for half a second, like the words might knock the wind out of him if he looked it in the eye. “...carrying my kid.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Sobering. Like the air between them had been dragged through wet cement.

Yelena let it sit a beat longer than she had to, then dragged a hand over her face, groaning into her palm. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Because if he saw even a flicker of pity, something in him might fracture past the point of return. But Yelena wasn’t the type to pity. She was sharp where others softened. She watched people like she was measuring how they broke.

And he could feel it, her weighing him now. Calculating the depth of the wound he wasn’t bleeding visibly from.

After a moment: “So you two ever talk about it?”

His mind stuttered. Not at the question, but at how fast his body wanted to say yes. To conjure up something that looked like preparedness. Like this wasn’t a detonation that had left shrapnel buried in his chest.

“What?” he asked, but it wasn’t confusion. Just delay.

Yelena shrugged, more careful with her injured arm. “You know. Having a kid. Wanting one. Or is this more of a surprise than it looks?”

His eyes tracked a scuff on the floor like it might offer absolution. Something to tether to. Some scratch in the surface that made more sense than any of this.

“Last year,” he said slowly, “we talked about adopting one day. One of those half-hypothetical conversations, middle of the night, post-mission adrenaline still burning out. Neither of us said it outright, but…”

But he’d thought about it. Not obsessively. Not in detail. But enough to picture a softer kind of life. A quieter kitchen. Her hands guiding small ones through flour or paint or some messy, human thing. Enough to imagine something more than just survival.

“But it wasn’t off the table?”

He nodded once. “No. Not off the table.”

“And you—” she tilted her head—“thought you couldn’t…”

He gave a low, humorless laugh. The kind that didn’t even try to sound amused. “Didn’t think. Knew. Ran tests. Talked to a doctor off-record. After everything Hydra did, it wasn’t a mystery. They weren’t building soldiers with families in mind.”

His throat tightened. Not at the thought of it, but at how matter-of-fact it was. Like his own mutilation had been itemized on a lab sheet somewhere. Blood type. Bone density. Fertility: unnecessary.

Yelena winced. “Yeah. I figured.”

“So no. It wasn’t a plan. We didn’t think this was even a thing that could happen.” His voice thinned, like it was unraveling from somewhere below his ribs. “We never even talked about this as a possibility.”

That silence returned. Not sharp. Just… encompassing. Like he was slowly being pulled underwater again.

“I think she wanted to tell you,” Yelena said after a moment. “Not just because you deserved to know. But because she wanted you to know. I think she was just… scared.”

Scared.

He’d fought entire wars with less fear than what curled in his chest now.

He stared at the wall. “Of what?”

Yelena pursed her lips. She shifted her weight, glanced down, then back up like the words didn’t come easy. Her jaw worked once, twice, chewing through something she didn’t quite want to say. Not out loud. Not to him. But she said it anyway, voice low.

“Of it not being real. Of what it’d do to you.” A pause. “Of what it might mean if you lost it before it was even yours.”

The quiet that followed made something twist in Bucky’s chest. Not painfully. Just sharply. Like a rusted screw threading deeper.

He sat with it. Let the ache crawl around his ribs like it belonged there. Like it always had. You’d been trying to protect him. That much was obvious now. And he hated it. Hated that you thought he was fragile enough to splinter at the weight of a truth like this, or worse—that he might’ve tried to talk you out of it, out of this, if you had told him.

Maybe he would’ve. Maybe that was the worst part. He’d never wanted to cage you, never wanted to be the reason you sat out a mission or stepped back from something you believed in. But this hadn’t just been another secret. And it had been growing in your chest for weeks while he stood too close to see it.

He couldn’t even pretend it was some one-time accident. Some consequence of a moment that caught the two of you off-guard. Because it hadn’t been like that. It was never like that. You and Bucky had been together too long for carelessness to be novel. You knew each other’s rhythms. You'd learned, over the years, when to reach for restraint, and when not to. And lately...

Lately, things had shifted. Between missions. Between silences. Between the lines of things you hadn’t said. You’d both been coming apart at the edges, held together only by shared exhaustion and the kind of intimacy that blurred lines more easily than it should have. You still touched like the world might end before morning, like maybe if you pressed close enough you could keep it from doing so.

You hadn’t been careful. Not out of recklessness. Not out of neglect. But out of want. Out of love, maybe, twisted and quiet as it sometimes was. Out of that bruised, aching desperation to just feel something good for a moment longer.

He raked his fingers through his hair, exhaled through his teeth, leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees again. The silence stretched. It wasn’t peaceful. It was just long enough to make everything echo. His thoughts. His regrets. The moment everything had shifted.

And then—unexpectedly, involuntarily—his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not anything close to joy. But a flicker of dark amusement, bitter at the edges, slipping free like muscle memory.

He huffed once, a dry, humorless chuckle under his breath. His head tipped slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words even as he said them.

“We certainly weren’t careful.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need details.”

“I’m not giving you any.” A beat. “Just… it was about eight weeks ago. After that snowstorm in Tallinn. We were stuck in that awful safehouse with the wood stove and the window that wouldn’t close.”

Yelena groaned. “Oh my God.”

He smirked faintly again, the first flicker of something close to life behind his eyes since he’d entered the lounge. “She made tea from the emergency rations. Burned it. Still drank it. We didn’t sleep much that night.”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m just saying, that might’ve been it.”

Yelena picked up a throw pillow and lightly tossed it at him with her good arm. It hit his shoulder, bounced to the floor.

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, quieter now. “I’m…” He trailed off, jaw tightening again.

There wasn’t a word for it. Not really. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly. And it wasn’t grief, maybe not anymore. Just a breathless pressure building behind the breastbone, a sinking realization that the past couldn’t be undone, and the future was now something sharp and breakable resting in a hospital bed he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Yelena didn’t press.

He raked his fingers through his hair, exhaled through his teeth, leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees again. The posture was muscle memory now. He’d taken it in war rooms. In funerals. In places where grief didn’t look like tears, it looked like waiting.

“I just keep thinking,” he said, slowly, “about how I could’ve stopped her. If I’d known. If I’d even guessed. If she’d told me. She wouldn’t have gone into that op.”

“She would’ve.”

His head snapped up. Yelena was looking at him with something blunt and honest in her expression.

“She would’ve gone, Bucky. Maybe not for every mission. But that one? With me? Even with as simple as it was supposed to be.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t have let me go in alone. Not even if you begged.”

He clenched his jaw, but didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because she was right. You’d always run toward fire if it meant someone else didn’t burn.

“She made a choice,” Yelena added. “Might not have been the right one. Might not be one you like. But it was hers.”

“I get that,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t break something.”

Yelena looked at him. Long. Quiet.

Then: “She loves you, you know.”

His mouth pressed into a line.

“She loves you in that ugly, gut-deep way,” Yelena said. “The kind that makes you do stupid shit and keep secrets and hold everything too close because letting go feels like dying.”

“I know.”

She leaned back against the couch, sighing. “So what now?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, at his boots, at the ghost of his reflection in the dark glass of the powered-down TV.

Before he could open his mouth to speak again, a voice shattered the quiet.

“BARNES!”

It tore through the tower like a detonated charge—sharp, raw, wrong. John’s voice. Already too loud. Already too late. Not an alert. Not a call for backup. It was the kind of sound a man only made when something had gone to hell.

Bucky was moving before the echo had even finished. His body surged upward, heart already slamming against his ribs. The couch scraped behind him, forgotten. Yelena’s voice called after him, maybe. He didn’t hear her. Didn’t hear anything but the echo of that voice and the rush of blood in his ears. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.

Something in him already knew.

The Tower blurred past in streaks of white and steel. Every hallway looked the same and he hated how he knew this route too well. Hated how his boots skidded on polished tile as he rounded the first corner too tight, one shoulder glancing off the wall like a ricochet. He caught himself and pushed harder. John’s boots were pounding up the corridor behind him, but Bucky didn’t wait for him to catch up. Didn’t wait for context. The dread in his chest had already cemented into certainty.

There was no version of reality where John Walker shouted his name like that and it wasn’t about you.

He hit the last hallway in a dead sprint, lungs burning. The medbay door was open. There were too many bodies moving inside—shadows crossing past glass, beeping monitors screaming their mechanical chorus. The sound was too fast. Too high-pitched.

Something was wrong.

He slammed a palm into the control panel and threw his weight into the door. It hissed open with a reluctant groan, and he was through before it finished retracting, shoulder nearly ripping the frame off the hinge.

And then he saw you.

Not unconscious.

Not still.

Not peaceful.

You were awake, but it wasn’t right. Your body was twisted upright, jerking as you fought the weight of everything wrapped around you, your hands clawing for purchase against the mattress as your chest heaved. Your leg was still caught in the brace, gauze peeking from beneath the sheets. Sweat slicked your skin. You looked like you were suffocating in your own body. Eyes wide, rimmed red, searching the room with a terror so raw it made something inside him break.

The doctor was there, trying to calm you, one hand bracing your shoulder, murmuring something useless. “You’re okay—just breathe—deep breaths, now—”

But you weren’t listening. You weren’t looking at him.

Your eyes were wide and wild, darting toward the door like they were searching for something, someone.

Bucky’s body moved on instinct, all thought stripped down to the bare need to get to you. In three long strides, he was there, by your side, dropping to his knees like he’d been shot.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice tearing out of him, low and cracked. “Hey, hey—baby—”

He reached for you, hands shaking, cradling your face without thinking. His left hand brushed the sweat from your forehead, careful not to catch the edge of the gauze, while the other steadied beneath your jaw. You flinched, just barely, and then your eyes locked with his.

“Bucky?” The sound of your voice scraped across the air like broken glass. Small. Shattered.

His breath hitched. His hands trembled harder. “Yeah,” he got out. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart.”

Your chest jerked again on the inhale—too sharp, too shallow—and your hand reached out, searching. He caught it instantly. Threaded his fingers through yours like it was the only thing keeping him from splintering. Pressed it to his chest. His heartbeat was wild. Disjointed. Loud enough that he was sure you could feel it against your palm.

The doctor’s presence receded. A rustle. A door. Bucky didn’t turn to watch him leave.

You were alive.

Awake.

And fuck, you looked so scared.

Your face was pinched tight, lip trembling, as if the effort of being conscious, of feeling, had finally caught up. He saw it crack behind your expression first. The kind of grief that didn’t make a sound, didn’t wail or scream. It leaked out. As if you didn’t think you were allowed.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, careful of the bruises. His voice cracked again. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You nodded, barely. A twitch more than a motion, like the muscles beneath your skin weren’t fully yours yet.

And then you started to cry.

Not the kind of sobbing that tore open the room. No gasps or wails. Just the slow, quiet kind. The kind that leaked out of the corners of your eyes before you could stop it, trailing down temples and into the fabric of the pillow like it didn’t want to be noticed. Like you didn’t want him to notice. You turned your face just slightly, almost instinctively, like the shame had arrived before the grief even had time to settle.

But he didn’t let you.

He shifted forward, the mattress dipping with the weight of him leaning in. His hand found yours again and lifted it to his mouth, thumb sliding across your knuckles before his lips pressed against them. Not romantic. Not desperate. Something quieter. Like grounding wire. Like prayer.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, voice worn to the threadbare edge. “Don’t hide from me now.”

You shook your head weakly, a raw little hitch in your throat. “I’m sorry—”

“No.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t clench his jaw. But the word had weight behind it now, gravel scraped up from the deepest part of him and shoved out into the space between you. Firm. Final.

“No, sweetheart,” he said again, lower. “Don’t. You don’t have to apologize.”

There was nothing to apologize for. Nothing you could say that would absolve him of the guilt digging like rot beneath his ribs. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen. He hadn’t. And now you were here, crying through bruises and a trembling chest, flinching every time you breathed too deep. And somehow still trying to make him feel better.

You coughed suddenly—sharp and wet, torn from your lungs like broken glass—and he felt the jolt of it like a current to his spine. Your hand flew weakly to your side, fingers curling over your ribs.

He bolted upright, eyes scanning fast. The water bottle, John’s, still sitting untouched at the edge of the tray. He grabbed it in one motion, fingers slick with condensation, and twisted off the cap with a sharp snap.

“Here,” he said, hand slipping beneath your chin as he brought it to your lips. “Slow. Sip.”

Your mouth opened obediently, even as your eyes stayed fixed on him. You drank in small, trembling swallows, each one broken by a pause, a hitch, like your throat hadn’t quite remembered how to work yet.

He watched the whole thing. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Tracked the way your fingers twitched against the blanket, the way your gaze never strayed, like you weren’t entirely convinced he wasn’t just a hallucination pulled from the worst place your brain could go to keep itself calm.

And when you eased back, breath rasping but less jagged now, he didn’t let go. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb moving in slow, steady arcs across your skin like it was the only thing keeping you both tethered to this version of reality.

You exhaled shakily, voice hoarse and small: “You’re really here?”

He swallowed once, hard. “Yeah. ’Course I am.”

There was something in your eyes then—dilated, dazed, but clearer than before. A little softer. Still exhausted, but not vacant. Something heavy, though. Something that clung to your lashes like the tears had left a residue behind. Guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or the bitter, awful cocktail of both.

Bucky could barely look at it.

He reached up again, hand ghosting over your skin, knuckles brushing softly down the side of your temple, just shy of the dressing. You still felt warm. Still felt too breakable. Like your bones hadn’t quite reassembled themselves yet. Like if he pressed too hard, you’d come undone.

His voice barely carried. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

It cracked halfway through, split open at the edges.

“I thought I already had.”

Your fingers twitched in his, then curled, faint but sure. A tiny squeeze. 

“I didn’t mean to—” you tried again.

“Shh.” He didn’t let you finish. Didn’t need you to. He bent lower, forehead pressing against yours with the barest touch. His breath was warm at your hairline. “It’s okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow anymore. It wasn’t panic or pain or grief. It was heavy, yes. But full. Saturated with everything neither of you had words for yet. The kind of silence that followed survival. That dragged behind it the reality that you were still here, but not without cost.

He could feel the shift in you before he saw it. Your hand never left his, but your eyes drifted somewhere past him, toward the far wall, toward the static haze that came in the aftermath. That place in the brain where the adrenaline ebbed, and all that remained was the cold cut of clarity. The damage assessment. The inventory of pain.

Your voice—faint, frayed, clinical—cut through the quiet.

“What’s the damage?”

He didn’t answer at first.

He couldn’t.

His eyes stayed on your face like they were the only thing still anchoring him, searching, scanning, cataloguing every microexpression, every flicker of pain or panic or vacancy that might mean you were slipping again. But you weren’t. You were still. Too still. Awake and alert in the way that wasn’t relief but calculation. That familiar, awful quiet of someone waiting to absorb bad news before it could punch them off the edge of the world.

Bucky swallowed hard. His throat was dry, like it had been scraped raw by the last two days.

“You want the short list,” he said, voice low, “or the one that makes me wanna tear the drywall off every room in this goddamn building?”

