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niffala · 11 days ago

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Holy hell, do I feel this in the depths of my soul. It hurts and is way too close to my real life, but I can't wait to read more.

Always There, Never Seen

Summary: You're the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. You sit on the edges of conversations, offer silent support, and watch others be chosen and loved while you remain in the background. Despite being essential, you're basically invisible and it hurts more than anyone realizes.

Word Count: 1.9k+

A/N: According to the poll, y’all really like angst (and hurt/comfort). So I deliver to you, angst. Also, does it count as Bucky x reader if they’re not pining for each other? Hmmm… Also Disclaimer: Not much dialogue, more descriptive writing than anything. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You weren’t anyone special. Not in the way the world was used to noticing. You didn’t carry a weapon with confidence, didn’t have a degree that earned you any kind of awe, and you certainly didn’t have a face or charm that pulled people in.

You worked in admin at the Tower. Basically paperwork, scheduling, and making sure the chaos of superhero life ran just a bit smoother. You were the one who emailed team briefings, filed mission reports, and organized therapy appointments like they were just blocks on a calendar, not battles for someone's mind.

And Bucky Barnes… well, Bucky was the kind of person people did notice.

You’d liked him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. In the way someone watches a storm from behind a window. Close enough to feel the pull of it, but far enough not to be noticed.

You liked the way his voice got low when he was trying not to wake anyone in the early mornings. The way he peeled oranges with military precision and always left one for someone else. The way he laughed when Sam or Steve dragged him into something dumb, like water balloon fights or bad TV marathons. You liked him. Not the myth, not the metal arm, not the past filled with ghosts. Just Bucky.

But you were no Natasha. No Sharon. No enhanced warrior woman who could flip a man twice her size or disarm a room with a wink. You weren’t brilliant like Shuri or effortlessly magnetic like Darcy. You were just… the person who knew which printer was working and which one wasn’t. You were the one who remembered who liked what in their coffee. You were the background hum, not the spotlight.

And Bucky liked someone else.

You didn’t blame him. She was kind. Bright. The kind of person who glowed when she smiled. She moved like she’d always belonged on a battlefield, and yet, she somehow made everyone around her feel safe. She was witty, beautiful, strong, and all the things people fell in love with.

You tried not to let it show. You weren’t close enough to him for it to be a betrayal but you were far enough that even your absence would go unnoticed. You smiled when you passed him in the halls, nodded when he grunted a hello, even handed him reports when they were meant for Steve, just for a brief second of acknowledgment. He always said thank you. Always polite. Always… kind.

But never more.

Sometimes you imagined saying something. A small, “Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee sometime?” Nothing big, nothing cinematic. But your voice always caught in your throat before the words could make it to daylight. Because what would be the point? What could you possibly offer him that he didn’t already have?

So you kept your head down. You typed, sorted files, watched him laugh in the kitchen over takeout containers with her. And you reminded yourself that this was enough. And maybe, maybe one day it wouldn’t ache so much. Maybe one day, you’d stop comparing yourself to all the people who stood in the sun while you stayed in the shade. Maybe.

But not today. Today, you’d file mission debriefs, pretend not to glance at him too long, and keep being the kind of person who’s easy to forget. The kind of person no one falls for.

However, even with that reminder in your head, it didn’t make it any more easier to live by. Because you didn’t need super-hearing to know when a room grew quieter once you entered.

It wasn’t tension. No one disliked you. It was more like… when you walked into a space, conversation naturally shifted. Not because anyone was guarding secrets, just because you weren’t the kind of person people thought to include.

You were background.

You were the click of the elevator. The shuffle of papers being filed. The voice that said, “He’s in briefing room three” without ever being asked your name in return.

You sat in meetings and never got asked for your opinion. You brought backup cables, extra notepads, bandages for knuckles bruised in training and when someone needed something, you always had it. You noticed when Natasha’s shoulder was bothering her and quietly adjusted the gym reservation to avoid that day’s sparring. You reminded Steve about appointments he forgot. You updated Sam’s reports so they’d match his fieldwork without making him look careless.

No one noticed.

You weren’t angry about it. Not really. You weren’t owed gratitude. That’s not why you did it. You just… wanted to be part of something. And if you couldn’t be the center of it, you thought maybe you could be its foundation.

But even foundations crack under enough silence.

When they gathered in the common room, you stayed near the doorway, not because you preferred it but because there was never really a space for you on the couch. Not in the way people sat. Not in the way conversations flowed. Sometimes someone would offer a smile in your direction, a wave, a half-hearted “Hey, you’re still here.” But the spotlight never lingered.

Even the interns forgot you were in the room. More than once, you’d heard them gossiping about the others. About Steve’s diet, or Wanda’s mood, or what Bucky might be like behind closed doors. You were there the whole time, filing reports just a few feet away. Not one of them noticed.

Once, someone forgot to list you on a team-wide email thread. You only found out when the others started referencing a meeting you hadn’t heard of. When you brought it up, the sender laughed nervously with a light “Oh, I thought you weren’t on the main team.” You weren’t sure what hurt more: the comment or the fact that no one corrected them.

You ate lunch at your desk. You kept your voice quiet in shared spaces. You never spoke unless there was something directly requiring your words. People liked you best that way.

And Bucky… Bucky was no different.

He was polite, sure. Nodded if you passed him in the hall. Sometimes gave you a distracted “Thanks” if you handed him a revised schedule or a mission detail packet. But it was never more than that. He had others to talk to. Ones who smiled brighter, laughed louder, leaned easily into his space like they belonged there.

But God, some days you just wanted someone to ask you how you were doing. Someone to say your name like they meant it.

You knew what you were. You were safe. Predictable. The person who remembered extra passwords and booked flights without needing thanks. You weren’t charming or brilliant or needed the way others were.

And maybe that was why, even when you were in the same room, you felt so crushingly alone. You were there. You always were. But no one seemed to see it. And worst of all, you weren’t sure anyone ever would. Because you’d grown used to being the person who knew the team without really being part of it.

You knew Bucky’s schedule. When he trained, when he left early to avoid team briefings, which mornings he preferred to drink his coffee in silence. You knew the brand of painkillers Bruce trusted, the way Wanda liked her tea, how Tony hated the buzzing lights in the lower hallway. You knew all these things without anyone ever having told you. Because you watched. You listened.

That was your talent. Not fighting. Not hacking into alien tech or performing heart surgery with a spoon. You were just good at being there. Good at remembering. Good at caring in the background.

Of course, the person you liked had never really noticed. It wasn’t in a cruel way. Not in an “I think I’m better than you” way. Just in the way someone doesn’t notice the soft hum of a computer fan or the way a hallway light always flickers. You were part of the environment. Static. Expected. Invisible.

Because you knew Bucky had eyes only for her.

Honestly, you didn’t know her well. She was new-ish. Sharp and warm, always dressed like she’d stepped out of some other, better life. She smiled with her whole face. She wasn’t arrogant, but she walked like someone who knew she mattered. It was easy to like her, even if it hurt.

She made him softer. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed when she walked in the room, in the way his sarcasm eased into gentleness when she was around. He even smiled more, really smiled.

Sometimes you caught yourself watching them. Bucky, leaning on a countertop, looking at her like she was something rare. Her tossing her head back as she laughed at something he said. It was a kind of closeness you knew you’d never be part of. Not just with him, but with anyone. You weren’t made of magnetism or spark.

You were the pause between other people’s sentences.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the hallway outside the training room, flipping through a stack of revised schedules. You were trying to figure out if you could shift Rhodey’s physical therapy without messing up the team’s briefing timeline, and not watching where you were going when you turned a corner right into the one Bucky chose.

“Oh!” She said, catching your arm. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

You stepped back quickly. “No, my fault.”

She smiled kindly, open, not patronizing. “You’re the one who keeps everything running, right? You’re the one who fixed the mess with my mission debrief last week.”

You blinked. “That was… yeah. That was me.”

“Thank you,” She said genuinely. “Seriously. No one tells you that enough, but I noticed. You’re really good at what you do.”

It stung, how warm those words felt. Like you hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until someone brought a match close.

You gave a small smile. “Thanks.”

She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “You work here all the time. Do you ever get a break?”

You laughed once under your breath. “Not really. I think that’s kind of the point of me.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t talk much.”

You shrugged. “Not a lot of people want to hear it.”

She watched you for a beat too long, like she wanted to ask something else. But then Bucky’s voice called from down the hall, her name, not yours. Her face lit up.

“That’s me. Thanks again,” She said, and jogged off without waiting for a response.

You stood there a little too long after she left, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above you. You imagined what it might be like to have someone call your name like that. To be the reason someone’s expression softened. You wondered what it would feel like to matter that easily.

Bucky passed by you without a glance as he walked with her. You didn't expect otherwise.

You held your papers a little tighter and turned back the way you came.

Some people were made to shine. You’d never been one of them. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t even that jealous, really. You just knew your place. You were the one who knew how to quiet a printer jam in seconds. Who carried extra pens. Who remembered birthdays but never had her own celebrated.

Bucky Barnes didn’t know your favorite coffee order. Didn’t know you stayed late so others could leave early. Didn’t know how often you looked at the closed doors of conversations you’d never be invited into.

But you were okay. You had your quiet. You had your rhythm. You had the small comfort of being needed, even if not wanted. And that would be enough. Eventually.

#nif fic recs #angst

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niffala · 11 days ago

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masterlist

currently writing bucky x reader! 18+ content, minors please do not interact! some works have triggering themes or include smut, so please proceed with caution. there are full warning lists on each fic/chapter.

i don't have a taglist - if you want to be notified when i post updates to series or upload new one-shots please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

** means fic contains 18+ content/smut

➞ SERIES

smog & spirits - fantasy 1920s gang au ** [on going] mob!bucky x witch!reader bucky barnes, the leader of sootstone's smog boys, needs a favour. a nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

➞ MINI-SERIES

a dish served cold - western au [complete - 30k words] outlaw!bucky x reader after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes.

lessons in lovemaking ** [on going] bucky x blackwidow!reader you and bucky barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

➞ ONE-SHOTS

me & the devil - western au [11k words] outlaw!bucky x saloon girl!reader the diamondback saloon and hotel has always attracted bad men, and bucky barnes happens to be one of them.

king of pentacles - western au ** [6k words] outlaw!bucky x fortune teller!reader when your travelling circus rolls into town, you are warned that bucky barnes is the outlaw who rules these lands. you plan to keep your distance, but he and his men can not resist a little entertainment.

sweetpea - post-apocalyptic au ** [9k words] retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader after the riftborn war, bucky barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

read between the lines - college au [2k words] frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

his girls [2k words] bucky x fem!reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

close quarters - fantasy au [9k words] bucky x fem!reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him.

the art of pretending [12k words] ** bucky x agent!reader being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely

this is (not) fine [9k words] ** bucky x personal assistant!reader personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower delivery and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

show me again [17k words] ** bucky x mutant!reader you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.

➞ SNIPPETS & DRABBLE

i who have known death snippets: one, two monster hunter!bucky x healer!reader apocalypse fantasy au with zombie/hivemind parasite elements

daughter of the rotsál snippets: one, two, three ** horselord!bucky x oc in a world where loyalty is a commodity and power is bought with blood, isolde, a daughter of the rotsál, is sent to marry thegn bucky of House barnes. the task will demand the mastery of every lesson she has ever learned—manipulation, seduction, and sacrifice. as her duty clashes with the world of the naraki horselords, isolde must choose whether to remain a pawn or reclaim the future stolen from her.

#nif masterlist recs

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niffala · 19 days ago

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In light of some of the many things happening across the world this year, I thought this Pride Month needed a special illustration.

Happy Pride Month, may we all stay safe, look after each other, and keep painting our rainbows, no matter what. 🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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niffala · 20 days ago

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Holy angst, batman.

My heart was in a vice the entire read. I cried, I despaired. I felt the betrayal and fear and the tiny flicker of hope.

He thought the worst of her and not only abandoned her, but turned others against her, and it almost cost their little girl her life. I don't think that pain will ever really go away. But I do hope she can move forward without it weighing her down each day.

As for him, I'm glad he's hurting. Happy he is trying and has a relationship with his daughter. I don't know if he can ever fully make it up to them though.

Time will tell.

Fractured Bonds and Fragile Futures

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary:

Believing you betrayed him, Bucky vanished, unaware you were pregnant with his daughter, Sophie. Four years later, you’ve built a life alone in Queens, raising Sophie with fierce devotion, but a cruel reunion at a farmer’s market reopens old wounds.

📎Genre: Romantic Drama | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Family | Redemption

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Emotional Distress → Child Illness → Abandonment and Betrayal → Verbal Cruelty → Trauma and Guilt → Pregnancy and Single Parenting → Medical Themes → Mature Emotional Content

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

The rain fell in heavy sheets outside your Brooklyn apartment, a relentless drumbeat against the windows that mirrored the storm in your heart four years ago. You were a SHIELD analyst then, tasked with helping Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, navigate the labyrinth of his post-Hydra life. He was a man fractured by decades of trauma, his blue eyes haunted yet searching for something to hold onto. Your role began professionally, sifting through mission reports, analyzing data, offering insights during debriefs, but it evolved into something far deeper, a connection forged in quiet moments and shared vulnerabilities.

It was a late autumn evening when Bucky appeared at your door, soaked to the bone, his vibranium arm glinting faintly under the hallway light. A mission had gone south, and the weight of it clung to him like the rain. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, and his jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line as he avoided your gaze. You didn’t hesitate, pulling him inside, your small apartment a haven of warmth against the chill of the night.

“Bucky, you’re freezing,” you said, grabbing a thick wool blanket from the couch and wrapping it around his shoulders. His vibranium arm was cold against your fingers as you adjusted the blanket, and you felt him flinch, not from pain but from the instinct to retreat from kindness.

“You didn’t have to let me in,” he muttered, his voice low, almost swallowed by the rain’s rhythm outside. He stood stiffly in the middle of your living room, water pooling at his feet, his eyes fixed on the floorboards as if they held answers he couldn’t find.

You knelt before him, brushing the wet strands of hair from his face, your fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Bucky, I want you here. Always.” Your voice was soft but firm, a promise you meant with every fiber of your being.

His gaze lifted, raw and unguarded, those stormy blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist—the rain, the failed mission, his past. His flesh hand, warm despite the cold, cupped your cheek, trembling slightly. “You’re too good for me, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking on your name.

“No,” you replied, leaning into his touch, your forehead nearly touching his. “We’re just right.”

That night, his kiss was tentative, a fragile bridge between his fear and your certainty. It was desperate, too, as if he expected you to vanish like a dream. But you didn’t. You stayed, your hands anchoring him as you kissed him back, tasting the rain and the salt of his uncertainty. From that night, you built a life together, soft mornings tangled in sheets, the scent of coffee filling your kitchen, his rare but radiant smiles when you burned toast yet again. You learned the cadence of his laughter, the way he hummed 1940s tunes while washing dishes, his vibranium arm gleaming as he dried plates with care.

One summer night, you found yourselves on the rooftop of your building, the city sprawling beneath a starlit sky. Bucky was quieter than usual, his past a heavy shadow that never fully lifted. You sat close, your shoulder brushing his, the warmth of his body grounding you. The air smelled of warm asphalt and distant jasmine, and the faint hum of city life buzzed below.

“Talk to me,” you said, slipping your hand into his flesh one, your fingers intertwining with his calloused ones.

He sighed, his breath warm against your cheek as he pulled you closer, his vibranium arm resting lightly around your waist. “I don’t deserve this. You. Happiness. After everything I’ve done,” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt as palpable as the summer heat.

“Stop,” you said, turning to face him, your hands framing his face. You pressed your forehead to his, your eyes locked on his. “You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re my Bucky. I love you.”

His eyes glistened, tears catching the starlight, and he swallowed hard. “I’ll never let you go, Y/N. No matter what,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “I promise.”

You believed him with every part of your soul. That promise became the foundation of your world, lazy Sundays spent reading together on the couch, his head in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair; quiet evenings where he’d teach you to dance to old records, his laughter warm when you stepped on his toes; mornings where he’d wake you with a kiss, murmuring your name like a prayer. You thought it unbreakable, a love that could weather any storm. But promises, you learned, could shatter as easily as glass.

It was at a Stark Industries gala, a glittering affair of champagne flutes and chandeliers, that your world began to crack. You wore a deep blue dress, Bucky’s favorite, the fabric hugging your curves in a way that made you feel beautiful. You’d texted him a photo of yourself earlier, knowing he was on a mission but hoping to make him smile. The night was alive with music and laughter, but it turned sour when a drunk coworker, emboldened by too much wine, pulled you into a hug that lingered too long, his hand grazing your waist. You pushed him away firmly, your smile tight as you extricated yourself, but the damage was done. Bucky, back early to surprise you, had seen it all from across the room. His eyes darkened, not with anger but with something worse, betrayal.