Your mouth twitched, barely. Just a ghost of movement. Not even a smile, really. But something lived in it. Something human. And in this room, right now, that felt like a fucking miracle.

“Short,” you whispered, voice sanded down to nothing.

He nodded, jaw working.

“Skull fracture. Minor.” He kept his voice steady, clinical, even when it cost him. “Caused your brain to swell. They’re monitoring it.”

You nodded once. Like it wasn’t news. Like you’d already suspected.

“Concussion,” he added. “A bad one.”

Another nod.

“Three fractured ribs. Bruising’s still showing up. And your leg…” His voice caught. The next words scraped out of him like gravel. “The tibia’s shattered. They had to pin it—metal plates, screws, the whole thing. There was muscle tearing up your thigh. Some tendons nearly severed.” He exhaled hard, jaw clenched. “Surgery went fine. But… you lost a lot of blood. They said it missed an artery by half an inch.”

You didn’t flinch. Just blinked slowly, lashes heavy. But he saw it. The way your gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling, like it might help you count it all up, like if you lined the injuries up one by one, they’d feel smaller. Less catastrophic. He knew that ritual. He’d done it a hundred times. Probably more.

He kept going, quieter now. “They think you’ll walk again. No permanent damage. But it’s gonna take time. Therapy. A lot of it.”

You didn’t speak.

You just breathed, shallow and uneven, your hand still wrapped weakly in his.

And then, after a long pause, you asked: “Anything else?”

That was the one that hit him.

He didn’t let go of your hand. Just tightened his grip slightly, like the contact might hold the words in his chest a little longer. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to be the one to say it. But the longer he held it, the worse it twisted.

His chest tightened. Something old and brutal stirred beneath his ribs.

“There’s…” He hesitated. “There is something else.”

The words dragged, clumsy and raw-edged in his mouth. He didn’t want to hurt you with them. But not saying them felt worse. Felt like lying.

“The doctors—when they ran tests. There was something they saw. And I figured…”

He trailed off. Let it hang there, unspoken. Let the weight of it settle. Let it be.

“I figured if it’s true,” he said, softer now, “then maybe there’s something you need to tell me.”

Your breath hitched.

And that was it.

You didn’t even have to say a word, he felt it. The shift. The slow crumpling of your expression, like something inside you had finally, finally given way. Not a crack. Not a collapse. Just the quiet undoing of someone who’d held something too tightly for too long.

You looked away, jaw trembling, your fingers squeezing his with what little strength they had left.

And then your eyes went glassy. Again. Not like earlier, this time it was different. This time it was surrender. The kind that didn’t come with peace. Just exhaustion. And shame.

Bucky leaned in, closer now. Closer than before. Closer than breathing.

He already knew. Of course he knew. He felt it, like some part of him had already absorbed the truth from the doctor without needing to hear it from you. Like it had been living in his bones since the second he saw you on that hospital bed, trying to claw your way out of your own panic.

Still, he needed the words. Needed them like he needed air.

His voice broke open around them. “Is there something you wanna tell me?”

You gave the faintest nod.

But it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not after this. Not after everything that had nearly gone unsaid for too long.

“Hey,” he said, quick, his hand rising to your cheek again as you tried to turn away, fingers brushing away the heat, the dampness, the tremor in your jaw. “Sweetheart, don’t—don’t do that. Look at me, please.”

Your eyes flicked back to his. Dazed. Gutted.

“Can you use your words for me?” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated that it did. Hated how fucking wrecked he sounded. But it was real. All of it was real.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Just stared at him like you didn’t know how to say it out loud. Like it would hurt worse to give it breath.

So he leaned in more. Close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours. Close enough to feel your breath stutter against his skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you say it.”

There was a beat, one long, unbearable second, and then your lips parted, dry and trembling.

“I’m… I’m pregnant.”

He closed his eyes.

It hit like the floor vanished beneath him again. Like the bottom dropped out of everything he’d been standing on and left him suspended in a place that was neither sky nor ground, just air and weight and the crushing realization of something true. Not a guess. Not a scan. Not a test. Not a stray look from the doctor that he'd pretended not to understand. This was different. This was you.

You had said it. And somehow that made it real in a way nothing else had. Because it wasn’t just a result of a test anymore. It wasn’t a what-if buried beneath bruises and lab results. It was something inside you, and you were still here, and you had said it.

When he opened his eyes again, they burned. Wet at the corners. Not from crying, at least, not yet. But from the pressure behind his ribs, the kind that didn’t let up, the kind that twisted inward like grief that hadn’t decided whether it was going to be joy or devastation yet. 

His gaze found you again, and it struck him—not for the first time, but harder now—that you were everything at once. A miracle. A mistake. A what-if. A why-now. A please, not like this. You were pain and tenderness and a future he never let himself imagine, all balled up in the ruined body of someone he couldn’t bear to lose.

“How long?” he asked, and his voice didn’t sound like his own. It was scraped raw, like it had been dragged over gravel. He hated the sound of it. Hated that it felt like something he’d earned.

You blinked, and the tears started falling again—no gasping, no shaking, just falling, like the moment had finally reached its limit. You didn’t try to stop them. You never did with him. And somehow that made it worse.

“I found out the day before you left,” you said, and your voice cracked halfway through the sentence like it didn’t want to carry the weight of it either.

He blinked, brow knitting. “My mission?”

You nodded. “You came home late. With takeout. You remember?”

He did. Of course he did. Chinese, half cold. You’d eaten at the counter and then curled on the couch in one of his sweatshirts, face unreadable, eyes tired. He remembered thinking it was strange how quiet you were, how long it took you to answer when he asked about your day. But he’d been in his own head, too. Getting ready to leave again. Trying not to show how much it gutted him to keep doing that.

You kept talking, and he couldn’t stop watching you. Couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“I hadn’t been feeling right the past few weeks. Sick in the mornings. Off in the field. I thought it was just… nerves. Burnout. But something felt wrong. Or right—I didn’t know.” You gave a breathy, broken laugh, and it punched right through him.

You looked at him, finally. Really looked. And it nearly leveled him.

“I bought a test. Took it that night. Then two more. I—I just needed to be sure.”

His hand moved without thinking, brushing your hair back again even though it didn’t need to be. He just needed to touch you. Needed to prove you were still warm beneath his fingers. 

You swallowed hard, voice barely audible now. “I was gonna tell you. I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.” It came out soft. Not an accusation. Just grief. Just ache.

“I was scared.”

He didn’t even nod, just sat there, still as a statue, except for the way his hands trembled where they touched you. You reached up, your fingers barely grazing the center of his chest like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to. Like maybe he’d pull away.

He didn’t.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” you said. “We talked about adoption. About maybe someday. But you were so sure it couldn’t—after everything. After Hydra.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. And it wasn’t even just knowing from a doctor that he was sterile. It was just because it felt right. That there’d be consequences for what they’d done to him. For what he’d survived. It made sense that something had been taken. That something had been broken so badly it couldn’t come back.

And now you were telling him maybe it hadn’t been. That something had come back. That something had grown anyway, in spite of all of it. In spite of him. He didn’t know how to handle that.

You looked at him, voice small. “That’s why I thought maybe it wasn’t real. Or wouldn’t stick. Or it’d be gone before I even told you and then I’d have to watch your heart break all over again and it’d be my fault—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked, rougher now as he leaned in and cradled your jaw in one hand, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. You hear me?”

You did, but it didn’t stop your face from twisting, eyes glassing up again, bottom lip trembling.

“I didn’t know if it was good news or bad,” you whispered. “Didn’t know if you’d feel… trapped. Or broken. Or—fuck, I don’t know—like it was a mistake. It’s been a long time since we talked about kids. I just—I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Your voice fractured under the weight of it, and the tears came again. This time openly. No attempt to hide them.

“I didn’t want to lose the version of us we already had just because something changed.”

And god, didn’t that cut him straight through.

Because he remembered all of it. Every version of you. The good years. The ugly ones. The grief you both carried like it was stitched into your skin. And somehow, through all of it, you’d stayed. You’d loved him without asking for anything back he wasn’t ready to give.

And now here you were, thinking this would be what ruined it. Thinking you would be the thing that made him run.

But Bucky had spent half his life running. From handlers. From shadows. From himself. And you were the only thing he’d ever run toward.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, the word cracking in his mouth like it didn’t quite know how to exist there. “No.”

You looked at him like you’d been expecting the end of something. Like you were already mourning it. Like this was the part where he recoiled, went cold, started folding in on himself like he always did when the world got too loud. And Christ, hadn’t he earned that kind of reaction? Hadn’t he spent years teaching people not to expect softness from him?

But not you. Never you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you’d be angry.”

“Stop.” He didn’t raise his voice, but something in it shifted—firmer now, less frayed, like he had to build a wall around the wreckage or it’d all come loose again. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But—”

“No.” His hands were already moving before he finished saying it, catching your face like you were something fragile and burning. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears as fast as they came, but it was a losing battle. Not because you were falling apart, but because he was. Because you’d been alone, carrying something too heavy for one person, and somehow you were still here.

“You were scared,” he said, voice low and rough. “And you were right to be. You’ve been through more than anyone should ever have to carry. And then you found this out—” His breath hitched. “And you were…alone.”

That was the part that gutted him.

Not the secrecy. Not even the fear. But the fact that you’d carried it without him. That he hadn’t seen it. That he hadn’t been there.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, slower now, like the words were costing him. “You are everything.”

You flinched at that. Like it hurt more than it helped. And maybe it did. Maybe it was too much to hear right now. Maybe it sounded like blind devotion when all you could feel was your own broken edges.

“I didn’t know if you were ready—”

“I’m not,” he said, and it surprised even him how quickly the words came out. “Not really.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours. There was no shame in the confession. No edge of defense. Just the raw, open thing that sat under his ribs now. “I didn’t think it was even possible.”

You opened your mouth, some instinct to explain, maybe. To shrink yourself down. To protect him from it.

But he stopped you with a gentle touch, thumb against your lips. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want this. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

His hand slipped to the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb resting over the fluttering pulse beneath your skin. Still beating. Still alive.

“That I wouldn’t have held you through every second of the fear,” he murmured, “every second of the unknown.”

You blinked like the words were too much. Like they didn’t fit inside your chest.

“I would’ve gone to every appointment,” he said, quieter now. “Bought every fucking prenatal vitamin they had. Picked fights with whole teams if it meant keeping you grounded, if it meant keeping you safe.”

That made you laugh, but it broke halfway through, tipping into a sob. You turned your face toward his hand like you didn’t want him to see it. He let you. He didn’t push.

“Bucky—”

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, leaning in. His lips found your temple, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, every patch of skin he could find that wasn’t bruised or bloodied. He kissed you like he was trying to rebuild you from the outside in.

“I will stay.”

It came out steady. Sure. Not a promise, because promises were things that broke under pressure, and you didn’t need something fragile right now. You needed something that would hold.

“Whatever happens next,” he said, “I’m not letting you go through it alone.”

You didn’t answer. Not at first.

Your gaze dropped, eyes unfocused, like the words were caught somewhere in your throat and you had to chase them down. He watched the tension ripple through your shoulders, the way your fingers tightened in the blanket. The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. Not for him. He’d wait as long as it took.

Finally, your voice came, low and raw:  “…Did the doctors say anything about…” A pause. A thick swallow. “About the baby?”

The word sounded strange coming from you. Soft. Uncertain. Like it still didn’t feel real. Or like you were afraid saying it too loud would shatter it.

Bucky exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Yeah.”

Your eyes locked onto his like they were trying to read between the lines, like maybe you’d only believe the truth if you found it buried behind the seams of his expression. You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

His thumb moved over your knuckles in slow, steady sweeps. His other hand, the cold one, stayed braced against your waist, careful not to press too hard against the bruised ribs beneath. He hadn’t realized he was holding you like that until you shifted and his grip tightened automatically. Like letting go would mean starting over. Like the second he loosened his fingers, the nightmare would start again.

“They’re being careful,” he said, quieter now. Not soft, just real. “Real careful. You took a hit to the ribs. Abdomen too. Enough to scare them. But your oxygen’s been steady since you got here. Monitors haven’t spiked. No more signs of internal bleeding.”

You nodded, just barely. But the panic was still flickering behind your eyes like a match that wouldn’t go out.

“They want to do an ultrasound once your vitals stabilize. Maybe tonight since you’re awake now.”

Your breath hitched at that, shallow, shaky. And he saw the shift immediately. The fear latching on. That kind of fear didn’t announce itself. It crept in behind the words. Behind the hope.

“But,” he said, firm enough to make you meet his eyes again. “No one’s said anything bad. You hear me? Nothing.”

You nodded again, slower this time. Still watching him. Like you needed to be sure he wasn’t just saying it to keep you from unraveling. Like you didn’t quite believe you deserved that kind of reassurance.

Your grip on his hand tightened. He let you crush his fingers.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whispered. “That it… that they might not—”

“Don’t.” It came out sharper than he meant, cutting through the room like a snap of frost. You startled, just a little, but he was already softening, already leaning down, brushing his lips to the back of your hand.

“We’re not going there,” he said, voice rasped now. “We’re not grieving something that’s still here. Not when you’re alive. Not when they’re alive.”

You swallowed hard. Another tear slipped down your cheek. He watched it fall like it had weight. Like it mattered.

“I didn’t even know I wanted this,” you said. “Not really. Not now.”

Bucky’s hand found your face again, thumb catching that tear before it could disappear into the bandages. Your skin was warm. Too warm. But it grounded him.

“It’s okay if you didn’t,” he murmured. “It’s okay if you still don’t know what the hell to do with it. We’ve been crawling through the wreckage of wars and redacted missions for a long fucking time. This world’s never offered us softness without strings.”

You blinked at him, raw and blinking through the blur.

“But you know what?” he said, quieter now. Like the words were meant just for you.

“There’s never been anything more worth the chaos.”

You looked like he’d hit something in you. Something deep. Something you didn’t have the breath to argue with.

“And if this job makes it harder,” he added, “I’ll leave it.”

You stiffened, but he didn’t falter.

“I’ll walk. Burn the whole goddamn thing down if I have to. I don’t care what Val thinks. I don’t care what she threatens. You and this kid come first.”

Your face shifted, a flicker of disbelief bleeding in, like you wanted to argue, or maybe just needed to hear it again, slower this time. But he didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to.

Because he meant it.

“I’ll get us a place no one knows,” he said, his voice low, steady, dangerous in its conviction. “Back roads. Quiet. A garden if you want one. A porch swing. You wanna disappear? I’ll make us ghosts.”

Your lip quivered. You tried to push yourself up again and flinched. His hands were already there, bracing your back, cradling your shoulder, fingers spreading to support everything the rest of the world had shattered. 

“Hey—no, don’t push it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

Your voice rasped against the stillness. “I am with you.”

It broke something in him. Clean.

Then your hand started to move, trembling and slow, dragging upward across his chest. He felt it like a brand. Your fingers curled around the fabric near his collar like you were searching for something to tether yourself to. Something to make this real.

He recognized the look in your eyes before you even moved.