“Bucky, wait—” you called, chasing him out of the gala into the rain-soaked street, your heels slipping on the wet pavement. The city lights blurred through the downpour, casting fractured reflections on the asphalt.

“I saw you, Y/N,” he snapped, his voice cold and sharp, cutting through the rain. He stood under a streetlamp, his leather jacket slick with water, his face a mask of pain and fury. “With him.”

“It wasn’t what you think!” you pleaded, your voice breaking as you reached for him. “He was drunk, I pushed him away—”

“I’m not an idiot,” he growled, stepping back, out of your reach. “I trusted you. I thought—” He stopped, his jaw clenching, his vibranium arm flexing as if to shield himself. “I thought you were different.”

“Bucky, please, listen to me,” you begged, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “I love you. I’d never—”

But he was already turning away, his boots splashing through puddles as he walked into the night. By morning, his apartment was empty, his phone disconnected. You were three weeks pregnant, planning to tell him that night, your hand resting on your stomach as you imagined his smile, his arms around you both. But he never gave you the chance. The pain of his abandonment was a knife, twisting deeper with every unanswered call, every silent day that followed. You stood in his empty apartment, the echo of his absence deafening, and whispered to the life growing inside you, “We’ll be okay.” But you weren’t sure you believed it.

The gala’s aftermath left you hollow, the memory of Bucky’s retreating figure burned into your mind. You’d stood in the rain outside the venue, your blue dress clinging to your skin, now heavy with more than just water. The city pulsed around you, honking cabs, distant laughter, the hum of neon signs, but it felt like a void had opened inside you. You’d tried to explain, to bridge the gap his assumption had created, but Bucky’s words “I’m not an idiot” echoed like a verdict. He’d seen you with that coworker, a fleeting moment twisted into betrayal, and he’d chosen to believe the worst.

You spent the night pacing your apartment, the same one where Bucky had kissed you under the rain’s lullaby years ago. Your phone glowed with unanswered texts: Bucky, please call me. It wasn’t what you think. I need you. Each message was a lifeline thrown into a void. By dawn, exhaustion forced you to sit, your hands trembling as you clutched a mug of tea gone cold. You were pregnant, a secret you’d held close, planning to share it with him at the gala, imagining his eyes softening, his arms pulling you close. Instead, you were alone, the weight of his absence heavier than the life growing inside you.

The days blurred into weeks. You went through the motions at SHIELD, analyzing data, attending briefings, but your focus was fractured. Colleagues noticed your pallor, the way your eyes darted to your phone, but you brushed off their concern with tight smiles. You visited Bucky’s apartment daily, hoping to find him, but the key under the mat was gone, the space stripped of his presence, no leather jacket on the chair, no dog-eared books on the shelf. You stood in the empty living room, the silence screaming his departure, and pressed a hand to your stomach. “He’s gone, little one,” you whispered, tears falling. “But I’ve got you.”

You pieced together what happened through fragments. A SHIELD contact mentioned Bucky had taken a covert mission, one he’d volunteered for, far from New York. He hadn’t told anyone why, not even Steve Rogers, his closest friend. You tried reaching Steve, but he was on his own mission, unreachable. Natasha Romanoff offered a sympathetic ear, but her eyes held pity you couldn’t bear. “Give him time, Y/N,” she said, but time only deepened the wound.

Nights were the hardest. You’d lie in bed, the blue dress folded in a drawer, its fabric a reminder of the night everything broke. You replayed the gala in your mind, the coworker’s slurred words, his hand on your waist, your quick push to free yourself. It was nothing, a moment you’d dismissed, but Bucky’s eyes had locked onto it, his trust crumbling in seconds. You wondered what he’d seen in you to believe you’d betray him. Hadn’t you shown him every day, in every touch, that you loved him? The question gnawed at you, eroding your confidence. You’d been his anchor, but he’d cut the rope without a word.

You started noticing physical changes, morning sickness that left you curled over the toilet, a faint swell in your abdomen. You went to doctor’s appointments alone, the ultrasound’s grainy image showing a tiny heartbeat. You clutched the printout, tears blurring the black-and-white image, and vowed to be enough for this child. But the loneliness was a tide, pulling you under. You’d sit on your couch, staring at a photo of you and Bucky from a Coney Island trip, his arm around you, his smile rare and bright, and sob until your throat ached. “Why didn’t you listen?” you whispered to the empty room.

You couldn’t stay in the apartment where Bucky’s ghost lingered in every corner. You moved to a smaller place in Queens, a one-bedroom with peeling paint but a sunny window for the baby’s crib. You left SHIELD, the memories of Bucky in every briefing room too much to bear, and took freelance data analysis work. It paid less, but it gave you flexibility for the baby. You packed away Bucky’s things, a sweater he’d left, a notebook with his handwriting, and sealed them in a box you couldn’t bear to open. You were building a new life, not for you but for the child you carried, the one you’d named Sophie in your heart, a name you’d once whispered to Bucky during a late-night talk about the future.

The move was exhausting, each box a reminder of what you’d lost. Neighbors helped, kind strangers who didn’t know your story, and you smiled through your grief, thanking them. You painted the nursery a soft yellow, hung a mobile of stars above the crib, and tried to fill the space with hope. But at night, alone, you’d clutch the ultrasound photo and cry, the weight of raising a child without Bucky crushing you. You didn’t know if he was alive, if he thought of you, or if he’d ever return. All you knew was the promise he’d broken and the life you had to protect.

Raising Sophie alone was a journey of love and sacrifice, each milestone a victory shadowed by loss. She was born on a spring morning, her dark curls and stormy blue eyes, Bucky’s eyes, stealing your breath. Holding her in the hospital, her tiny hand curling around your finger, you felt a love so fierce it scared you. “You’re my everything, Sophie,” you whispered, kissing her forehead. But the joy was laced with ache, the absence of Bucky a void you couldn’t fill.

Those first months were a blur of sleepless nights and endless diapers. Sophie’s cries filled your small Queens apartment, her needs a constant rhythm that kept you moving. You learned to soothe her with soft lullabies, your voice trembling as you sang songs Bucky had loved. Her eyes, so like his, watched you with a trust that broke your heart. You’d rock her in the nursery, the yellow walls glowing under a nightlight, and wonder if Bucky ever thought of you, if he’d sensed the life you’d created together.

Freelance work kept you afloat, your laptop glowing late into the night as you analyzed data while Sophie slept. The pay was inconsistent, but it let you stay home, sparing you the cost of daycare. Neighbors became your lifeline, Mrs. Carter next door brought casseroles, her kind eyes never prying, while young Tommy from upstairs played peek-a-boo with Sophie when you needed a moment to breathe. But the loneliness was relentless, a companion that settled into your bones. You’d see couples in the park, their laughter a reminder of what you’d lost, and force a smile for Sophie, who giggled at squirrels and dandelions.

Sophie’s first smile came at six weeks, a gummy grin that lit up your world. You snapped a photo, wishing you could send it to Bucky, imagining his face softening as he saw her. Her first word “Mama” at nine months, was a triumph that brought tears to your eyes. You clapped, cheering her on, but the empty chair across from you felt like a rebuke. Her first steps at a year old were in the park, her tiny hands gripping yours as she wobbled on grass, her laughter bright. You recorded it on your phone, your voice shaky as you narrated, “Look at you, Sophie, my brave girl.” But the joy was bittersweet, each milestone a reminder that Bucky wasn’t there to witness it.

You poured love into Sophie, reading her stories, building blanket forts, teaching her to count with colorful blocks. Her curls bounced as she danced to music, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. But at night, when she slept, you’d sit by her crib, clutching a photo of you and Bucky from that Coney Island day. His arm was around you, his smile unguarded, and you’d trace his face, wondering why he hadn’t listened. The misunderstanding haunted you, his assumption, his refusal to hear you out. You’d loved him wholly, and he’d walked away, leaving you to carry the weight alone.

The nights were your undoing. When Sophie’s soft snores filled the apartment, you’d sit on the couch, the silence oppressive. You’d replay the gala, the coworker’s drunken hug, Bucky’s cold voice. “I trusted you,” he’d said, and the words cut deeper each time. You wondered if he’d found someone else, if he’d rebuilt his life without you. The thought was a knife, twisting in your chest. You’d cry silently, not wanting to wake Sophie, your tears soaking the photo you couldn’t let go. “You’re enough, baby,” you’d whisper to her sleeping form, but doubt gnawed at you. Were you enough? Raising her alone, knowing her father believed you a traitor, was a burden that threatened to break you.

You tried to move forward, joining a moms’ group, forcing yourself to socialize. The other mothers were kind, sharing tips on teething and tantrums, but their husbands’ presence at picnics or playdates stung. You’d smile, nodding as they talked about shared parenting, while your heart ached for the partner you’d lost. Sophie’s laughter kept you grounded, her joy a beacon in the dark. But the weight of Bucky’s absence, the sting of his betrayal, lingered like a bruise. You’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and wonder if you’d ever heal, if you’d ever stop loving the man who’d broken your heart.

The farmer’s market was a burst of color and sound, stalls brimming with apples, fresh bread, and flowers under a crisp autumn sky. Sophie, now four, skipped beside you, her dark curls bouncing, her blue eyes wide with delight. She clutched a small basket, eager to pick out apples for a pie you’d promised to bake together. You smiled, her joy a balm to the ache you carried, but the moment shattered when a familiar voice cut through the crowd, sharp and cold as a winter wind.

“Well, look who it is.”

Bucky stood a few feet away, his vibranium arm glinting in the sunlight, his face etched with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. A blonde woman clung to his arm, her smile smug, while Yelena Belova and Ava Starr flanked him, their expressions icy. John Walker and Alexei Shostakov lingered behind, their silence a quiet complicity. The market’s chatter faded, the world narrowing to the man who’d once been your everything.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gripped Sophie’s hand, her small fingers warm against your trembling ones.

His eyes flicked to Sophie, then back to you, the smirk twisting into something crueler. “Playing happy family? She yours? Bet her dad’s long gone, right? The guy you picked over me?”

The words were a physical blow, stealing your breath. Sophie was his, her eyes a mirror of his own, but he didn’t know, couldn’t know, because he’d never given you the chance to tell him. Your throat closed, words trapped behind the pain of his accusation.

Yelena stepped forward, her voice venomous. “Pathetic, raising a kid alone after throwing away a good man. You’re nothing, Y/N.” Her blonde hair caught the sun, her sneer cutting deeper than her words.

Ava’s laugh was sharp, a blade in your chest. “She’s pretending to be a mom, but that kid’s just a reminder of her mistakes. Look at her, acting all innocent.”

John shifted, his eyes darting away, discomfort flickering across his face, but he said nothing. Alexei’s silence was heavier, his broad shoulders tense, but he didn’t intervene. The blonde on Bucky’s arm giggled, pressing closer to him. “She’s not worth your time, babe,” she purred, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Bucky, please,” you managed, your voice shaking as you stepped forward, Sophie clinging to your leg. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand,” he cut in, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “You broke us. You chose someone else, and now you’re stuck.” His gaze dropped to Sophie, his lip curling. “Cute kid, but she’s a mistake, just like you were.”

Sophie’s voice was small, trembling. “Mommy, why’s he so mean?”

You knelt, forcing a smile through the tears burning your eyes. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let’s go.” You lifted her into your arms, her warmth grounding you as you turned away.

Yelena’s laugh followed, sharp and mocking. “Run away, Y/N. That’s what you’re good at, ruining things.”

Ava’s voice joined in. “Don’t expect Bucky to fix your mess. He’s moved on.”

You kept walking, Sophie’s head buried in your shoulder, her questions muffled. “Why don’t they like us, Mommy?” she asked, her voice breaking your heart further. You didn’t answer, couldn’t find words past the lump in your throat. You met Bucky’s gaze one last time, his eyes flickering with something, doubt, maybe, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “I hope you find happiness, Bucky. Truly,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside you.

The market’s colors blurred as you walked away, Sophie’s hand warm in yours, her questions echoing in your mind. Their words were a weight you carried, each one a stone added to the burden of your loneliness. You passed stalls of pumpkins and chrysanthemums, the autumn air sharp in your lungs, and focused on Sophie’s breathing, her trust in you. You had to keep moving, for her, even as your heart screamed under the weight of their cruelty.

Back home, you tucked Sophie into bed, reading her favorite story about a brave rabbit until her eyes closed. You sat by her side, watching her chest rise and fall, her curls splayed on the pillow. The market encounter replayed in your mind, Bucky’s cold eyes, Yelena’s venom, Ava’s disdain. You’d faced their judgment before, in whispers at SHIELD, in pitying glances, but this was different. They’d attacked Sophie, called her a mistake, and the pain was a fire in your chest. You wanted to scream, to confront them, to make them see the truth, but you were too tired, too broken. Instead, you kissed Sophie’s forehead and whispered, “You’re my miracle, not a mistake.” But the words felt hollow against the weight of Bucky’s rejection.

Thor found you in a park six months after Sophie’s birth, your world reduced to diaper bags and sleepless nights. You were on a bench, Sophie asleep in her stroller, her tiny chest rising under a knit blanket. Tears streamed down your face, silent but unstoppable, as you stared at the playground where other families laughed. The weight of raising Sophie alone, of Bucky’s absence, had finally broken you that day, the loneliness a tide you couldn’t swim against.

Thor, visiting Midgard for a diplomatic meeting, had been walking the park’s paths, his hammer disguised as an umbrella. He saw you, your shoulders shaking, and sat beside you without a word. His presence was a quiet mountain, steady and unyielding. “You carry much, lady Y/N,” he said finally, his voice low, like distant thunder. “But you are not alone.”

You looked at him, his blue eyes kind, his Asgardian armor replaced with a simple jacket. “I don’t know how to do this, Thor,” you admitted, your voice raw. “I’m trying, but it’s so hard.”

He nodded, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Strength is not the absence of pain, but carrying it for those you love. You are strong, Y/N, for your child.”

From that day, Thor became your rock. He’d show up with groceries, bags of apples and bread balanced comically in his arms, insisting he’d “conquered the supermarket.” He’d play with Sophie, lifting her gently as she giggled, calling her “little warrior.” He listened when you needed to vent, his silence a gift that let you unravel without judgment.

Weeks after the farmer’s market, you sat with Thor in a cozy coffee shop, its walls lined with bookshelves, the air rich with the scent of espresso. Sophie, now four, colored at the table, her crayons dancing across paper as she drew a dragon from one of Thor’s Asgardian tales. Thor was mid-story, his voice animated as he described a mythical beast, when the door chimed. Yelena and Ava walked in, their eyes locking onto you, their sneers immediate.

“Well, well,” Yelena said loudly, her voice cutting through the shop’s hum. “The cheater and her new man. Moved on fast, didn’t you?”

Thor’s jaw tightened, his hand pausing on his coffee mug. “You speak without knowledge,” he said, his tone calm but edged with steel. “Y/N is my friend, nothing more.”

Ava snorted, crossing her arms. “Sure, big guy. Bet you’re the one who knocked her up. Poor Bucky dealt with her lies, and now you’re stuck.”

You kept your voice steady, for Sophie’s sake, though your hands shook under the table. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave us alone.”

Yelena leaned in, her voice a hiss. “You don’t get to play victim. You broke Bucky. You deserve nothing.”

John and Alexei were at the counter, John avoiding your gaze, Alexei’s face unreadable. Their silence was a betrayal, a refusal to challenge the narrative Bucky had fed them. Sophie looked up, her crayons still. “Mommy, why do they hate you?” she asked, her voice small.

You brushed her curls back, forcing a smile. “Some people don’t understand, sweetheart. But we have Thor.”

Thor stood, his presence commanding, his eyes never leaving Yelena. “Enough. Your words are cruel and baseless. Leave, or I will ensure you do.”

Yelena smirked but stepped back, Ava following. Yelena’s parting shot echoed as they left: “Keep pretending, Y/N. You’ll always be the one who ruined everything.”

Thor sat, his hand resting on your shoulder. “You are stronger than their cruelty, Y/N. I am honored to stand with you.”

That night, after Sophie was asleep, you collapsed on your living room floor, the rug rough against your palms. The coffee shop encounter replayed, Yelena’s venom, Ava’s disdain, Bucky’s absence. You hadn’t cheated, but they’d painted you as the villain, their words a mirror to Bucky’s rejection. The loneliness was suffocating, a weight that pressed you into the floor. You sobbed, the sound raw and broken, your body shaking. “I can’t do this,” you whispered, the words a confession to the empty room. Sophie’s snores drifted from her bedroom, a reminder of why you had to keep going. You curled into yourself, the pain a tidal wave, but her existence was the thread that pulled you back from the edge.