That hunger. That urgency. That quiet desperation that came after surviving something you didn’t think you would. You were looking at him like maybe he was the only thing keeping the ground under you. 

“Hey—” he started, already moving to stop you, already thinking of your ribs, your head, your leg—thinking too much.

But you didn’t let him finish. You shut him up the only way that worked.

You kissed him.

It was shaky. Salt-slicked. Your lips trembled against his, but you didn’t stop. Not even when you let out a quiet sound in your throat and pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. Not even when your tears mixed with his on the seam of your mouths.

It was the kind of kiss that tasted like everything you were both still afraid to say. Like panic and relief. Like I love you and I thought I’d never get to again.

And Bucky gave into it like a drowning man breaking through the surface. He let the whole weight of it hit him, your lips, your hands, your body half-limp but still fighting to reach him.

He kissed you deeper, one hand cradling the side of your face, the other braced beneath your back, adjusting you just enough to take the pressure off your injuries without breaking the moment. Your tears soaked his cheek, his fell into your hair.

You broke the kiss slowly, like it cost you something to let it go. You didn’t lean back far. Just enough to speak. Your breathing was uneven, and your lashes were clumped with tears, and your voice cracked open like a wound.

“You’re sure?” Your fingers were still balled into his shirt like a lifeline. Like if you let go, the whole world would tilt sideways again. “You’re really sure you want this?”

He didn’t even blink.

“I want you,” he said, and his voice didn’t shake, it burned. “I want every version of you. The soft parts, the sharp ones. The days you don’t talk. The nights you curl away from me and think I don’t notice. I want every mile that brought you here—even the ones you had to crawl through.”

You stared at him, eyes shining like you weren’t sure how to hold that kind of devotion.

“I want this life if it means having it with you,” he continued, slower now. “Whatever it looks like. Whatever comes with it. The bleeding, the fear, the joy. The baby. All of it.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked so small in that bed. So fucking fragile. But still you didn’t stop reaching.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered, and it was like watching someone confess to murder—like it cost you something to admit you were scared.

“I don’t either,” he murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then the shell of your ear. Each kiss a soft defiance. “But we learn. Together.”

Your nod was almost imperceptible. But he felt it. Forehead brushing his. Your body still trembling faintly from the fever, the shock, the aftermath of pain.

And then, for just a heartbeat, everything fell away.

There was no Valentina. No Black Site rendezvous. No tower briefings or encrypted channels or ghosts whispering orders from the grave. No guilt. No war. No Winter Soldier.

Just you.

The woman he had followed into hell a dozen times over.

The woman who had looked at his jagged edges and stayed.

The woman carrying his child.

The thought split through him again like a tectonic shift. He could feel it echo down to the soles of his feet. Like the floor of his world had cracked open and there was something alive growing in the center of it.

He was going to be a father.

The words didn’t feel real, not in the way other men said it. Not with joy or expectation or the giddy relief of an unburdened life. For Bucky Barnes, the thought came like a wound. Beautiful. Terrifying. Unthinkable. It carved through his ribcage with the same precision the Hydra medics once used to break him apart.

He was going to be a father.

He blinked hard. Swallowed against it. His body didn’t know how to carry that kind of truth. The part of him that had been made in a lab, broken in the field, and frozen between wars didn’t have the language for it.

How the fuck could a man like him build a life? What business did he have holding anything that soft?

He’d only ever been taught how to destroy.

But now you were lying in his arms, bruised and bleeding and still loving him. Still holding him like he could be something good. Something safe.

There was life inside you.

His blood. Your breath. Some fragile flicker of possibility already blooming beneath your skin. And you hadn’t told him because you thought he’d see it as a mistake. Because the world had made you believe this love came with a limit. A ceiling. A finish line you were always going to lose.

But Bucky wasn’t going to let it take this from you.

From them.

From him.

Not again.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw everything he needed to see. The way your lip trembled from the effort of staying upright. The bruises peeking beneath your collarbone. The scrapes along your knuckles. The tears still drying on your cheeks.

And all he could think was: I will give you peace even if it kills me.

Not just safety. Not just freedom.

Peace.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t come with a perimeter check. The kind of rest you don’t have to earn.

He’d give you the garden. The porch swing. A patch of earth without mines buried underneath it. Somewhere you could breathe.

Somewhere your child could grow up without hearing gunfire in the distance.

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, the way some people kiss rosaries or grave markers or names carved into stone. The vow wasn’t spoken, but it lived in the seam of his mouth.

And when you sighed against him—spine curving, fingers loosening, your body finally softening under his hands—he held you like you were the only thing on this side of the world that still made sense.

He was going to be a father.

And he was going to earn it.

It had been two months since the mission.

Sixty-one days since the world went sideways, since breath turned sharp in your throat and your body became something unrecognizable beneath you. Not broken all at once, but piece by piece. Trap. Shrapnel. The sound of your own voice ricocheting back into your skull as Yelena tried to keep you conscious. A dull roar behind your eyes. Pressure blooming behind your ribs until your vision narrowed to flickering static and the sickly-sweet taste of copper.

Sixty-one days since you’d hit the ground and thought that this might be it. That you’d die before ever telling Bucky. Not just that you were pregnant, but that you’d known. That you’d kept it. Carried it. Chosen silence.

Recovery hadn’t been kind. It was violent in its own way. Slow, humiliating, full of bruises that bloomed days after the worst of it, as if your cells couldn’t keep up with the trauma. You tibia had shattered clean through, bad enough that they warned you the pins might leave nerve damage. The ligament in your shoulder had to be stapled back to bone. Your ribs cracked every time you so much as rolled over wrong. And still, beneath all of it, something impossibly small and undefeated kept hanging on.

You spent the first three weeks flat on your back with wires in your veins and compression cuffs hissing against your legs. You couldn’t sit up without the room pitching. Couldn’t look at your own body without flinching. The swelling in your leg made it hard to see where skin ended and pain began. Physical therapy came next, slow, ritualistic, and absolutely maddening. You learned how to walk again with a leg that didn’t want to bear your weight. Learned how to trust your body again when it had let you down.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the stillness.

It was waiting.

Every hour that passed without something going wrong felt like a miracle. Every flutter, every change in pressure, every pang of nausea sent lightning up your spine. You memorized your pulse. Learned how to breathe through the tightness. Tried not to spiral when the nurses adjusted the fetal monitor too slowly.

And Bucky didn’t leave. 

Not once. Not for rounds, not for food, not even when the doctors gave up on asking. He carved out a place beside your bed like it was his own personal foxhole—boots still on, dog tags twisted around one wrist like a tether, a half-eaten protein bar slowly fossilizing on the windowsill. He slept when your vitals stabilized and only then, slumped sideways in the chair with his arm stretched across the mattress like it was a tripwire. If anything had tried to take you, it would’ve had to go through him first.

You’d asked him once to maybe go home for the night. Just to sleep. Just to rest. You’d tried to phrase it like concern, not a plea. And he’d looked at you like you’d just asked him to leave you behind on a battlefield. His jaw had gone tight. He hadn’t answered.

You didn’t ask again.

The doctors stopped enforcing visiting hours after day three despite Bucky never following them in the first place. They knew a losing battle when they saw one. One of the surgeons muttered something about “liability” and “risk assessment” and then waved a hand like absolution. And after a week of watching Bucky drag his jacket over his lap and pass out upright in that cursed chair, John and Ava showed up with a cot they’d stolen from one of the lower floors. They didn’t ask for permission. Just wheeled it in under cover of night, Ava smuggling in a clean blanket under her coat while John sweet-talked the nurse on duty.

And for once, Bucky hadn’t argued.

He didn’t use it at first. Just stared at it like it was a trick. But eventually, somewhere around week two, he gave in. Lay down beside your bed in silence, metal arm tucked beneath his head, body curled on his side facing you like he couldn’t risk not seeing. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

He kept track of every single thing. How many steps it took to get from the bed to the sink. What time your meds were due. Which nurse was too rough with your IV. He packed a drawer full of electrolyte packs and nausea bands and ginger chews, refilled it when it ran low. He built a little fortress around your recovery and dared the world to breach it. You woke up once to find him reading the fetal development section of the Mayo Clinic handbook, his brow furrowed like he was decoding a bomb schematic.

And he touched you constantly. Not possessively, but reverently. Like he was making sure you were still real. His hand on your calf when you stretched. His palm cupped over your wrist when your oxygen dipped. The barest graze of metal fingers along your belly during the night, like he was afraid the baby might disappear if he didn’t keep them both grounded.

Even now, when the worst of it was technically behind you, he stayed close. Never looming. Never smothering. Just… there. A quiet presence, always just outside your peripheral vision. 

You were trying—really trying—not to let it make you weak. Not to slip into dependence. You weren’t fragile. You’d survived worse. But surviving wasn’t the same as healing. And healing meant you had to accept help. Which, to be honest, was never your strong suit. Still, you let him carry the things that hurt too much to hold. Let him kneel beside you when the pain gripped hard and fast, just so you had something steady to lean against. And he never flinched. Not once.

The day you were finally discharged, the air felt different. Brighter. Like it had cracked open into color again. No beeping monitors. No antiseptic sting in your nose. No hospital gown sticking to your back. Just you, dressed in soft clothes that didn’t feel like armor, your crutches under one arm, and Bucky’s hand firm on the small of your back as he walked beside you.

They didn’t send you home. Not all the way. You and Bucky had your own place. But this wasn’t that. This was the Tower. Your floor. A team necessity, they said. Close monitoring. Short travel time for follow-ups. But you knew what it really was: the closest thing to freedom the doctors would allow for the time being, and the only thing that let Bucky sleep at night.

The elevator ride up was almost sacred. Neither of you spoke. The soft hiss of the doors. The low hum of the lift. The shuffle of your weight shifting as you leaned too hard on your good leg. Bucky’s breathing, slow and deliberate beside you, like he was counting every second between here and the finish line.

You’d thought you’d go straight to the couch. Sink down. Sleep. Let your bones settle into something that wasn’t plastic or sterile or mechanical. Something that might remember comfort.

Instead, the moment the door opened—

“SURPRISE!”

You nearly went down again.

Not from pain this time. From shock.

Your body tensed before you could stop it, heart jumping into your throat, and your hands gripped the crutches too hard. The noise hit you first—loud, jarring, echoing down the hallway like gunfire. People clapping, someone cheering too loud. You blinked, stunned, and your vision went white again for half a second, panic-flash, pain memory. 

But you didn’t fall, because Bucky was already there, arm locking gently around your waist like he’d been waiting for it, like his body knew yours better than muscle memory ever could. You sagged into him with a strangled breath, eyes wide, chest heaving.

The room was a goddamn disaster.

Not in the catastrophic, world-ending way you'd gotten used to, but in the glittery, half-hearted chaos of people who meant well and had absolutely no business wielding craft supplies.

Streamers drooped from the ceiling like wounded bats, sagging under their own weight. Someone had clearly gone rogue with tape, probably John, if the duct-taped corners and crooked lines were anything to go by. A few were knotted in the light fixtures. One end trailed down the side of the TV, obscuring the remote sensor with a deflated puff of metallic purple.

Balloons littered the space like confetti after a storm. One floated lazily by, a silvery orb emblazoned with HAPPY RETIREMENT—the word RE aggressively scribbled out in thick Sharpie strokes, like someone had started to give up halfway through and then decided to lean in. Another was aggressively pink, with IT’S A GIRL? scrawled in sharp, trembling font, the question mark oversized and tilted.

Your eyes caught on a banner.

Far wall. Hung at a steep diagonal, taped within an inch of its life, like no one trusted it to stay put. The handwriting changed halfway through, first bold block letters, then loopy cursive, then all-caps at the end. CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SURVIVAL + BABY. The word baby had been outlined in glitter. Red glitter. Like blood. Or someone had run out of regular craft supplies and improvised.

There was a cake on the coffee table. Chocolate, judging by the rich, almost-too-sweet scent filling the air, thick enough to cut through the lingering echo of antiseptic that still lived behind your sinuses. The frosting had been roughly smoothed, fingerprints visible in some of the swirls, and tiny plastic dinosaurs stood like sentinels across the top, sunk haphazardly into the icing. One wore a party hat made of a folded gum wrapper. Another had sprinkles stuck to its snout like it’d been face-first in the cake before being posed.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Yelena leaned against the counter, arms crossed like she hadn’t just detonated your nervous system. The sling was gone now, her shoulder bare except for the collar of her tank top, the angry stitches that had once laced her bicep now faded into raised, ruddy scars. She looked better. Less breakable. Still bruised around the edges but standing easy, her weight shifted to one hip like she didn’t have a care in the world. 

“Ha! You should see your face,” she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, sharp with satisfaction and something almost fond underneath.

“Oh my god,” you said, breath catching. Your eyes couldn’t stop scanning the room. “Is this real?”

It didn’t feel real. Your brain was still trying to catch up, still lagging behind your body like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you’d made it, that you were alive, upright, and standing in the middle of something that looked suspiciously like joy.

“It better be,” Alexei called from across the room, sprawled across the couch like a bear in hibernation, already forking an offensive amount of cake into his mouth.

You blinked again. Ava leaned against the dining table, phone in one hand, a Solo cup in the other, her boot resting on the edge of a toppled party hat like she’d claimed it in a fight. 

“You popped ten,” she said without glancing up.

“They were defective,” Alexei replied, mouth full, utterly unapologetic.

John was suddenly there too, stepping in from the hallway like he’d been waiting for the exact right moment, his hand landing on your shoulder so gently it almost didn’t register. “Welcome back to the land of the ambulatory,” he said, softer than you expected, like maybe he didn’t trust his voice to do more.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried to laugh. Maybe you even did laugh, but it got strangled somewhere in your throat. Your chest started to tighten, then kept tightening, like something invisible had wound a rope around your ribs and was slowly, slowly pulling.

You blinked, hard. It didn’t help.

That stupid-ass banner swam in your vision again—CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SURVIVAL + BABY—and something in you just… gave out.

Not all at once.

First, it was just your throat getting hot. Your face prickling. That subtle shift from I’m fine to something’s not right, and your brain trying to shove it back down like you could muscle through it.

Then came the ache behind your eyes.

Then your jaw clenched, hard enough to make your teeth hurt.

Then—fuck. Fuck.

You felt your face twist without your permission. You gasped for a breath and it hitched mid-way, came out sharp and wet.

The tears were already coming before you could stop them.

You barely had time to register it before Bucky’s hands found your elbows.

“Hey—hey. You alright?” Bucky’s voice was there instantly, soft but alert. “Look at me, baby. You okay?”

You shook your head, or tried to. It came out more like a twitch. Your throat squeezed again, another sob clawing its way out before you could bite it down.

“Shit, are you crying?” Yelena’s voice came from somewhere far off, clipped with concern.

“Oh god,” Ava murmured. “Should we leave?”

Everyone froze.

You could feel it in the air, the tension. The hesitation. Chairs scraping softly. Footsteps faltering. No one sure if they should come closer or back away.

Except Bucky.

He was steady. Still.