The leukemia diagnosis came like a thunderbolt on a clear day, shattering the fragile peace you’d built. Sophie was four, her laughter a constant in your life, when a fever lingered too long, her energy fading. You took her to the doctor, expecting a simple virus, but the blood tests told a different story. “Acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” the doctor said, his voice gentle but unyielding. “She’ll need aggressive treatment, possibly a bone marrow transplant.”

You sat in the hospital’s sterile waiting room, the fluorescent lights buzzing, Sophie curled in your lap, her face pale but her smile brave. “Will I get better, Mommy?” she asked, her blue eyes searching yours.

“Yes, baby,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at you. “We’ll fight this together.”

The hospital became your world, its antiseptic smell and beeping monitors a constant backdrop. Sophie endured chemotherapy, her curls falling out, her small body tethered to IVs. She’d smile through the pain, drawing pictures of you and her holding hands under a rainbow. You stayed by her bed, holding her hand, reading her stories, your voice a lifeline for both of you. But each beep of the monitor was a reminder of time slipping away, the donor list a dead end despite your endless calls and research.

You barely slept, your days spent advocating for Sophie, your nights researching clinical trials. Friends like Mrs. Carter sent meals, and Thor visited, bringing Sophie stuffed animals and tales of Asgard to make her laugh. But the fear was relentless, a shadow that grew with each failed donor match. You felt you were failing her, the guilt a weight heavier than any you’d carried before. “I’m sorry, baby,” you whispered when she slept, her hand limp in yours. “I’m trying so hard.”

Desperate, you sought Bucky at a dive bar in Brooklyn, its dim lights and smoky air a stark contrast to the hospital’s sterility. He sat alone, a whiskey in his hand, his eyes shadowed. You approached, your heart pounding, every step a battle against the pain of his rejection.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice trembling. “Sophie’s sick. Leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant. You might be a match. Please, test for her.”

He laughed, a bitter sound that cut through you. “Nerve, Y/N. Why should I help you play house with your kid and her deadbeat dad?”

“She’s not—” You stopped, the truth too raw to speak. “She’s my daughter, Bucky. She’s dying. Please.”

His jaw tightened, his eyes cold. “You made your bed, Y/N. Lie in it.”

He walked away, leaving you standing in the bar’s dim light, sobs wracking your body. You sank into a booth, the world blurring, hope slipping through your fingers like sand.

Sam Wilson had always been a quiet supporter, checking on you and Sophie with calls or visits, his kindness a steady presence. He found you in the hospital hallway, your face pale as you stared through the glass at Sophie, her small form hooked to machines. The ICU was a cold, sterile place, its silence broken only by the rhythmic beeps of monitors.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Sam asked, his voice gentle but firm, his hand on your shoulder.

You told him everything, Sophie’s leukemia, the failed donor search, Bucky’s refusal at the bar. Your voice broke as you spoke, tears falling. “I don’t know how to save her, Sam. I’ve tried everything.”

Sam’s eyes lingered on Sophie, her dark curls matted, her blue eyes closed in sleep. He froze, his brow furrowing as he studied her face. She looked like Bucky, the shape of her jaw, the hue of her eyes. He didn’t say it, but the resemblance hit him like a punch. He didn’t ask if she was Bucky’s; he assumed, the pieces clicking in his mind, and he resolved to push Bucky without spelling it out.

Sam found Bucky at the Avengers compound, his fists slamming into a punching bag, sweat dripping down his face. The gym was quiet, the air heavy with Bucky’s focus.

“Hey, man, we need to talk,” Sam said, leaning against the wall, his tone casual but insistent.

“Not now, Sam,” Bucky growled, his punches harder, the bag swinging.

“Yes, now,” Sam shot back, stepping closer. “Y/N’s in the hospital with her kid, Sophie. She’s dying, Buck. Leukemia. And you’re here beating up a bag instead of helping.”

Bucky paused, his chest heaving. “Why should I care? Y/N made her choices.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t mention Sophie’s resemblance directly. “You sure about that? You saw Y/N with some guy for two seconds and decided she betrayed you. Did you ever ask her side? Or did you just run?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his fists still. “I know what I saw.”

“Do you?” Sam pressed, his voice sharp. “You’re so damn stubborn, you’re letting a little girl suffer because you won’t face your own mistakes. Go to the hospital. Look at her. Tell me you don’t see something worth fighting for.”

Bucky shook his head, but Sam’s words lingered, sowing doubt. “You’re wrong,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Am I?” Sam said, stepping closer. “You’re scared, Buck. Scared you got it wrong. Scared you walked away from something real. Go see Sophie. Just look at her.”

Sam kept at it, dropping by the compound daily, his comments subtle but relentless. “Heard Y/N’s still at the hospital. Sophie’s fighting hard. You gonna keep hiding?” or “Y/N’s alone, man. You ever think you misjudged her?” He never said Sophie was Bucky’s, but his persistence chipped away at Bucky’s certainty, the image of Sophie’s face, those eyes, so like his, haunting him.

Sam’s persistence was a slow, steady pressure, like water eroding stone. He didn’t let up, cornering Bucky at the Avengers compound day after day, his words sharp but never direct about Sophie’s parentage. “You’re hiding, Buck,” he’d say, leaning against the gym’s doorway as Bucky lifted weights. “Y/N’s fighting for her kid’s life, and you’re here acting like it’s not your problem.” Or at the mess hall, over coffee: “You ever think you got it wrong about Y/N? That maybe you walked away too fast?” Sam’s eyes would bore into Bucky, searching for a crack in his stubborn resolve, planting seeds of doubt that grew with each encounter.

Bucky tried to shrug it off, his jaw tight, his vibranium arm flexing as he worked on his bike or cleaned his weapons. But Sam’s words haunted him, conjuring Sophie’s face, those blue eyes, so like his own, the dark curls that reminded him of his mother’s old photos. He’d seen her at the market, a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough to stir something he couldn’t name. Sam’s relentless prodding “Go to the hospital, man. Just look at her. Tell me you don’t feel something” chipped away at his certainty, the memory of Y/N’s plea in the bar and the rooftop encounter echoing alongside Sam’s challenges.

Finally, Sam’s patience snapped. He found Bucky on the compound’s rooftop, staring at the city skyline, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “This is it, Buck,” Sam said, his voice low but unyielding. “Y/N’s breaking, Sophie’s dying, and you’re up here drowning in self-pity. Go to the hospital. Look at that little girl. If you can walk away after that, fine. But you owe it to yourself to see her.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the bottle, his knuckles white. “You don’t get it, Sam. She betrayed me.”

“Did she?” Sam shot back, stepping closer, his eyes fierce. “Or did you see what you wanted to see because it was easier than trusting? You’re scared you got it wrong, and you’re letting a kid pay for it. Go look at her, Buck. Stop running.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but Sam’s words burned, a fire he couldn’t extinguish. That night, he found himself at the hospital, his boots heavy on the linoleum floor, Sam at his side. The ICU was a maze of beeps and sterile light, the air thick with antiseptic and fear. Sam led him to Sophie’s room, stopping at the glass window. “Look at her,” Sam said, his voice soft but firm. “Tell me you don’t see it.”

Bucky looked. Sophie lay in the bed, her small body dwarfed by tubes and monitors, her dark curls matted against the pillow, her blue eyes closed. But her face, her jaw, the shape of her nose, the faint freckles, was a mirror of his own. His knees buckled, his breath catching in his throat. “No…” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Sophie’s condition had deteriorated, her small body rushed to the ICU after a fever spiked uncontrollably, her breathing shallow and labored. The hospital’s sterile halls were a maze of despair, each fluorescent light casting harsh shadows on the polished linoleum. The doctors’ words were a relentless drumbeat: “We’re running out of time.” Their faces were kind but grim, their eyes betraying the dwindling hope they couldn’t voice. You’d begged Bucky at the bar, his bitter laughter echoing in your ears, his refusal a final blow to the fragile hope you’d clung to. Sophie, your light, was slipping away, and you were powerless.

You’d spent the day by her bed, her small hand limp in yours, the monitors’ beeps a cruel metronome to your fear. But the pain of watching her fade became unbearable, her pale face framed by tubes a silent accusation of your failure. You needed air, a moment to escape the suffocating weight of the hospital room. You slipped out, your sneakers silent on the floor, your face streaked with tears, your breaths uneven. A nurse, one who’d seen you night after night, watched you go, her brow furrowed with concern, but you didn’t notice, your mind a fog of grief as you climbed the stairwell to the rooftop.