One hand stayed at your elbow, the other sliding to your back, his palm warm even through the fabric of your shirt. You leaned into it instinctively, breath stuttering, trying and failing to get your body under control. You felt wrecked, suddenly. Unglued.

And not in pain. Not physically.

But like your skin didn’t quite fit anymore. Like you were vibrating out of yourself. Like you’d been holding your breath for two months and your body had finally remembered how to exhale and the force of it was shattering.

“No—no, wait,” you gasped, words tripping over each other as you half-laughed, half-sobbed, your hands flailing up like that could somehow press it all back in. “Don’t leave. Please don’t—I’m not—I just—fuck, I love it. I love all of it. I’m just—God, I’m so hormonal or something—”

The shift was immediate. You could feel the tension melt out of the room like someone had opened a valve.

“Oh thank god,” Ava whispered.

“Jesus,” John muttered behind you, dragging a hand down his face.

Yelena was the first to move, always the first after Bucky, stepping in with a crumpled napkin and dabbing at your cheek with a gentleness that almost made it worse. “Could’ve warned us, mama,” she said, though her voice had softened. “Thought we broke you.”

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice raw and hoarse. “I’m okay. I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t mean to freak everyone out.”

You wiped at your face with the heels of your hands, even though it did absolutely nothing to stop the tears. The laugh that bubbled up was breathless and wrecked, and it tore through you like you were made of paper.

Alexei cleared his throat like he was preparing to deliver a eulogy. “Ah. Pregnant women. So emotional. Like swans in war time.”

There was a beat of silence. Then John elbowed him. Hard.

You laughed again, this time with your whole chest. Ugly and hiccupped and soaked in snot and saltwater, but real. You bent forward a little, still gripping Bucky’s hand like it was the only solid thing in the room, and pressed your other palm to your face.

And that was when you realized just how much tension you’d been living in. How your shoulders had never really dropped, even after discharge. How your lungs still tried to ration oxygen like survival was on a timer. Like you might blink and wake up alone again. Bleeding again.

But you weren’t.

You were here. In your quarters, albeit temporary. On your feet. In a room full of dangerous, ridiculous, stubborn people who gave a shit. Who made cake. Who put tiny party hats on plastic dinosaurs.

Bucky squeezed your hand once, firm and steady.

You squeezed back, twice.

“I’m okay,” you whispered again.

A soft shuffle sounded to your right, followed by the quiet scuff of boots—too careful to be casual, too deliberate to be anyone but someone who didn’t quite know how to interrupt. You glanced up through your lashes, still blinking away the last of the tears.

Bob.

He loomed there like he didn’t mean to be looming at all, holding out a plastic cup filled with something gold and cold. His grip was gentle. Hesitant. Like he’d been coached on exactly how to hand it to you and was terrified of getting it wrong.

“Apple juice,” he said, voice pitched low and uncertain. “Not from concentrate. And non-alcoholic.” A beat passed. Then: “Bucky threatened me.”

A sound scraped up from your throat, half-snort, half-sob, and caught hard on the edges. “Of course he did.”

Bob nodded solemnly, leaning in like he was about to share state secrets. “He also threw out half the fridge. Said he couldn’t take any chances with—” he lifted his hands, miming air quotes, “‘poison.’ The yogurt’s gone. So’s the mustard.”

Behind you, you could practically feel Bucky’s glare stare the back of your skull.

“Hydrogenated oils,” he muttered under his breath like a man reading a list of war crimes.

You took the juice from Bob with both hands, careful and slow, your fingers still trembling faintly with the aftershocks. The cup was cold. Real. Tangible in a way your body still wasn’t. You glanced up at Bucky.

He hadn’t moved. Still hovering within reach, close but not crowding anymore, like a tether that refused to snap. He looked calmer now that the sobs had stopped, but you could still see it in him, humming beneath the surface: the tension, the vigilance, the raw instinct to intervene. Always alert. Always tuned to you.

“I’m really okay,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. Then, even lower, as if the words themselves could break under the weight of them: “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, impossibly, you believed him.

You took a sip of the juice. Crisp. Tart. The sweetness bloomed across your tongue and grounded you fast, snapping the fog in your brain like a cable pulled taut. You exhaled shakily, chest hitching as Bob gave your arm a single awkward pat, then peeled off to find cake like his job was done.

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the party moved on.

Not in a callous way, but in the way teams like yours always had: forward momentum as coping mechanism. You weren’t ready to be touched or questioned, not really, and they knew it without asking. So they moved around you instead, a choreography of casual care, plates swapped out, snacks replenished, John intercepting Alexei mid-toast when his speech about survival veered into a deeply confusing metaphor about Soviet winter training and womb strength.

It was chaos.

It was perfect.

You tried to help once. Reached for a bowl of popcorn. Your fingers barely brushed the rim before a shadow passed behind you, a heat at your back that was all too familiar.

“Uh-uh.”

Bucky’s voice landed low in your ear. His hand closed over yours, gently but with zero room for debate. He plucked the bowl away like you were handing him a live grenade. “Sit your ass down.”

You huffed. “I’m not useless.”

“Never said you were.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—brief, warm, unbearably soft—and guided you back toward the armchair like you were something breakable. Like he still saw the bruises beneath the surface, even when you pretended they were gone.

“I could’ve carried the popcorn,” you mumbled.

He set the bowl down in your lap anyway. “And you did. Now sit.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t move again.

He crouched in front of you, arms resting on his knees, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it all over again. “Any pain?”

“Only when I laugh too hard.”

Bucky huffed, a slight smile tugging at his face. “So we’ll keep Alexei quiet.”

You snorted. A little too hard. Winced. He caught the twitch in your expression and didn’t call you on it, just let it settle between you.

Your hand drifted to the edge of his sleeve, fingers brushing the worn fabric. “You doing okay?”

He blinked, almost like he hadn’t expected the question. “Me?”

You nodded. “It’s been a lot.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound more muscle memory than breath. One hand came up to your knee, thumb tracing absent circles against the cotton of your leggings. “It’s you who’s been through hell, sweetheart. Not me.”

You didn’t correct him.

Because you both knew the truth.

He had been through it too, just in the long, drawn-out way. In the days and nights where your room stank of antiseptic and machines screamed your vitals while your body fought like hell to hold onto life. In the waiting. In the helplessness. In every second where your breath had gone too quiet and his pulse had raced in panic. In the blood that had been on his hands when he hadn’t even been the one to bleed.

But he didn’t say any of that. Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there at your feet, a silent constant, until someone cranked the music too loud and Bob was convinced to sing karaoke using a salt shaker as a microphone.

You were still laughing when Yelena emerged from behind the cluttered dining table, tissue paper rustling like a warning. Her grin was already wicked, mischief and pride stitched into every step. She dragged a crumpled black gift bag across the counter with the same fanfare someone might use to unveil a cursed artifact.

“It’s not much,” she said. “Just… stupid team shit.”

You blinked at the bag. The tissue paper looked mauled, red and silver and mangled to hell, like Alexei had fought it to the death and lost.

You glanced at Bucky, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, carefully, you reached inside.

Your fingers brushed cotton. Soft. Small.

You pulled it out slowly, breath catching halfway through.

A onesie.

Pitch black. Newborn sized. The sleeves barely bigger than your palm.

Across the front, stenciled in bold, blocky white letters:

THUNDERBABY.

You stared at it for a beat, your mouth falling open.

It was absurd. Ridiculous. Completely over the top.

The onesie’s bold stencil lettering looked like someone had typed “military chic” into a baby shower Pinterest board and clicked print before thinking twice. The cotton was soft, clearly new, the tag still creased from being rushed out of packaging.

And it was perfect.

A sharp laugh broke out of your chest before you could stop it—sudden, breathless, too full of feeling to be graceful. It bounced off the kitchen tiles, rang loud against the cabinets, startled Bob enough to make his head pop up from behind the fridge like a meerkat on high alert. But the laugh twisted mid-breath, snagged somewhere deep, and turned sideways.

Your throat closed.

The burn behind your eyes came fast.

You pressed the onesie to your chest, clutching it with both hands like it might steady you. The fabric was so small. So impossibly small. It hit all at once, the absurd name across the front, the idea of your baby wearing something that had John Walker’s terrible sense of humor stitched into the seams, the fact that they’d thought to do this at all.

That they’d thought of you.

That they’d seen you. Known. Given a damn.

You didn’t sob. It wasn’t loud or dramatic like before. Just a quiet, wrecking ache that rolled over your ribcage like a wave and left your eyes glassy, your breath caught halfway between laughter and something far too big to name.

Bucky found yours without hesitation, like he always did. His palm was rough, warm, grounding. He didn’t say a word. Just curled his fingers through yours and anchored you there.

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, once. Twice. Slow and steady like he could map your heartbeat through skin and know it was still his to protect.

You leaned into him without thinking, your shoulder pressing to his, the onesie still clenched tight in your lap. He didn’t move away. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

“You like it?” Yelena’s voice cut gently into the quiet. Not smug. Not teasing this time. Just soft. Hopeful.

You nodded, voice catching. “It’s perfect.”

Behind the couch, John made a strangled noise that was somewhere between a snort and a half-swallowed chuckle. “I told you it should’ve had night-vision goggles on it.”

“Oh my god,” Ava muttered, voice flat with practiced tolerance.

“Tiny ones,” John added, undeterred. “For tactical situations.”

Yelena didn’t even spare him a glance. She bumped your shoulder with hers and said, “I had to beg the vendor to overnight it. Told him it was for an emergency tactical op baby situation.”

That pulled another laugh from you—wet, shaky, a little hoarse, but real.

You looked down again at the onesie, fingers smoothing over the bold white letters. It still felt a little unreal. But not in the foggy, detached way it had before.

No. This felt different.

For the first time since waking up in that medbay with your body broken and your mind drowning in what-if’s, it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.

It felt like maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to want this.

This messy, ridiculous, duct-taped-together chaos of a team. This baby. This life.

And Bucky’s hand still held tight to yours, his grip unwavering. Like he wasn’t going anywhere. Like there wasn’t a force on earth strong enough to pull him loose.

You weren’t sure you could’ve pried him off even if you tried.

Not that you ever would.

You still remembered the moment Bucky told Valentina he was stepping back from the field.

He hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t negotiated or framed it like a compromise. There was no pacing. No restless silence. No edge-of-brooding self-doubt. He didn’t chew his cheek or weigh the risks out loud. He just said it. Quiet and even and absolute. The kind of quiet that made people stop talking.

“I’ll take the ops desk,” he said. “And I’m not leaving the Tower again. Not while she’s pregnant.”

Val had opened her mouth—probably to mock him, snarl something about duty or loyalty or pulling his clearance—but he didn’t give her the chance. He turned and walked away, back straight, steps even. Never looked back.

It should’ve been harder. The transition. You’d expected it to be. And in some ways, it was.

The field clung to him. It lived in his shoulders, coiled tight in his spine like he hadn’t figured out how to stop expecting gunfire around every corner. Even when his badge started reading Senior Liaison, even when his hands were on a comm panel instead of a rifle, Bucky still moved like a man who hadn’t learned how to stand down.

But then he’d hear your footsteps outside his office.

Just a shift of your weight, a soft scuff of your heel on the polished floor, the gentle cadence of your breathing with one hand cradling your swollen belly, and he’d melt.

You’d watch it happen in real time. His whole body softened. The tension bled from his shoulders. He’d drop whatever he was holding and rise immediately, meeting you halfway down the corridor like you might vanish if he let you go too long unseen.

You’d never seen him like that before.

Not even after the mission where he thought you’d died. Not even the day you told him you were pregnant.

This was different. It wasn’t just fear, it was something deeper, more instinctual. It lived behind his eyes, crept into the lines of his jaw every time you winced from the weight of your belly, every time your breath hitched or you forgot to eat or someone startled you with too loud a laugh.

And hovering didn’t even begin to cover it.

There was a solid month where you caught him on the Tower’s med floor, interviewing pediatric trauma nurses like he was building a task force. He spent hours Googling prenatal CPR protocols. He downloaded emergency birth apps on three different burner phones. He made a spreadsheet. A spreadsheet. For vitamins.

You weren’t allowed to take the stairs after week twenty. Not once. As if gravity itself had suddenly become hostile.

If you so much as tilted toward a cabinet shelf, he was already at your side—shadow-quick, impossibly steady, murmuring, “I’ve got it, sweetheart. Sit down.”

Once, you teased him. Something light. Something sitcom-worthy. You made a crack about helicopter dads and crib bumpers and babyproofing a hallway. He didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you. Really looked at you. Eyes serious. Steady.

“I used to be a weapon,” he said. “I can’t undo that. But I can control what comes near you now.”

And that was it. End of discussion.

So you let him be scared. You let him take the fear and turn it into something solid, something done. You let him carry your water bottle like it was a bomb about to go off. You let him turn down half the lighting in the Tower because the flickering fluorescents gave you migraines. You let him sleep sitting up for three straight weeks because lying down made you nauseous and he didn’t want you waking up alone. You let him research and talk through baby gates in a hypothetical house you didn’t even live in yet, because just in case.

Because when Bucky Barnes loved something, he loved it like a soldier. With his whole body. With his teeth and his spine and the parts of himself that once tore through cities without mercy. That fire didn’t die when he turned soft.

He just aimed it differently.

And he showed up.

To every appointment.

Every single one. Even the ones you waved off as routine. Even the ones you rescheduled three times because of backup in the parking garage. Even the one that was just a quick form signed for a prenatal massage. He was there. On time. Usually early. Holding your coat like it was his only job. Memorizing the parking level like it was a mission grid.

He sat beside you in every waiting room, his knee bouncing under one palm, his metal hand loosely wrapped around yours like he could will the world quiet just by being present enough.

And when they called your name?

He stood. Always.

He asked more questions than you did. Half the time, you were just trying to remember what snacks you still liked. He was already ten tabs deep in medical journals.

What were the signs of placental abruption? Could it happen without warning? What were the safest sleeping positions during the third trimester? Was the fetal heart rate slightly elevated at your last visit—and was that a concern? What kind of magnesium dosage was too high?

During your first intake appointment, the OB actually stopped mid-sentence. Her eyebrows climbed a full inch.

“Are you in medicine?” she asked, pen pausing on the clipboard.

Bucky didn’t blink.

“No,” he said. Deadpan.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

The doctor blinked. Paused. Then nodded slowly like she was deciding whether or not to question it further.

He had nightmares a few times during those nine months.

More than a few.

You never asked how many. You already knew he wouldn’t give you the real number.

Sometimes you’d wake to the sound of the bathroom fan running—soft, constant, a hum trying too hard to be innocuous. You’d find him curled on the tile floor, bare feet braced against the cold, elbows on his knees, metal hand cradling his forehead like it could hold the weight of whatever he was still seeing behind his eyes.

Other nights, it was pacing. Back and forth, barefoot in the hallway, dog tags swinging low in one hand like they might tether him back to the now if he just held on tightly enough. Sometimes you’d hear him muttering under his breath, trying to piece together a memory that wasn’t real. Trying to rewrite the ending before it devoured him.