The metal door creaked as you pushed it open, the cold night air hitting you like a slap. The city sprawled below, a glittering web of lights under a starless sky, the distant hum of traffic and faint music a cruel reminder of a world that kept moving while yours crumbled. You stepped to the edge, the concrete ledge rough under your trembling hands, the wind whipping your hair across your tear-streaked face. Sophie was your everything, the reason you’d survived years of loneliness, Bucky’s abandonment, the cruelty of Yelena and Ava’s words. But now, with her fading, the weight was unbearable. You’d failed her. The thought was a blade, twisting with every memory, her giggles in the park, her small hand in yours, her voice calling “Mama.” You’d begged Bucky to help, and he’d laughed, called her a mistake, just as he had at the market. The years of pain, the isolation, the judgment, it crashed over you, a tidal wave drowning your will to fight.

You leaned forward, the void below beckoning, a promise of release from the agony. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” you whispered, your voice breaking, the words lost in the wind. “I failed you.” Your eyes closed, the city’s hum fading, your heart screaming to let go, to end the pain that had consumed you.

Bucky’s voice cut through, low and rough, laced with a panic you’d never heard before. “Y/N, step back.” He stood a few feet away, his leather jacket slick with the night’s mist, his vibranium arm glinting faintly under the rooftop’s dim lights. His blue eyes were wide, haunted, his face pale as he took a cautious step closer, his hands raised as if approaching a wounded animal.

Bucky had come to the hospital that night, driven by Sam’s relentless prodding, the image of Sophie’s face, those eyes so like his, burning in his mind. He’d stood outside her room, watching her through the glass, his heart twisting at her fragility, his doubts about you warring with the guilt Sam had stoked. But you weren’t there, your chair empty, Sophie alone with the monitors. A nurse, the same one who’d seen you leave, approached him, her voice soft but urgent. “She’s not herself,” she said, her eyes worried. “I saw her head to the stairwell, crying. I think she went to the rooftop. You should check on her.” Bucky’s stomach had dropped, fear propelling him up the stairs, his boots pounding, his breath ragged as he pushed through the door and saw you at the edge.

You turned, your body shaking, sobs tearing from your throat. “Bucky,” you choked out, your voice raw, barely audible over the wind. “I can’t do this. She’s dying, and I’m not enough. I begged you, and you laughed. You called her a mistake. I can’t save her.”

He flinched, your words hitting like a punch, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer, his boots heavy on the concrete. “Y/N, please,” he said, his voice cracking, his flesh hand reaching out but stopping short, as if afraid you’d shatter. “I didn’t know—God, I don’t know what I’m doing, but you can’t do this. Sophie needs you.”

“You don’t get to say that!” you cried, your voice rising, raw with years of hurt. “You left me, Bucky. You believed I betrayed you, walked away without listening. You called our daughter a mistake. I’ve been alone, fighting for her, and you laughed in my face when I asked for help. I’m not enough, and she’s paying for it.”

His face crumpled, guilt and pain etched into every line, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I was wrong,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, trembling. “Sam’s been on me, making me question everything. I saw her at the market, Y/N—those eyes. I don’t know what’s true anymore, but I know you can’t give up. Sophie needs her mom. Please, step back.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face, the wind cold against your skin. “I’ve tried everything—doctors, donor lists, you. She’s slipping away, and I can’t stop it. I’m so tired, Bucky.”

He closed the distance, his hands gentle but firm as he gripped your shoulders, pulling you back from the edge. “I’m here now,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “I don’t know if I can fix this, but I’m not letting you go. Not like this. Sophie needs you, and I—” He stopped, his breath hitching, his eyes locked on yours. “I need you to stay.”

You collapsed against him, your sobs muffled in his chest, his leather jacket cold and damp against your cheek. He held you tightly, his vibranium arm a solid anchor, his flesh hand cradling your head, letting you break without pulling away. The wind howled, but Bucky’s warmth was a shield, grounding you. “I don’t know how to keep going,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “She’s everything, and I’m losing her.”

“You’re not losing her,” Bucky said, his voice low, fierce. “She’s fighting because of you. You’re stronger than you know, Y/N. I was a fool to ever doubt you. Stay for her. Please.” He guided you away from the edge, his arm steady around you, leading you back to the stairwell. You clung to him, your legs weak, his words a faint spark in the darkness, urging you to keep fighting.

Back in Sophie’s room, you sat by her bed, her small hand limp in yours, the monitors’ steady beeps a cruel reminder of her fragility. Bucky stayed outside the glass, his silhouette a shadow in the hallway, his eyes fixed on Sophie. You didn’t look at him, your focus on your daughter’s pale face, her dark curls matted against the pillow. You memorized her features, her lashes, the curve of her cheeks, the faint freckles across her nose. The fear of losing her was a constant ache, but Bucky’s words lingered, a fragile lifeline. “I’m here, baby,” you whispered to Sophie, squeezing her hand, her warmth grounding you. “I won’t give up.” You didn’t know if Bucky’s presence meant anything lasting, if his doubt would lead to action, but for now, you held onto Sophie, resolving to fight another day.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to Sophie, her small form so fragile, and a sob tore from his throat. “I’ll get tested,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Now. I’ll do it now.”

You nodded, your shoulders sagging, the weight of years of pain and fear etched into your face. “Thank you,” you said, your voice flat, as if the effort of speaking drained you.

Bucky followed a nurse to a lab, his mind a storm of guilt and fear. The needle was a small pain compared to the ache in his chest, the realization that Sophie was his daughter, that he’d abandoned you both. He sat in the waiting area against the wall after, his head in his hands, replaying every moment, your pleas at the gala, your tears in the bar, the market where he’d lashed out, the rooftop where he’d seen you break. He’d been so sure, so blinded by his own insecurities, that he’d missed the truth staring him in the face. Sophie’s face. His face.

Sam sat beside him, silent for once, his presence enough. “You did the right thing,” he said finally, his voice low. “Whatever happens, you’re here now.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the floor, the weight of his mistakes heavier than ever. He didn’t know if you’d ever forgive him, if he’d ever forgive himself, but for Sophie, he’d try. He’d do anything.

Bucky’s bone marrow was a match, a miracle that felt like a reprieve from the universe. The transplant was grueling, Sophie’s small body enduring more than any child should, but she was a fighter, her spirit unbroken despite the pain. You lived in the hospital during her recovery, sleeping in a chair by her bed, your hand never far from hers. The monitors’ beeps became a rhythm of hope, each one a sign she was still with you. Slowly, her color returned, her laughter echoing in the sterile room as she drew pictures of rainbows and dragons, her curls growing back in soft waves.

Bucky was there, too, but you kept him at arm’s length. He’d sit outside Sophie’s room, watching through the glass, his eyes haunted but determined. He brought her gifts, stuffed animals, books, a small music box that played a 1940s tune. Sophie’s face would light up, her voice calling “Bucky!” with a joy that twisted your heart. She didn’t know the pain he’d caused, the years he’d been absent. To her, he was a kind man who read her stories and made her laugh, and you couldn’t take that from her.

One afternoon, Sophie sat up in bed, her cheeks pinker than they’d been in months, a peony in her hand, Bucky’s latest gift, tied with a blue ribbon, a nod to the flowers he’d once brought you. “Look, Mommy!” she said, holding it up, her blue eyes sparkling. “Bucky says peonies mean good luck!” You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes, the memory of Bucky tying ribbons around flowers for you a lifetime ago. Sophie’s joy was pure, untainted by the past, and you wanted to protect that, even if it meant swallowing your pain.

Bucky was learning her, memorizing her quirks, the way she scrunched her nose when she laughed, her love for strawberry ice cream, her insistence on drawing stars on every picture. One day, she called him “Daddy,” the word slipping out as he read her a story about a brave knight. He froze, his eyes meeting yours through the glass, a mix of awe and guilt in his expression. You turned away, focusing on Sophie’s drawing, your heart a tangle of gratitude and grief. She deserved a father, and he was trying, but the wounds he’d left were too deep to heal.

Bucky tried to reach you, his efforts quiet but persistent. He left notes on your doorstep, slipped under the door of your temporary hospital housing, simple messages like “Thinking of you” or quotes from poems you’d once read together, their words etched in your memory. “I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart),” one read, a line from e.e. cummings that you’d whispered to him on that rooftop years ago. You’d find them in the morning, your fingers tracing his handwriting, but you’d tuck them away, unable to face the emotions they stirred.

One stormy night, echoing that first night years ago, he stood outside your hospital housing, rain soaking his jacket, his hair plastered to his face. You opened the door, the wind carrying the scent of rain and asphalt, and saw him standing there, his eyes pleading. “Y/N, please,” he said, his voice rough, barely audible over the storm. “I know I messed up. I was wrong about everything, the gala, you, Sophie. I was a fool, and I’m so sorry. Let me make it right.”

You stood in the doorway, your arms crossed, the rain a curtain between you. His face was open, raw, the man you’d loved still there beneath the pain. But the hurt was a wall, built from years of loneliness, his cruel words at the market, his laughter in the bar. “I’m thankful for Sophie,” you said, your voice flat, numb. “You saved her life, Bucky, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But what I felt for you died the day you called her a mistake. I can’t... feel that again. I don’t have it in me.”

He nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, the rain masking them. “I’ll keep trying,” he said, his voice breaking. “For you. For her. I’ll be here, Y/N, as long as it takes.”

You closed the door, leaning against it, your breath shaky. The storm raged outside, mirroring the turmoil inside you. You wanted to believe him, to find the love you’d once had, but it was buried under too much pain, too many scars.

You were a shell, moving through the days with mechanical precision. Sophie’s recovery was a miracle, her laughter a light that should have warmed you, but you were numb, a ghost of the woman you’d been. You’d sit by her bed, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling, and feel nothing but gratitude tinged with emptiness. You’d smile for her, braid her hair, sing her lullabies, but the joy was distant, like a song you could hear but not feel. Thor’s visits, his warm hugs and Asgardian tales, brought fleeting comfort, but even his kindness couldn’t fill the void. Sam’s check-ins, his quiet support, kept you grounded, but the love you’d had for Bucky was gone, buried under years of hurt, its absence a hollow ache.

At night, you’d stand by the hospital window, the city lights a blur, and whisper to Sophie, “I’m here for you, baby.” But the words felt like a lie. You weren’t sure who you were anymore, only that you had to keep going for her, even if you were broken. You’d touch the peony on her bedside table, its petals soft, and wonder if you’d ever feel whole again.

One evening, Sophie woke from a nap, her eyes bright despite the hospital’s dim light. “Mommy, tell me about when you and Daddy were happy,” she said, her voice curious, unaware of the pain it stirred. You hesitated, your heart clenching, but her hopeful gaze pulled the words from you. You told her about Coney Island, the ferris wheel lights, Bucky’s laugh as he won her a stuffed bear. You left out the gala, the betrayal, the years alone, focusing on the love that had created her. She smiled, clutching the peony, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of warmth, a reminder of why you fought. But when she slept, the numbness returned, a silent companion you couldn’t shake.

The truth about Sophie’s parentage spread through Sam’s intervention, a ripple that reached Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei. They arrived at the hospital one gray morning, their faces pale, their eyes heavy with guilt. The waiting room was quiet, the air thick with the scent of coffee and antiseptic, the hum of the hospital a constant backdrop. You stood by Sophie’s room, watching her sleep through the glass, when they approached, their steps hesitant.

Yelena spoke first, her usual sharpness softened, her blonde hair pulled back, her green eyes downcast. “Y/N,” she said, her voice low, almost breaking. “Sam told us everything. About Sophie, about Bucky’s mistake. I believed him without questioning, and I was cruel. I said things I can’t take back. I’m so sorry.”

Ava stepped forward, her dark eyes glistening, her hands clasped tightly. “We were wrong,” she said, her voice trembling. “I called Sophie a mistake, mocked you for being alone. I didn’t know the truth, but that’s no excuse. You didn’t deserve our words. Can you ever forgive us?”

John cleared his throat, his broad shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I saw your pain at the market, in the coffee shop, and I stayed quiet,” he said, his voice rough. “I should’ve spoken up, questioned Bucky’s story. I’m sorry, Y/N. I failed you.”

Alexei, usually boisterous, was subdued, his red beard framing a face etched with regret. “I didn’t ask questions,” he said, his Russian accent thick. “I stood by, let them hurt you. I should have been better. I’m sorry.”

You looked at them, the hurt still raw, their words from the market and coffee shop echoing in your mind. Yelena’s venom, Ava’s disdain, John and Alexei’s silence, they’d painted you as the villain, their judgment a weight you’d carried alongside Bucky’s betrayal. Sophie slept behind the glass, her breathing steady, and you drew strength from her presence. “You broke me,” you said, your voice steady but laced with pain. “Your words, your assumptions—they cut deeper than you know. I was alone, raising my daughter, and you made it harder. But I don’t want hate in Sophie’s life. She’s been through enough. Be better. For her.”

They nodded, their faces solemn, and promised to try. Over the next months, they showed it through actions. Yelena brought Sophie books, colorful stories about brave girls, sitting by her bed to read when you needed a break. Ava helped with errands, picking up groceries or prescriptions, her quiet apologies in every gesture. John started fixing things in your apartment, a leaky faucet, a wobbly shelf, his way of making amends. Alexei, with his booming laugh, told Sophie silly stories, making her giggle even on hard days. Their efforts were slow, tentative, but genuine, and Sophie’s smile when they visited was a small step toward healing.

Word spread beyond them, the truth shifting how others saw you. Mrs. Carter, your neighbor, baked cookies for Sophie, her eyes soft with understanding when she heard the story. The moms’ group you’d joined rallied, organizing a meal train for you and Sophie, their support a quiet apology for the times they hadn’t understood your pain. Even Natasha Romanoff stopped by, her presence a reminder of SHIELD days, her apology simple but sincere “I should’ve checked on you more, Y/N. I’m here now.” The hospital became a hub of quiet support, a network rebuilding around you and Sophie, but the scars remained, a reminder of the years you’d faced alone.

You stood by Sophie’s bed one evening, watching her draw a picture of you, her, and Bucky holding hands under a tree. “This is us,” she said, her voice bright, unaware of the complexity. You smiled, but the ache was there, the memory of their cruelty mingling with their apologies. Forgiving them was hard, not because you wanted to hold onto hate, but because their words had deepened the loneliness you’d carried. You wanted Sophie to grow up surrounded by love, not resentment, so you let them in, bit by bit, for her sake. But at night, when the hospital was quiet, you’d sit by her side, your heart heavy, wondering if trust could ever be fully rebuilt.

Sophie thrived, her laughter filling your small Queens apartment as she danced to music, her curls bouncing, her blue eyes bright. The hospital days faded into memory, replaced by park visits and bedtime stories, her strength a miracle you held onto. Bucky was a constant now, taking her to the park, pushing her on swings, learning her favorite ice cream flavors. She called him “Daddy” with ease, her trust in him growing with each visit, her drawings now featuring him alongside you and her. Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei became allies, their actions, books, errands, laughter, mending the wounds they’d caused. Thor remained your rock, his visits filled with Asgardian tales and warm hugs, while Sam’s quiet check-ins reminded you of his role in bringing Bucky back.

But you carried scars, invisible but deep. Watching Sophie, her smile so like Bucky’s, stirred an ache of lost love, a reminder of what could have been. You functioned, cooked her favorite pancakes, braided her hair, cheered at her school plays, but inside, you were hollow, the love you’d had for Bucky buried under years of pain. You’d see him with Sophie, tying ribbons around peonies, and feel a pang, the memory of his love now a ghost. You wanted to feel again, to find the woman who’d laughed with him on rooftops, but she was gone, replaced by someone who survived for Sophie.

Mornings were a whirlwind of cereal bowls and Sophie’s chatter, her voice filling the apartment as she planned her day. You’d walk her to preschool, her small hand in yours, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot. Bucky would meet you there sometimes, his smile tentative as he waved to Sophie, his eyes searching yours for a connection you couldn’t offer. You’d nod, polite but distant, and watch as Sophie ran to him, her joy a contrast to your numbness. Afternoons were spent working, your laptop humming as you balanced freelance projects, Sophie’s drawings taped to the wall beside you. Evenings were for her, reading, playing, tucking her in with a kiss. But the nights were yours, and they were lonely, the silence a reminder of the love you’d lost.

One evening, you sat on your balcony, the city lights a soft glow below, a glass of wine untouched in your hand. Sophie slept inside, her stuffed dragon from Thor clutched in her arms. You thought of the rooftop, the edge you’d nearly stepped off, and Bucky’s voice pulling you back. You thought of his notes, his rain-soaked plea, his efforts to rebuild what he’d broken. You thought of Yelena and the others, their apologies and actions, their slow return to your life. The pain was still there, a quiet companion, but so was Sophie’s laughter, her warmth, her trust. “We’re enough,” you whispered, the words a mantra you were starting to believe.