They weren’t always about you anymore.

Sometimes, they were about the baby.

About tiny shoes lying crumpled and blood-soaked on a street he couldn’t name. About an empty crib across a gulf he couldn’t cross fast enough. About a scream that echoed long after he woke, still ringing in his ears even as his throat burned from yelling back.

About his hands not catching. Not saving. Failing.

You never tried to talk him out of the fear. You just found him every time, half-asleep and unsteady yourself, the weight of your belly making movement awkward. But you went anyway. Sat beside him on the cool tile or leaned against the wall at his side, your knee pressed to his, your hand sliding into his with quiet insistence.

You didn’t try to fix it. Just whispered steady truths, even through the hitch in your own breath.

You’re not alone. You don’t have to be perfect. You are already everything this child could ever need, because you never stop trying.

He listened. Most of the time, he believed you.

But he was still Bucky. Still the man who’d survived by never letting his guard drop. He didn’t know how to rest when it came to protecting something he loved. Not completely. Not yet.

So he channeled it.

The nursery became a mission. A full-scale, classified operation.

You found him one evening in the Tower’s common room, hunched over the coffee table with a schematic of HVAC systems spread out like a battle map, a measuring tape looped across his shoulder like a combat sling. There were three different notebooks open beside him and a laser level clamped to the back of a kitchen chair.

When you asked—tentatively—what exactly he was doing, he simply said, “Checking airflow safety metrics for crib placement.”

Apparently, he’d consulted John for help picking a paint color. Claimed John seemed like “a guy who’s spent time around boring domestic shit.” That conversation turned into a two-hour debate about whether beige promoted calming baby vibes or if navy was more tactical and timeless.

They compromised, under duress, on sage green. Yelena had stormed into the room mid-argument, called both of them idiots, and texted you a Pinterest board titled Nurseries That Don’t Suck. It had a surprisingly solid aesthetic.

Yelena also offered to babysit.

The first time, she was still breathing heavily from sparring with Alexei, hair plastered to her temple and one knuckle split open, saying she’d “punch any baby fear in the face.”

The second time, she was quieter. Sat beside the half-assembled stroller on the living room floor and muttered that she’d go get certified in infant CPR if you wanted. Added something under her breath about how American training is always shit anyway.

Ava was, unsurprisingly, more practical.

She sent a spreadsheet. Three, actually.

One with registry suggestions categorized by safety ratings. One tracking gear by function, size, and transportability. And one, ominously titled, EMERGENCY INFANT KITS. Inside it was a fully color-coded chart detailing tactical go-bags, and emergency exits.

Bob, sweet Bob, never made a fuss about it.

But the gifts started showing up anyway. Quietly. Without fanfare. A woven basket of baby booties left just outside your door one morning, none of them hand-knit by him, clearly, but chosen with care. A stack of parenting books with sticky notes marking sections he’d vetted, some with underlines, one flagged skip chapter 6, chapter 7 is better. And once, inexplicably, a bottle of the exact brand of stretch mark cream you’d mentioned once during a team debrief.

You never figured out how he got it. You didn’t ask.

Alexei, of course, took a more… declarative approach.

He marched in one afternoon, arms crossed over his chest like he was preparing to be knighted. “I have seen death,” he intoned gravely. “I have seen birth. I have wrestled a bear. I will be the protector of this tiny warrior!”

No one argued. He said it with such conviction that even Bucky, stone-faced and skeptical, just blinked at him and nodded once.

John, however, did elbow him in the ribs and mutter, “Maybe let’s get through one diaper change before we start bestowing titles.”

Still, no one took the godfather badge away from Alexei.

Not even Bucky.

But no matter the chaos—no matter the cracked jokes, the unsolicited opinions, or the never-ending shipments of baby wipes in bulk—Bucky was the constant.

The anchor.

The steady presence who never flinched, even when everything else cracked at the seams.

He was the one who held your hair back through the morning sickness, rubbed your lower back through the bone-deep fatigue, and massaged your swollen ankles with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. He kissed your temple when you doubted yourself. Brushed your tears away when you spiraled. Touched your stomach like it was something holy.

Whispered to it at night like she was already listening.

And maybe… maybe she was.

Because by the time you felt that first real kick—sharp, certain, impossible to ignore—Bucky was already there.

He was always there.

Kneeling in front of you, both hands splayed across your belly, eyes wide with something too big to name. Like the whole sky had split open and poured straight into his chest. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just let his forehead rest against your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breath catching on the weight of it.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m your dad. And I love you already.”

The baby came in early spring.

A girl. Loud and furious. All lungs and fists and the softest downy dark hair you’d ever seen.

She wailed the moment the cold air hit her, but Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He just stared, stunned silent as they laid her against your chest. His metal hand hovered inches above her back, trembling, like he wasn’t sure if touching her would make her vanish. Like maybe he’d break her just by getting too close.

You reached up—shaky, exhausted—and wrapped your fingers around his.

Guided his hand gently down, resting it against the tiny curve of her spine.

And that was the moment he broke.

Not loudly. Not with sobs or gasping breaths.

Just a quiet shattering.

Tears sliding, unchecked, down his cheeks as he leaned down and pressed his face into your hair. His voice was a wreck, low and raw as he whispered thank you over and over again like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say out loud.

The Tower didn’t last long after that.

You’d both known it wouldn’t.

Even before the due date. Before the sleepless nights. Before the lullabies and growth charts and sleepy 3 a.m. feedings when the world narrowed down to nothing but her. You wanted something quieter. Softer. A place that didn’t smell like reinforced steel and hand sanitizer. A place that couldn’t be burned down around you.

And somehow in between team rotations and budget scraps and whispered promises made in the middle of briefings, Bucky found it.

A cottage.

Small, tucked between thick evergreens near a lake you couldn’t pronounce, where the sky always looked just a little bigger. The porch creaked. The chimney leaned. There was no cell service unless you stood on a specific mossy rock out back. Wild thyme and honeysuckle climbed the windowsills like they’d been waiting for you.

When he handed you the keys, he didn’t say much. Just:

“This okay?”

Your throat had gone tight. Because it wasn’t okay. Not even close.

It was perfect.

And now the cottage felt broken in. Familiar. Like it had always known you were coming.

The nursery smelled like lavender and laundry soap. The rocking chair clicked softly if you leaned too far back. The floorboards moaned every time someone stepped too hard, and the kitchen faucet always dripped when it rained. But none of that mattered.

Because Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off her for more than ten minutes since the day you brought her home.

She was four months old now. Teething. Vocal. Stubborn as hell.

You’d caught her chewing on his dog tags that morning, smacking them against her gums with the solemn determination of a tiny war general.

Bucky looked completely horrified.

And proud.

“Sweetheart,” he’d whispered, lifting her gently off his chest with practiced ease. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

She giggled. Loud. Right into his neck.

You swore you saw his entire spine melt on the spot.

Some nights, when the house finally quieted—when dishes were done and lullabies had faded and the sky outside had gone inky and wide—he would hold you like the world might try to take you both if he let go.

One arm around your waist. The other cradling your hand, always, thumb brushing lazy circles.

Sometimes he’d press his lips to your shoulder and just breathe there, like he still didn’t quite believe this was real. Like maybe it would vanish if he blinked too long.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” he’d murmur into your skin.

“She’s got your eyes,” you’d whisper back.

And then—after a beat, long and heavy and breakable—he’d ask, in that soft, careful voice he only ever used when the lights were off:

“Do you think she’ll be proud of me someday?”

It undid you every time.

You’d turn to face him, fingers catching gently on his jaw, pulling him in like gravity. And you’d say it with everything in you. No hesitation. No doubt.

“She already is.”

Because how could she not be?

Bucky Barnes had walked through hell and clawed his way back with his heart intact. He’d unlearned everything Hydra tried to build him from. He’d fought for softness without forgetting how to be steel. He’d made a promise in a blood-soaked medbay and never once faltered.

And now, he was here.

You watched him from the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, breath caught behind your ribs.

He sat in the nursery’s dim glow, her tiny body curled against his chest. One of her fists gripped his finger like she’d decided it belonged to her now. He was swaying gently, humming something low beneath his breath, maybe a lullaby. Maybe just her name.

His hair was pulled back, messy. His sweatshirt had a dried stain on the collar that might’ve been from formula or spit-up or both. And he looked, God, he looked wrecked.

Wrecked by love.

Completely undone by it.

He was a father.

And not just that.

He was hers.

And you were his.

And somehow—against every odd, against every scar, every nightmare, every time you both thought you wouldn’t make it—this wasn’t the end of the story.

This was the beginning of everything.

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[mannien]

Aftershock | Bucky Barnes x Reader Part 1 of 2

Summary: You find out you’re pregnant days before a mission and decide not to tell Bucky. When everything goes wrong in the field, he’s left putting together the pieces.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic injury, mild body horror (?), medical trauma, hospitalization, pregnancy, accidental(ish) pregnancy, conversations of potential pregnancy loss, miscommunication / lack of communication, lots of angst but promise happy ending, bucky barnes being so painfully in love it hurts

Word Count: 10.8k

Author’s Note: this was supposed to be a one-shot but then my brain said what about no?? anyway here we are. part 2 is already pretty much finished and will be coming TOMORROW! also i don’t want kids and have zero maternal inclinations irl so this was a weirdly intimate thing to write and i hope it feels respectful + emotionally grounded. bucky barnes is the love of my life and i truly do not know why i keep putting him through hell but i won’t stop now. enjoy <3

The detonation hit before the second sweep.

Concrete teeth split from the floor, chewing through steel and glass as the ceiling groaned overhead and then collapsed. You barely cleared the corridor in time. Something grazed your cheek—shrapnel or bone, hard to tell anymore—and heat bloomed across your shoulder where the blast caught you.

You hit the ground hard. There was dirt in your mouth. Fire down your spine.

The outpost had been a decommissioned Soviet weapons vault, long gutted by time and rain just outside of Kozelsk. But that intel was two weeks old, and it sure as hell didn’t account for the tripwire mines rigged beneath the floor tiles or the new signature explosives packed into the shell of the forward lab.

You spit blood and pushed onto your elbows.

Your comm buzzed once, then cracked to life in your ear.

“Detka, tell me you’re not dead,” Yelena snapped, her voice patchy through static but sharp as ever. “I swear to god if you are dead, I am not hauling your body out of here. I’ll leave you for the fucking vultures.”

You could’ve cried at the sound of her voice.

“Still breathing,” you coughed. “Mostly.”

“Good. Because I am three corridors west of wherever that boom came from and it smells like burning piss in here. You see any of those freelancers yet?”

“No visuals,” you groaned. “But I’ve got bodies. Clean kills. Their throats are open but there’s no blood on the floor. No drag marks either.”

Yelena swore under her breath. “That’s not freelancers. That’s extraction protocol. Someone’s clearing the site.”

You already knew. You’d seen enough black ops sanitizations to recognize the signs: no witnesses, no trace. If Valentina had found this place and thought there was something worth salvaging, so had someone else. And someone faster. This wasn’t a recon mission anymore.

This was a cleanup.

And you were on the wrong side of the mop.

And this time, there was more to lose than just intel. More than reputation. Your hand brushed low across your abdomen, barely grazing the fabric there like it might burn you, like maybe ignoring it long enough would make it untrue. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. 

You hadn’t even told him yet.

Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From panic. Real and hot and rising up the back of your throat like bile.

A sound echoed down the hall. Boots scraping stone, deliberate and unhurried. You didn’t breathe. Not even when your lungs screamed. You counted the steps. Four sets. Heavy.

“Yelena,” you whispered into your comms. “One o’clock. Not ours.”

Another pause.

“Copy. Backtracking to your location. ETA two minutes. Do not engage.”

Too late.

The boots stopped, pivoted.

You backed into the nearest alcove, just wide enough for shadow to fold around you and let your pulse slow in your throat. Your weapon was warm in your grip. One mag loaded. One spare. Not enough for four if they got close.

Especially not like this.

You took a breath. Then another.

The first one rounded the corner, rifle up. Big. Bulked out in matte armor, but his line of sight was narrow. Tunnel vision.

You waited until he passed you fully, until you could hear the click of his comm mic as he keyed it.

Your elbow slammed into the back of his skull with enough force to make his knees buckle. You twisted, dropped low, and swept his legs as he toppled, dragging him sideways to muffle the sound of his body hitting the ground. 

You shoved your knife up under his chin. The blade punched through soft tissue with a wet snap. His body thrashed once, then went still.

The second came running at the subtle noise, catching a glimpse of your crouched silhouette too late. He fired once, the shot ricocheting just inches above your head. You surged forward, used your momentum to jam your shoulder into his gut and drove him into the wall.

Your ribs lit up from the impact, but you gritted your teeth and held.

He swung, catching your cheekbone with the butt of his rifle. The blow made your ears ring. You ducked under his next swing, grabbed the arm of his jacket, and bit hard.

He screamed.

You shoved your thumb into his eye socket before he recovered, using the distraction to snatch his sidearm, flip it in your palm, and shoot him point-blank in the head. Twice, for good measure.

He dropped, still twitching.

You stumbled back, hand instinctively pressed low and flat to your stomach again. You breathed through the sharp pang in your side and steadied your stance again.

There were still two more.

You sprinted toward the third as soon as you saw movement, zig-zagging low as bullets peppered the wall behind you. Sparks flew from the conduit lines as a round hit something vital. Smoke curled in your lungs. The air stung with ozone and copper.

You dove into him feet-first—heel to knee, your full body weight behind the strike. He crumpled with a yell, and you rolled, landed hard on your side, and caught his fallen knife.

But he recovered faster than you anticipated, before you were even on your knees again.

He grinned.

“Не двигайся (Don’t move),” he said, low and rough, the Russian curling sharp off his tongue like he’d said it a thousand times before. Like he had the upper hand. Like you were done.

You hurled the knife, despite your eyesight blurring slightly.

It missed. Barely.

But it made him flinch.

You moved with everything you had left—ducked under his swing, used your shoulder to ram his center of gravity off-balance, and jammed your boot between his legs with such force he let out a choke. 

He went down swinging. Caught your bicep with a blade. Hot pain tore across your arm. You didn’t stop. You grabbed the closest thing, a broken pipe that was jagged at one end, and drove it into his neck with a scream.

His blood hit your face in a hot arc.

You staggered back, wild-eyed, panting, blood soaking through your clothes. Smoke still curled from the wrecked conduit. A siren blared somewhere far away.

You fired your last two rounds at the fourth just as he rounded the corner, one round to the knee. He dropped hard, snarling. You aimed for the killshot, but it veered, hitting his shoulder as he went for his weapon. He still managed to return fire.

Fuck.

The wall just beside your head cracked.

You bolted through the next doorway, gun hot in your palm, shoulder still screaming where the blast had torn through muscle. There was blood on your sleeve now, more than before, but your legs still worked. That was enough.

You ducked through a lab corridor, ruined wires dangling from the ceiling like seaweed. A flickering red light pulsed from an old generator in the corner, painting everything in bursts of blood.

It would be enough. You’d make it back. You’d tell him. The right way. With time to breathe. With his hand in yours—No. Not now. Don't think. Focus.

One step—two—and then something gave beneath your boot.

Click.

Then snap.

Pain tore up your leg like lightning through steel, white-hot and blinding, so sudden it didn’t even feel real. Your body flinched before your mind caught up, before you could even look down, before you understood. A crunch. A grind. The jagged burn of something metal sinking deep.

Your vision stuttered.

You hit the ground hard, knees buckling like wet paper, concrete tearing through your palms, breath punching out of your lungs in a single wrecked gasp.

A pressure trap.

You hadn’t seen it—disguised beneath fallen rubble, metal jaws wired to catch from shin to thigh height. It didn’t go off fully. Didn’t explode. But the clamp hit with enough force to break bone.

A scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. The world reeled. You scrambled backward on your elbows, dragging your leg free, gasping as the pain ripped up your side. You couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t focus.

Your hand pressed instinctively to the flat of your abdomen. You hadn’t meant to do it again but—

The comm crackled again.

“Where are you—”

“I’m hit,” you choked. “West wing. Level 2. Trap rigged to the door. I didn’t see it.”

“Stay awake,” Yelena said, sharper now. “I am coming. You don’t move. You hear me? You don’t fucking move.”

But you had to.

Because the sound of boots had returned. The one you shot. Limping, but closer. A soft shuffle, like he was dragging a blade across the tile for your benefit.

Taunting.

You forced yourself up onto one knee, teeth bared. The pain was beyond language now, beyond screaming. Your hand reached for your sidearm. Gone. You must’ve dropped it when you fell.

Your fingers brushed the hilt of your boot knife instead.

The man stepped into view, grinning through blood.

“Милая (Cute),” he said.

Then lunged.

You didn’t have time to think, you just swung.

Your blade hit home right under his ribs. He hissed, dropped low, and drove his elbow into your throat. The air vanished from your lungs. Your head cracked back against the wall. He grabbed for the knife, twisted it out, and slammed it back toward you—

You shoved it down. It missed your stomach by an inch. Sank deep into your thigh instead.

You screamed again, ugly this time. Wordless.

He raised the blade again.

A single gunshot split the air.

He jerked. Stumbled. Collapsed. Blood spilled from the back of his skull like syrup.

Yelena stepped into view behind him, smoke still curling from the barrel of her sidearm.

She didn’t say anything. Just dropped to her knees beside you just as you did, eyes scanning the ruin of your leg and your expression like she was trying to decide which was worse.

You stared up at the broken ceiling above, vision narrowing at the edges. Your lips moved, but nothing came out.

Yelena pressed her hands to one of the puncture wounds. “Hey, hey, hey! Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out. I don’t have time to carry your dramatic ass out of here—”

You tried to laugh, but it came out broken. Just a dry exhale through cracked lips. Your hands had gone numb—pressure loss, you were sure—but Yelena’s were firm, steady, digging into the torn flesh above your knee with trained precision.

“There’s too much blood, to many entry wounds,” she muttered. “Shit, shit—okay. It’s not arterial. Maybe not. Don’t move. Just don’t move—”

You weren’t planning on it.

The hallway pulsed in and out of clarity, red light still flickering overhead, your own pulse a tidal roar behind your ears. But beneath it, beneath everything, there was a pressure blooming behind your ribs. A wild, animal panic. Not just for you.

Don’t think about it.

You shoved the thought down.

You couldn’t afford to feel anything else.

Not now. Not when the tremor of more boots echoed down the ruined corridor.

Yelena looked up. Went still.

You didn’t have to ask. You knew that sound. Not your team. Too heavy. Too many. Not a rescue. A sweep.

More were coming.

Yelena shifted her weight off your leg, already reaching for your belt—grabbed your spare magazine, tucked it into her own vest. The way her eyes flicked toward the end of the hall made your stomach pitch harder than the blood loss.

“They’ll have to come through me,” she said.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” you croaked. “Go. Take the passage to the furnace room. You can double back—”

“Shut up.”

She pressed her sidearm into your hand. Yours had been lost. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at it. “You buy me thirty seconds. I’ll clear the rest.”

“I’m not bait.”

“You’re bleeding into the floor. You are already bait.”

Another laugh. Another failed breath.

Something sharp twisted behind your navel, deep and low, and you flinched. It was too much. The pain. The pressure. The screaming throb in your skull and the weight blooming beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Something primal and new, something that didn’t belong in warzones or kill zones or places like this where people like you died ugly.

Yelena’s eyes locked on your face. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you croaked, trying not to focus on the pain.

“You grabbed your stomach.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t bullshit me, that's the third time I've seen you do that today,” she snapped.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She stared at you for one beat too long, too long to be safe, but you couldn’t give her what she was asking. Couldn’t even say it. Not here. Not with the taste of smoke on your tongue and death pressing in from both sides of the corridor.

You curled your fingers tighter around the sidearm. Your hands were slick. You didn’t know if it was hers or yours.

“Go,” you rasped. “You have to go.”

Yelena didn’t argue this time.

But she hesitated. A blink of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Something heavier. Something sharp.

Then the sound of boots again, closer now.

She shoved a flash grenade into your palm, already armed to detonate in six seconds.

“When you see their boots,” she said, “you throw it. You count to four, then run. Limp. Crawl. I don’t care. But you move, alright?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded.

Yelena was gone a second later, vanishing into the smoke like a blade into water.

And you were alone.

Alone in a crumbling corridor, leg torn open, lungs full of smoke, blood slicking the floor beneath you like oil. You could feel the weight again, heavy and awful, curling behind your sternum like something waiting. Not just adrenaline. Not just pain.

You didn’t want to die here. Not like this.

You couldn't.

A flicker of guilt followed. A whisper of something like hope.

The shadows moved. Voices barked. Feet thundered.

They were coming fast. A whole squad. You saw the first silhouette appear through the haze—rifle raised, sweeping side to side. You waited, hand wrapped around the grenade like a prayer, heart screaming behind your ribs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You threw it.

The flash hit with a scream of light so loud it fractured the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

You dragged your body forward, weight on your elbows, on your left knee, hauling yourself through the broken floor toward the stairwell. Everything screamed. Your thigh. Your ribs. The low, foreign ache in your gut that had nothing to do with war but had everything to do with why you had to live.

Gunfire split the air behind you. Shouting. Movement.

It grew louder behind you, closer now. Shouts tangled through the static still buzzing in your ear, foreign commands barked over comms that weren’t yours.

You barely made it to the stairwell. One hand gripped the banister slick with dust, rust, and your own blood. You hauled yourself up a single step, then another, panting, ears ringing from the flashbang.

That ache behind your navel flared sharp again, twisting deep and low, not like any wound you knew. It slowed you. Staggered you.

But the shout that followed snapped everything else into focus.

You heard it before you saw it: the sharp scrape of metal boots. The crunch of shattered tile. Then a yell.

You turned on instinct. No plan. No thought. Just move.

“Yelena—!”

You half-crawled, half-limped toward the sound, yelling out, but you didn't care, vision tunneling. You reached the edge of the corridor just in time to see her—back against the wall, gun empty, knife in her hand, pressed to the throat of a man easily twice her size. There were two more behind him, closing in. One of them had her in his sights.

You didn’t stop to count bullets.

You didn’t stop at all.

You raised the sidearm Yelena had given you, your hand shaking, and fired.

One shot. Missed.

Second. Hit a shoulder. Not enough.

Your hands were too shaky.

So, you lunged into the open, screaming as your leg nearly buckled beneath you, throwing the full weight of your body toward the second man, the one with the rifle. 

Your shoulder slammed into his chest, and the impact sent you both to the ground. The rifle clattered away. He was faster, stronger, barely staggered by your hit, and he recovered first, driving his elbow down hard.

Your vision exploded in white.

You didn’t stop.

Your hand found a jagged piece of rebar on the floor. You drove it upward into the side of his throat.

He gurgled once. Then stopped moving.

But not before he got one last blow in, one savage kick to your stomach that left you gasping, choking, every nerve in your body screaming.

Yelena was beside you a second later.

One clean throw, and her knife lodged in the final attacker’s neck. He dropped before he could even react.

Silence fell like a body.

Then the floor tilted under you. Your arms didn’t work. You couldn’t move.

You were still looking at Yelena, her face flushed and streaked with blood, crouched in front of you. You tried to speak. Nothing came out.

She grabbed your face, her palms rough and shaking. “You fucking idiot. That’s twice now.”

You blinked hard. Everything was blurring. Your fingers curled weakly toward your middle.

“I—I had to,” you whispered.

Yelena’s eyes were wide. She shook her head. “You’re gonna bleed out. Stop talking. Save your breath—”

“Tell Bucky…”

You barely managed it.

She froze. “No.”

Your mouth opened again. “Tell him I’m sor—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, voice cracking now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Your throat felt tight. The pain was unbearable now. Your vision dimmed at the edges, the world flattening to static and heat and the ghost of her hands holding your face.

“Tell him yourself,” she said. Quieter. Fiercer. “You tell him yourself, do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me with that.”

Your fingers twitched once against your stomach.

Then everything went black.

You weren’t shaking until the timer went off.

Three minutes wasn’t long. You’d sat through debriefs far longer. But in that small, stifling pocket of silence—curled on the edge of the bathtub, cheek pressed to the cool tile wall—it stretched and warped like time did in firefights. Slow. Loud. A countdown with no cover and no escape route.

You didn’t look at first. Just sat there, the plastic stick face-down on the lip of the sink, heartbeat pounding like a warning beneath your ribs. You’d picked it up two nights ago. Tossed it into your basket with toothpaste and Advil like it wasn’t setting your whole life on fire.

No reason to panic yet, you’d told yourself. Your body had been off before. Travel. Stress. Field meds. You’d slept six hours across four days and eaten a protein bar that was months expired. This wasn’t new. Wasn’t unmanageable. You were probably fine.

But your body felt…different.

Not just tired. Not just sore. Not even the nausea that crept in each morning the past few weeks and refused to leave. Something deeper. Heavier. Like your blood was thicker now. Like you were carrying something, and your body had already started rearranging around it.

You’d known.

Before the test. Before the countdown. Before the lines even appeared.

You’d known.

And now that you were staring at the proof—those two lines, faint but unmistakable—you realized that the terror didn’t come from the answer. It came from the silence after.

The front door clicked open just as you turned your face to the towel hanging on the wall after splashing yourself with cold water. You didn’t have time to move, didn’t even wipe your eyes before Bucky’s voice filled the apartment. Low and familiar and worn around the edges with something close to fondness.

“Hey,” he called casually, voice already warmer now that he was inside. “They were out of the egg noodles you like, so I got the fried rice instead. Hope that’s ok.”

His boots scuffed softly against the entryway tile. You heard the rustle of a bag, the crinkle of cardboard.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood too fast. The room reeled. You shoved the test into the drawer beneath the sink and slammed it shut with your hip.

“That’s…it’s perfect,” you called back. “Stomach’s still off.”

He didn’t question it. He never did. You’d been off before missions before—hell, usually everyone was. He chalked it up to adrenaline, or the fact that Valentina always held the worst ones just long enough for you all to get twitchy. He never read more into it than that.

You didn’t want him to.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the living room was already warm with light. Bucky stood at the counter with your favorite takeout in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other. His hair was damp from the rain outside, curling slightly at the ends. He wore one of the soft old hoodies you always tried to steal.

God, he looked tired.

“Still nauseous?” he asked without turning, already reaching into a drawer for a fork. “I told you not to eat the eggs in the tower fridge. John says they’re powdered.”

You managed a tight smile. “I didn’t eat the eggs.”

He glanced at you then, brow furrowed. Not suspicious. Just worried.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded. Too fast.

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His gaze dropped for a half-second, scanning you like he always did, like you were a map of terrain he’d memorized too many times to ever get lost in. You wondered if he could see it. If your skin looked different. Paler. Warped. Touched by some invisible shift.

“Come here,” he said. “Sit.”

You did. He placed the container in front of you, still warm. Fried rice and plain steamed chicken. The only thing you could stomach lately. He cracked open the ginger ale with a flick of his thumb and set it down beside the plate.

He didn’t ask why you were shaking.

Didn’t ask why your face was paler than usual, or why your breathing was shallow. Didn’t say a word about how your hands lingered too long against the counter or why your gaze kept drifting toward the bathroom.

He just stood there, leaning on his elbow, watching you pick at the food like he could will you back into being okay.

You loved him so fucking much it made your throat close.

And that was the problem.

You couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not now. God, maybe not ever.

You weren’t sure if it was even supposed to be possible, not after everything they did to him. Hydra had carved him down to the bone and rebuilt him into something inhuman. Something they thought didn’t need softness. Didn’t need futures or family or hope. 

Bucky never said it directly, but he didn’t talk about that kind of life. Not for himself. Not after what he’d done. Not with blood on his hands and weight in his eyes.

You knew that kind of grief. The kind that wrapped around your ankles and whispered, you don’t deserve nice things.

You remembered an offhand comment once—months ago, maybe longer—when Yelena had made a crack about raising tiny assassins and Bucky had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant don’t. 

He’d said it flat, even: “That ship sailed.” Like it wasn’t just impossible but irrelevant. Like it wasn’t even a thought he let himself have.

You’d shrugged it off. Because you loved him. Not for what he could give you, or not give you. Just for him. The broken, beautiful, brutal truth of him. His silence. His weight. His hands, warm against your lower back when nightmares woke you. His voice when it was three in the morning and the world wouldn’t stop spinning.

But now you were here. With a plastic pregnancy test hiding in the bathroom cabinets and a gut full of something new and terrifying and real.

This tiny, terrifying thing inside you. This unknown. This heartbeat that didn’t exist yet but already made your chest ache.

You looked down at your hands. They didn’t feel like yours.

If you told him now, it wouldn’t be fair. He was one day out from deployment, and you were four days out from a mission you’d just been assigned. He needed clarity. Precision. Control. You couldn’t be the thing that pulled the ground out from under his feet.

You forced down a bite. Swallowed it with effort. Took a sip of ginger ale and smiled like it didn’t feel like your entire life had just split in half.

Bucky leaned across the counter and brushed his fingers along your arm, barely there. His thumb skimmed your elbow like he was grounding himself. Like he always did right before he left for something bad.

“You get the call about Kozelsk?” you asked, voice steadier than it felt.

He nodded slowly, still watching you. “Yeah. Valentina’s already sent me the files. Cut and dry recon. You and Belova should be in and out in less than 24 hours.”

You gripped your fork harder than necessary. Nodded like it meant nothing. Like your body wasn’t already vibrating with a thousand what-ifs. You told yourself it wasn’t a lie. Just a delay. Just time to think.

He set the takeout down without a sound. Didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just moved toward you with that particular kind of caution only he ever seemed to get right—like you were both wild animal and wounded thing, like he knew better than to corner you even if you looked fine on the outside.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low. A thread of something softer caught in it. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. Your body answered before your mouth could.

He caught you as soon as you reached him. One arm warm and solid around your waist, the other colder where the vibranium wrapped your back, a press of protection you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for until you were tucked beneath it. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t rock or shush or demand. Just held you there in the quiet, nose pressed to your temple like maybe he could breathe for the both of you.

You let your face fall against his chest. Inhaled. Exhaled. Didn’t move.

His thumb brushed the back of your neck, slow and steady, like he could coax the tension out of your spine by touch alone.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmured against your hair. Not accusing. Not even curious. Just noticing.

You nodded.

Didn’t lift your head.

Didn’t answer.

“You sure you're alright?”

Another nod. Smaller this time.

You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek. Felt him start to ask more, but stop. Think better of it.

Instead: “Do you want me to run you a bath?” His lips grazed your hairline. “I can put the lavender stuff in. The one you pretend not to like.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

He waited. A long moment. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of your head—slow and certain, like a promise. His hand never left your back. His other one shifted just slightly, curling around your hip like it could shield whatever part of you was fraying most.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said finally. Quiet. Firm. Like he meant it. Like saying it made it true.

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t tell him what your body already knew.

You just nodded again.

And let yourself believe it. If only for a minute. If only because it was him.

The call came through at 03:41.

Not a full report. Not even proper clearance. Just a clipped string of emergency codes dumped through a back channel Bucky hadn’t checked in weeks. The kind of channel they only used when there wasn’t time to waste on protocol.

His comms had lit up in red.

Your name came first.

Then injured.

Then unconscious.

Then medevac.

Then...nothing.

No location. No vitals. No timestamps. Just five fragments, jagged and cold, vibrating through the band on his wrist like a warning shot to the heart.

The silence that followed was worse. Not blank. Hollow. The kind of nothing that meant something had already gone wrong.

Bucky didn’t think. There wasn’t time for it. Thought required oxygen, and that had already drained out of the room the second your name hit the screen. His body moved before his mind caught up—spinning on his heel, breaking into a sprint like he could rewind time with sheer speed alone.

He was still mid-mission, a low-risk sweep on the fringes of Senta with a two-man backup team and half a page of useless intel. They were searching abandoned bunkers for intel that probably didn’t exist, tracing signatures that pinged and vanished like ghosts. 

He should’ve called in a full reroute. Should’ve waited for extraction clearance. Should’ve done anything except what he did.

But he didn’t care.

Not when it was you.

He reached the jet in under three minutes. Didn’t speak when the co-pilot tried to block him. Just pushed past and took the seat, fingers already flying through the console, overriding the flight path manually. He wasn’t shouting. Wasn’t panicked. But his voice didn’t sound like his own when he keyed in his name and entered the override code.

He didn’t sit still after that.

Didn’t rest. Didn’t blink.

The jet took off and he paced the length of it like a caged animal, barely registering the turbulence, barely noticing the blood on his knuckles from punching the wall beside the comms station when the outbound call failed to connect.

Everything about those few hours on the jet felt like someone had taken a crowbar to the scaffolding of his brain and just kept hitting until all that was left was your name and the phantom of your voice in his head.

You were supposed to be fine. You’d said as much the night before his mission—half asleep on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, your fingers brushing his where they met on the blanket between you. Told him not to worry, that your op was routine stuff, nothing he had to lose sleep over.

Then you’d kissed him. Real slow. Like you knew something he didn’t.

He hadn’t pushed. Just smiled into your hair and murmured something soft about taking you on a proper date when he got back.

And then yesterday, on comms, you’d called him on your way out. Clear signal. Short call.

“You’ll beat me home,” you’d said, trying to sound light.

“Don’t do anything stupid before I get back.”

You’d laughed. But there was a hitch in it. A crack he’d almost asked about. Almost.

He didn’t remember landing.

One moment, the jet was still five minutes out—dark sky, shaking frame, the pilot avoiding turbulence. The next, the ramp cracked open and he was already moving. Wind in his face, boots hitting tarmac, lungs half-full of air that felt too thin.

Move. Just fucking move.

He took the stairs four at a time, quicker than the elevator. Through the lower hangar. Past Ops. Some tech tried to call his name and didn’t finish it, he was already gone. 

The world narrowed to sharp lines and glaring light. The Tower looked the same as it always did—brushed steel, sterile walls, military-grade silence—but it all felt wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

Like it already knew.

He turned the corner. Nearly collided with a figure stepping out of the shadows of the west corridor.

John. Shoulders squared. Dressed down in field gear, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His mouth opened like he’d been waiting there, like he knew this would happen. Like he was stupid enough to try and intercept him.

“Barnes—”

“Where is she.”

No pause. Not a greeting. Just fire.

John took a step back. Not scared. Just reading the room. Reading him.

“She’s in room three,” he said. “Med bay. She's stable.”

The word made Bucky flinch.

“Define stable.” His voice scraped low. Controlled, but only just.

“She’s alive,” John said carefully. “But she’s still under, intubated. Oxygen, fluids. The whole nine yards.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard. His jaw locked so tight it popped.

John took that as agreement and turned, motioning him to follow.

The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. Bucky’s boots beat a steady rhythm against the tile, but his thoughts outran it, spiraling tighter with each step.

“That mission was supposed to be recon,” he said finally, voice rough. “Clean in, clean out. So what the fuck happened?”

Walker followed beside him, matching his pace, but his voice wasn’t flippant the way it usually was. “We don’t really know yet.”

“Try again.”

“I’m not bullshitting you, Barnes. We had no red flags on the pre-sweep. Site had been cold for months. No chatter, no heat signatures. They went in blind.”

“No backup?”

John’s jaw ticked. “Wasn’t supposed to need any.”

They turned a corner. The lights dimmed slightly overhead, switching into night mode. Everything felt more sterile. More final. Bucky’s skin crawled.

John didn’t stop talking. “They walked into what sounded like a fucking cleanup. Not ours. Not friendly. Belova said the floor was rigged—pressure traps, gas leaks, low-profile explosives. No chatter about it beforehand. Nothing in our intel. They got there and shit was already smoking. Someone was erasing evidence, and they didn’t care who they took with it.”

Bucky’s jaw clicked.

He stopped walking for half a breath. Just long enough for John to notice.

“What am I walking into, Walker?” Bucky’s voice dropped, sharp and cold and coiled like a live wire. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

John’s gaze flicked toward the medbay doors just ahead, then back. “I told you—she’s stable.”

“I don’t give a fuck about stable,” Bucky snapped. “I’ve been stable on an operating table with my arm missing.”

The hallway was suffocating—every fluorescent hum too loud, every inch of floor stretching like it was trying to keep him from getting to you. He was too hot in his jacket. His shoulder ached. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. There was a sourness behind his teeth, behind his ribs, building like bile in his throat.

“She was bleeding out when they brought her in,” John started, slowly. “Her leg’s the worst of it. Pressure-triggered trap. She pulled herself out of a hallway on that leg. Didn’t wait. Got Belova clear.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She’s got a skull fracture. Took a hit from behind—blunt force. Her head was bleeding bad. Ribs too. Maybe internal. I don’t know what the hell happened—”

“Fuck.” Bucky’s voice cut through the space like a blade. “She was walking just last week before I left, she was fine.”

John went quiet.

“You ever see her when she’s really tired?” Bucky kept his eyes ahead, voice clipped, unraveling thread by thread, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up. “She hums. Half-conscious, doesn’t even know she’s doing it. When she’s too tired to fight it off, she curls her foot up against the couch cushion and knocks it against the fabric until it leaves a mark. Like a metronome.”

He swallowed hard.

“She did that before I left. Last thing I saw.”

The lights above them flickered.

“And you’re telling me that she is behind a wall right now, not breathing on her own, because no one thought to double-check the fucking floor plan?”

“Bucky—”

“You tell me the name of the analyst who cleared that op,” Bucky said, voice low and cold enough to cut steel. “And you tell Val she better not be in my fucking line of sight when I walk out of that room.”

The edges of the hallway started to warp. Not visually, just something in the way the air bent around him, too loud and too sharp. His pulse had long since abandoned rhythm. He blinked hard, once, like it might shake the tension loose from his spine.

John didn’t argue. Just gave a slow nod, jaw tight. He turned toward the panel, reaching for the override to the medbay doors.

“Hey, man—” His free hand hovered like he meant to touch Bucky’s shoulder, to ground him somehow, but he stopped himself. Let it fall. “She’s strong. You know that. Just…it looks worse than it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He’d already started moving.

He walked the last stretch alone.

The corridor narrowed. Dimmed. Sterile med bay walls that had all started to look the same after too many years of bleeding into them. But this one was different.

The door was marked with a small glowing three in the upper corner, backlit in blue like it meant nothing at all. There was a narrow observation window set into the center of it, sterile glass and reinforced steel, standard issue. He could see through it from halfway down the corridor. 

Could see you.

He stopped walking.

Stopped breathing.

Stopped everything.

His boots stilled. His hands curled at his sides, tight enough that the vibranium plates clicked under the skin. One step from the door and his whole body locked. Not because of the security code or the weight of John’s voice behind him, but because he could finally see you now. Not a report. Not a briefing. Not numbers or charts or the sound of someone else’s voice saying you’re stable like that meant anything.

You.

You were unconscious. Intubated. Pale in a way he’d never seen before, chalk white against hospital linens, color stripped from your face like it had been taken. Your lips were slightly parted around the oxygen tube. Your chest lifted just barely under the sheet with every controlled breath the machine gave you. 

There was gauze wrapped around your head, dark pink in places where blood had leaked through. Your leg was elevated, casted and braced and still twice the size it should’ve been. A bruise bloomed across your shoulder—deep and rotten-looking under the skin—and there was a fresh cut along your cheekbone, barely stitched, swollen and angry.

You looked like you’d been left to die.

Like they hadn’t meant to bring you back.

And for a moment, Bucky couldn’t move.

The air outside the door felt thin. Not stale, just missing. Like everything had been sucked out of this one corner of the Tower and left hollow. Like he was standing in the vacuum left behind by something sacred cracking open.

This was the thing he never let himself imagine. The image he never let form behind his eyelids, even on the bad nights. Not you. Not like this.

He pressed one hand to the wall beside the door and bowed his head, his palm flat to the cold surface. His chest rose, shuddered once, and held. He counted to five. To ten. He tried to focus on the weight of his own body. The feeling of his boots against the tile. The edge of the wall biting into his palm. Anything to keep himself tethered. Anything but your face behind that glass.

You were alive.

But that fact didn’t settle in his chest like it should have. It didn’t soothe. It didn’t offer relief.

Because all he could see were the places where that truth had almost unraveled. The bandages. The monitors. The thin line between your makeshift breaths. 

And where it still could. Not when he could see how close it had been. How much of you was still in danger. How easily this could’ve been the morgue instead of a medbay.

How easily he could’ve lost you without ever hearing your voice again.

Without holding your hand. Without telling you that everything else in his life—every broken, violent, worthless part—meant nothing if you weren’t in it.

He didn’t even remember walking toward the door.

Didn’t remember the first step. Or the second. Or how his hand found the keypad through fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. Just knew that if he stood there a second longer, he’d come apart in the hallway and never make it back.

It wasn’t strength that made him move.

It was desperation.

The kind that stripped a man of pride and breath and sense. The kind that whispered cruel things in his ear and made him believe them. She could’ve died without you. She almost did. And you don’t deserve a second chance.

The door opened with a hiss.

He stepped inside like the floor might collapse under him. Every movement was cautious. Careful. Like you might break if he breathed too loud.

The lights inside were low, adjusted to night levels, soft and indirect. The room smelled like antiseptic and gauze and something faintly metallic. Machines hummed in the background, steady and unrelenting.

He made it halfway to the bed before his knees almost gave out.

His eyes were locked on your hand, the one nearest to him, lying limp on top of the blanket with a thin white IV line threaded into the crook of your elbow. He reached for it, slowly, and didn’t care that his hands were shaking so hard he could barely keep them steady. He just needed to feel your skin again. To know it was real. To know you were still real.

He sat beside you, the chair groaning under his weight. He didn’t lean back. Just folded over his knees, one hand gripping yours and the other braced against the side of the bed. His head hung low, and for a long time, he said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, he lifted his head. Reached for your face.

Some hair had stuck to your temple—damp with sweat, clinging to the edge of the bandage there. He brushed it back gently with two fingers, like he’d done a hundred times when you were half-asleep on the couch or pretending not to cry after watching a sappy movie.

But it looked different now. Smaller. Like everything in this room had shrunk down to one unbearable moment, stretched out across too much time.

His fingers trembled as they pulled back.

“Jesus,” he murmured. The word cracked in the middle.

His throat burned.

Your face was still slack, pulled tight with bruising.

You didn’t stir. Didn’t twitch.

That terrified him more than anything.

He leaned forward again, his elbows digging into the edge of the mattress, and he held your hand in both of his—flesh and metal, warm and cold. He stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him. Like he could squeeze hard enough to push time backward.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

Could’ve been twenty minutes. Could’ve been hours. The walls didn’t move. The light didn’t change. It was just the constant, low hum of machines and the slow, glacial rhythm of your pulse ticked out on the monitor. Too slow. Too goddamn quiet. He counted the beats. Every one. Anchoring himself to it like it was the only real thing in the room.

At some point, his legs had gone numb.

His neck ached from the way he’d curled it to rest his forehead against the back of your hand. But he didn’t move. Not really. Not until there was a knock at the door, barely audible.

His body tensed.

The door opened with a soft hiss and a man stepped inside—white coat, small tray in hand, a lanyard with two clipped badges bouncing lightly against his chest. Mid-forties, maybe. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had delivered too much bad news to too many people.

“Ah, Barnes,” the doctor said, voice quiet, respectful. “You got here fast.”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He just sat back slightly, gaze fixed on the man’s hands as he moved toward the IV line.

It was automatic, the way his muscles coiled, just under the surface. His jaw ticked.

He knew this wasn’t a threat. Knew this man was here to help.

But there was a part of him, something wired into his bones and gut and breath, that didn’t want anyone touching you. Not right now. Not while you were like this. Not while he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He swallowed heavily and kept his voice flat. “Came as soon as I heard.”

The doctor nodded and glanced at the chart hanging near the bed. He was quiet for a while—replacing one IV vial with another, checking vitals, updating a digital pad with a slow drag of his stylus.

Bucky didn’t take his eyes off your face.

“She’s holding steady,” the doctor offered eventually. “Brain swelling’s gone down since the scan we took this morning. That’s a good sign.”

Bucky blinked once. His throat ached. “When’ll she wake up?”

“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be another day or two. With blunt trauma to the skull, everyone’s timeline looks different.” A pause. “But the oxygen’s helping. And she’s strong.”

Bucky nodded slightly. He’d heard that too many times now. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

The doctor hesitated. Then cleared his throat gently. “If it’s okay, I just want to ask you a few questions for her record. While we’ve got a quiet window.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

“She listed you as her primary in the system,” he continued. “So I’ll walk you through some of the next steps once we get past the acute stage. But just for the chart—are you two… partnered? Cohabitating?”

Bucky glanced over. His brows drew together slightly. “We live together. Yeah.”

“And how long’s the relationship been established, roughly?”

The question was phrased clinically, but something about it made the back of Bucky’s neck prickle.

“Four years and change,” he muttered. “Why?”

“Oh, just part of the standard update,” the doctor said casually. “Especially in cases like this, where stress can impact… well, a number of things.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His grip on your hand shifted slightly. The doctor made a note, eyes still on the screen.

A few more seconds passed.

Then:

“She’s… not on any hormone therapy, correct? No recent adjustments in medications?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Another pause.

The doctor nodded, looking at something on the screen again, something Bucky couldn’t see. “Right. I thought so, but I wanted to confirm. Her file’s a little sparse on that front. We ran a full tox panel and basic endocrine workup when she came in, just routine, and some of the markers… well.”

That cold feeling crawled back up Bucky’s spine.

“Well what?”

The doctor hesitated this time. Looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Pardon my wording here—I just want to make sure I’m not stepping into anything sensitive. But… had the two of you been trying to conceive?”

Bucky blinked.

The words didn’t land at first.

“What?”

“I only ask,” the doctor continued, slower now, more cautious, “because we noted elevated hCG levels. Not extreme, but consistent with early gestation. Six to eight weeks, give or take. It’s not uncommon for someone in her position to not realize it yet. But based on the labs, it seems likely that she may—”

Bucky stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor, sharp and jarring in the quiet of the room.

“She’s...pregnant?” he said, his voice low. Disbelieving. Barely holding together.

The doctor’s mouth flattened. “We didn’t want to make assumptions until we had context. I assumed you would’ve been aware.”

Bucky stared at you. Stared like he’d never seen you before.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because he was angry. Not because he was blindsided.

Because he felt like the fucking ground had disappeared beneath his feet.

Because it was you. And it was this. And it was real.

And he hadn’t known.

And now you were lying here with a goddamn tube down your throat and a second heartbeat that wasn’t yours might’ve already—

His hand clenched into a fist at his side, metal creaking softly.

Bucky stood motionless, fists curled at his sides, every muscle wound so tight it hurt. His eyes were locked on you, on the bruising at your ribs just visible beneath the blanket, on the plastic tubing taped to the soft skin above your collarbone. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.

His voice scraped up through his throat like broken glass. “Are you sure?”

The doctor—still standing a few cautious paces from the bed—shifted his weight and offered a nod, slow and grave. “The labs were repeated three times. Elevated hCG levels. Progesterone consistent with early gestation. We ran hormone panels as a baseline given the trauma….It’s not just a possibility. It’s confirmed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. The words didn’t form right. His lips were dry. His chest felt like it had been filled with sand.

“You said six to eight weeks,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The doctor tilted his head slightly, expression softening—not out of pity, but out of clinical care. He knew who he was talking to. Knew Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kind of man who cried wolf.

“Give or take,” the man answered gently. “That’s an estimate based on hormone levels, not ultrasound, but yes. I’d say closer to eight weeks along.”

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks.

That was before this last mission cycle. Before the op outside Madrid. Maybe even before the one before that.

And you hadn’t said a word.

Bucky’s eyes dragged back to you. You were so still. Your hand resting under the blanket, palm turned up, the edges of your fingers bruised like you’d been gripping something hard.

He couldn’t stop seeing it now. Couldn’t unsee it.

You’d been off. He’d chalked it up to nerves, pre-op jitters, the heavy rhythm of one mission bleeding into the next. He’d told you to rest. Offered takeout. Tried to make you laugh the night before he left.

And you had. Smiled. Said thank you. Kissed his cheek. You’d curled into him that night like your ribs ached and your mind was somewhere else, and he’d thought it was just exhaustion.

He’d believed you when you said it was nothing.

God, how fucking stupid could he be?

His voice broke. “She would've known?”

The doctor hesitated. Not from doubt. From restraint.

“There’s no way to say for certain,” he said carefully. “But even as early as four weeks, many people start to notice changes. Nausea. Fatigue. Food aversions. Emotional shifts. Even small things like dizziness or temperature changes. Some miss it entirely. Others…” He paused. “Others don’t.”

Bucky didn’t need a fucking doctor to tell him you knew. He could see it now, clear as a sniper’s scope.

“She didn’t tell me.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. Raw. Like something was tearing loose inside his chest. “She didn’t say a word.”

“I understand that must be difficult,” the doctor said, not unkindly.

Bucky laughed, just once, sharp and empty. It didn’t sound like anything close to humor.

“She was sick last week. I told her it was nerves. I said she just needed rest.” He blinked, hard. “And she nodded. And let me believe it.”

He felt sick. Hollow. As if someone had cut him open and left the pieces spread out across the room for everyone to examine.

“She made me dinner and couldn’t even taste it. She spit it out. Said it was too salty.” He dragged a hand down his face, breath unsteady.

“I knew. I fucking knew something was off and I didn’t—” He stopped. Pressed his palm into his forehead like he could shut off the noise in his brain. “—I didn’t ask.”

The doctor didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. The silence hung there, heavy, just long enough to let Bucky crumble beneath it.

“I would’ve pulled her,” Bucky said, voice low, like it hurt to speak. “If I’d known—I would’ve pulled her off the mission. I would’ve stayed. Christ, I never would’ve let her walk into that hellhole alone.”

“I believe you,” the doctor said softly.

Bucky shook his head. “No, you don’t.” His gaze locked on yours again, like you might open your eyes at any second and tell him it was all a joke, some stupid, sick prank. But your lashes didn’t so much as twitch. “I didn’t even notice. What kind of man misses that? What kind of man lets her go?”

“You trusted her,” the doctor said. “She clearly trusted you too.”

Bucky let out a breath that sounded like it had been clawed from his lungs. “She didn’t tell me.”

“No. She didn’t.” The doctor’s voice was quieter now. “But people keep things for all kinds of reasons. Even from the people they love most.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers trembling at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t get it. She doesn’t hide things from me. Not like this. Not the big stuff. We—we don’t do that.” He looked up again, eyes wet and sharp. “She was going to tell me. I know she was. I think—shit. I think she was, the morning she left.”

He could hear it now. In the way you’d paused before signing off the comms. He thought you were worried about the mission. About Belova watching your six. About slipping into yet another building you weren’t sure you’d walk back out of.But it hadn’t just been that. It had been this. This had been behind your eyes.

He hadn’t kissed you like he should’ve. Hadn’t said goodbye like it might’ve mattered.

Hadn’t known it wasn’t just your life you were walking into that op with.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the next breath caught wrong in his throat.

“I let her go,” he repeated. “And now she’s in this bed, and I didn’t even know she—”

He stopped again, unable to finish.

The doctor waited a beat longer. Let the silence settle. Then cleared his throat, careful and slow, trying to guide the conversation back to what had to be said.

“I know it’s not what you want to be thinking about right now,” he said gently, “but we do need to talk through some things. Just to make sure you’re fully informed.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just stared at you.

The doctor glanced at the vitals monitor. Back to the chart. His voice shifted—soft, but steady.

“With blunt force trauma to the abdomen,” he said, quieter now, more clinical, “there’s always a risk of complications. Especially in early pregnancy. Her vitals are stable. The fetus hasn’t shown signs of rejection yet—but we’re watching. Closely.”

That was it. The word. Yet.

Bucky turned sharply. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re monitoring her around the clock. Ultrasound will be scheduled once the swelling goes down and her vitals can handle the scan. But we have to be honest about the risk.” A beat. “The trauma she took to the torso—the pressure trap, the fall, and then the blunt impact to the skull—all of it compounds.”

Bucky’s jaw was shaking now.

“So you don’t know,” he said slowly. “You don’t know?”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Bucky stepped back like he’d been shoved.

You were pregnant.

You were pregnant.

And you were unconscious. Intubated. Hooked to machines in a quiet room with no windows while doctors ran numbers behind glass and he didn’t even know you were carrying his kid.

He couldn’t breathe.

You’d gone into that mission with someone else’s life inside you and hadn’t said a word.

He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes stinging.

You didn’t tell him. You didn’t fucking tell him.

And he almost lost you.

Almost lost both of you.

The thought hit harder than anything he’d felt in months. In years. In decades. And it didn’t come like a scream. It came like a whisper. Like a crack in a wall that’d held for too long.

“How?”

His voice was shredded. Barely audible.

The doctor paused mid-step, halfway to the door. Turned back, cautious. “I’m sorry?”

Bucky looked at him, finally. Really looked. And there was nothing left in his face but disbelief—exhaustion and heartbreak stretched thin over bone.

“How is that possible?” he rasped. “I—” He shook his head once, quick, like he couldn’t believe he even had to say it. “I’ve been tested. Just to know. After everything Hydra did—what they rewired, replaced, burned out of me—they said it wasn’t possible.”

The words felt like rot in his mouth.

The doctor stepped forward slightly, his voice measured now, clinical but not cold. “If you’re referring to chemical sterilization procedures or structural modification, yes, those can have long-term effects. Especially in cases involving trauma at a cellular level, or—”

“Don’t give me the medical lecture,” Bucky snapped, not loud but sharp enough to slice. His hands were trembling again. “Just tell me how the hell this is happening.”

The doctor nodded, slowly. “There are always edge cases. Nothing in reproductive medicine is absolute. The body adapts. Heals. Finds workarounds.” He paused. “Even when we’re told it can’t.”

That didn’t feel like hope. It felt like a gut punch.

“You’re saying it was a fluke.”

“I’m saying biology is unpredictable. And what Hydra did to your body…” The man hesitated again. “No one fully understands the parameters of their enhancements. You weren’t born with a blueprint. You were made in fragments. It’s entirely possible that something shifted. Repaired. Regenerated. Something no one thought to look for.”

Bucky was silent.

A breath dragged into his lungs like it didn’t belong there.

His voice was hollow. “Fuck, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

The doctor hesitated. “That’s not a question I can answer.”

Bucky nodded, barely.

No, of course it wasn’t. Because there was only one person who could answer that, and you were lying there pale and quiet with blood dried at the edge of your mouth and a monitor deciding whether or not you were still alive.

The doctor moved slowly, starting to step back, sensing the unraveling thread beneath Bucky’s words.

“If you have any more questions,” he said quietly, “you can reach me on comms. I’ll be just down the hall for the next few hours. We’re not touching her chart again without looping you in.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

The doctor nodded once more, set the tablet down gently on the small table by the foot of your bed, and slipped out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft hiss of pressurized air. It was too quiet. Too polite. Like this was just another room. Just another patient. Just another day.

Bucky stood there for a moment, still. Breathing like it hurt. Hands flexing at his sides, unsure where to go, unsure what they were supposed to do now. The silence didn’t feel sterile anymore, it felt thick. Like it had teeth. Like if he stayed on his feet another second it’d tear him apart.

So he sat.

Not with purpose. Not with control. His knees just buckled, and the chair caught him on the way down. Same place as before. Same cold vinyl digging into the backs of his thighs. But this time, there was no weight steadying his hands. No warmth beneath his palm.

Only you. Still and pale and too fucking quiet. And something else now, tucked deep inside you, something no one had planned for and nothing could prepare him for.

His elbows braced on his knees. Shoulders rounded. His hand dragged across his face like it could scrape away the thoughts already forming. The ones he couldn’t bear. The ones he couldn’t stop.

You were pregnant.

You were pregnant.

And you didn’t tell him.

Not because you didn’t trust him. He didn’t believe that. Not for a second. But because you’d wanted to carry it on your own. Because you didn’t want to burden him. Because something in you—something he should’ve seen, should’ve known—thought maybe he couldn’t handle it.

And maybe you were right.

Because even now, he wasn’t handling it. He was drowning in it.

His throat felt raw. Not from yelling, he hadn’t spoken above a whisper since he walked in, but from the pressure. From everything he was trying to hold back.

A child.

Your child.

His.

It didn’t feel real. Not in the soft, sweet way people talked about in books or in old movies. Nothing about this felt glowing or golden. It felt like being cracked open. Like someone had reached into his chest and handed him something impossibly fragile and said hold this steady while the building burns.

He’d never let himself imagine this. Not seriously. Not in any long-term, Sunday morning kind of way. Not beyond the haze of half-formed thoughts he shoved down when you fell asleep with your hand on his chest and he let himself pretend, just for a second, that maybe he got to keep this. That maybe he got to build something.

But it was never real. Not to someone like him.

Kids were for other people. People who hadn’t been turned into weapons. People who didn’t flinch in crowded hallways or track exits in grocery stores or dream in blood and ash. People who weren’t always calculating how many ways a room could go wrong.

And yet—

There’d been that mission last fall. Rural outskirts of Kashgar, the safe house turned hostage site. He still remembered the layout: three stories, west-facing collapse, no rear exit. Ten children trapped underground. One window for evac. You’d gone in without blinking.

You’d stayed behind to cover the last kid’s exit, barely clearing the detonation radius yourself. He’d screamed in your comm so loud he blew the mic out, but you made it. Coughed through smoke, limped out with soot in your lashes, cradling a little girl in your arms like she was made of glass. And after it was done, after the sirens quieted and the evac crews pulled out, he’d watched you kneel in the dirt and let those kids braid flowers into your hair while you wiped their tears with bare hands.

He’d never forgotten the way you looked that day. Not fierce. Not victorious. Just human. Soft where the world had tried to make you hard. Unshakable. Protective. Gentle in a way he didn’t know how to be, not really.

He’d caught himself watching too long. Something old and aching in his chest pulling tight.

And now that image cut through him like a blade.

Because this wasn’t some faraway fantasy anymore. This wasn’t a brief daydream before falling asleep or a fleeting glance across a wrecked city street.

It was blood.

It was cells dividing inside you.

It was something real, something terrifyingly alive that was already in danger. That he hadn’t known about. That he hadn’t protected.

And what if it was already too late?

His hand curled into a fist. Metal groaned softly under the tension, joints whining from the pressure. He pressed it to his lips like he could hold something back. Like if he kept still enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t fall apart. Maybe you’d wake up, and this would all just be a nightmare version of a conversation you hadn’t known how to start.

But what if you never woke up?

Bucky looked at you then—really looked. At the pale stretch of your brow, the tiny twitch of the monitor lights reflecting in your lashes. At the loose strands of hair tucked behind your ear, the cut near your temple where the blood had crusted over in dark rust red. He wanted to gather it all. Hold it together with his hands, press his mouth to your skin and promise things he didn’t know how to say.

He would’ve held your hair back every morning if the nausea got bad. Would’ve left saltines by the bed. Would’ve learned every goddamn craving and run halfway across the city to get it. Would’ve kept you off missions. Would’ve made Valentina herself eat glass if she tried to stop him.

He would’ve built the whole world over again just to make it safer for you.

For the baby.

His baby.

Bucky let his head drop into his hands. Breath shuddering. Shoulders heaving once—just once—before he ground it down again. Because he couldn’t break now. Couldn’t afford it.

You needed him.

And he hadn’t been there.

But he was now.

God help anyone who tried to take that away.

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