You stood, leaning against the railing, the cool metal grounding you. The city hummed below, alive and indifferent, but your world was inside, in the small girl who’d fought so hard to live. You didn’t know if you’d ever love again, if you’d ever trust Bucky or the others fully, but for Sophie, you’d keep going. You’d build a fragile future, one day at a time, her smile your guiding light.

One day, Sophie ran to you with a drawing, a family under a rainbow, you, her, and Bucky holding hands. “Can Daddy come for dinner?” she asked, her eyes hopeful. You hesitated, the pain flaring, but her smile softened it. “Maybe,” you said, your voice soft. “We’ll see, sweetheart.” It wasn’t a promise, but it was a possibility, a crack in the wall you’d built. For Sophie, you’d try, even if your heart wasn’t ready. You hugged her, her warmth filling the hollow spaces, and felt a flicker of hope, fragile but real.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

#nif fic recs #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #angst #pregnancy #breakup #illness

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niffala · 20 days ago

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Story Masterlist

Last Updated: June 2, 2025

About This Masterlist

✨ Welcome to my masterlist! Here you’ll find all my stories categorized by type and genre. Hope you enjoy reading! 💌

🗂️ Genre Key:

🩶Angst | 🤍Fluff |🔥Smut | 🫂Comfort

📌 One Shots

Fractured Light [Bucky x Reader] 🩶|🤍 ↳ In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s. ➤ Read here

A Fox Among Heroes (one shot) [Bucky x Reader] 🤍 ↳ When a skilled fighter joins the Avengers, she hides her true identity as a kitsune, a seven-tailed fox spirit with an uncontrollable charm that bewitches men. ➤ Read here There's also a Mini Series for this Story 'coz I really enjoyed the concept of an Asian Mythological Creature with the Avengers (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) [Avengers x Reader] 🤍|🔥 ➤ Masterlist

Fractured Bonds and Fragile Futures [Bucky x Reader] 🩶 ↳ Believing you betrayed him, Bucky vanished, unaware you were pregnant with his daughter, Sophie. Four years later, you’ve built a life alone in Queens, raising Sophie with fierce devotion, but a cruel reunion at a farmer’s market reopens old wounds. ➤ Read here

Better off Without Me [Bucky x Reader] 🩶|🫂 ↳ You, a sharp-tongued Avenger, love Bucky Barnes, but his Winter Soldier past haunts him. When he sees you laughing with Steve Rogers, the “perfect” hero, Bucky’s insecurities flare, believing you deserve better. ➤ Read here

Shadows of the Past [Bucky x Reader] 🩶|🫂 ↳ In the heart of Brooklyn, love brews alongside secrets as you share quiet mornings with Bucky Barnes, the man whose past holds a ghost. Every October, her shadow steals him away, until a devastating discovery at her grave drives you to flee to Boston. A year of longing and regret follows, with Bucky haunted by the realization that losing you cuts deeper than any loss before. ➤ Read here

Betrayal [Bucky x Reader] 🩶|🫂 ↳ When a mission goes sideways, the Avengers are left reeling from what appears to be a devastating betrayal, yours. Believing you've turned on them, the team cuts you off. But the truth is darker than they imagined. And when you came back, bleeding and broken to warn them of the threat coming… they still turned away. ➤ Read here

📚 Series

Until Her Last Breath [Bucky x Reader] 🔥|🩶|🤍 ↳ Set after the events of The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes is a member of the Avengers but carries heavy emotional scars. When Tony introduces a mysterious, immortal woman to the team, one who has loved Bucky since the 1940s, his coldness becomes cruelty. Unbeknownst to him, the woman he mistreats has been silently watching over him for decades. But when Steve Rogers begins to show her the warmth Bucky denied her, the old soldier is forced to confront his own feelings, too late. A mission to rescue her from Hydra turns into a race against time and regret. Read Here ➤ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Author's Note:

Thank you so much for stopping by! 💖

I hope you find something here that speaks to your heart (or breaks it just a little 🥲).

Feel free to reblog, comment, or message me if a story hits you right in the feels, I love hearing from you! 🫶

More stories coming soon, so stay tuned and take care always. Love lots! 💌✨

#nif masterlist recs

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niffala · 20 days ago

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Trust is everything and communication is soooooooo important. Happy he finally opened up. I was also starting to fear it was too late.

Shadows of the Past

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary:

In the heart of Brooklyn, love brews alongside secrets as you share quiet mornings with Bucky Barnes, the man whose past holds a ghost. Every October, her shadow steals him away, until a devastating discovery at her grave drives you to flee to Boston. A year of longing and regret follows, with Bucky haunted by the realization that losing you cuts deeper than any loss before.

📎Genre:

Angst | Slow Burn | Hurt/Comfort | Post-Canon | Emotional Reconciliation

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Emotional hurt / angst → Implied emotional neglect → Grief and unresolved trauma → Past love / mourning a former partner → Temporary separation → Slow-paced healing and trust rebuilding → Soft domestic moments & yearning

The Brooklyn apartment smelled of coffee and autumn, a mix of roasted beans and the faint, crisp bite of October air slipping through the cracked kitchen window. You sat at the small wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use, your fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug painted with a faded sunflower. The mug was yours, a quiet claim in the shared life you’d built with James Buchanan Barnes over the past three years. Every morning, Bucky rose before you, brewed the coffee, and poured yours first, a ritual so steady it felt like a vow. This morning, though, the coffee tasted bitter, or maybe that was just the ache in your chest.

Bucky stood at the counter, his back to you, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he rinsed the coffee pot. His movements were deliberate, mechanical, like a man going through the motions of a life he wasn’t fully present in. You watched him, searching for the man who’d laughed with you over burnt pancakes last month, who’d pulled you close in the middle of the night when a thunderstorm rattled the windows. That man was slipping away, and you didn’t know why.

“Buck,” you said softly, testing the waters. Your voice felt too loud in the quiet kitchen, like it might shatter something fragile. “You okay?”

He paused, just for a moment, before turning to face you. His blue eyes, usually so piercing they could pin you in place, were clouded, looking past you to some distant point you couldn’t see. “Yeah, doll,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across pavement. “Just… tired.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it. You’d heard that excuse before, every October when the calendar flipped and the air grew heavy with something unspoken. For three years, you’d respected his silence, told yourself it was just Bucky’s way of carrying his past—the war, the Winter Soldier, the decades of loss that still haunted his dreams. You’d convinced yourself it was enough to love him through it, to wait for him to come back to you when November arrived.

But this year, something was different. Maybe it was the way his smiles had all but vanished, or the way his touches lingered less, like he was afraid to hold on too tightly. Maybe it was the way your own heart felt like it was fraying at the edges, unraveling with every day he drifted further away.

Alpine, the white fluff of a cat you’d adopted together from a shelter two years ago, leapt onto the table with a soft thump. Her green eyes blinked at you, and she nudged your hand, demanding attention. You scratched behind her ears, her purrs filling the silence, a small comfort against the tension coiling in the room.

Bucky watched her, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face, but it faded as quickly as it came. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair, the one that smelled faintly of motor oil and him, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Got a meeting with Sam,” he said, already halfway to the door. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Promise?” you asked, only half-teasing. You wanted him to turn around, to really look at you, to see the question in your eyes that you didn’t dare ask aloud.

He nodded, his back still to you, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stared at the calendar tacked to the fridge, its edges curling slightly. October 17th was unmarked, but you knew it was coming, three weeks away. You’d noticed it before, the way Bucky’s jaw tightened when he glanced at that date, the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight. You’d never asked, told yourself it was respect, not fear, that kept you quiet. Now, you weren’t so sure.

The days bled into one another, each one heavier than the last.

Bucky was still there, he cooked dinner, spaghetti with too much garlic one night, chili that made your eyes water the next. He fed Alpine, scooping tuna-flavored kibble into her bowl with a care that made your heart ache. He kissed you goodnight, his lips soft but brief, like he was afraid to linger.

But he wasn’t there. His eyes were somewhere else, his laughter gone, his warmth replaced by a quiet that felt like a wall you couldn’t climb.

You tried to fill the silence with normalcy, a desperate bid to bridge the gap that widened with each passing day. You talked about work, about the bookstore in Manhattan where you spent your days shelving novels and recommending thrillers to customers. “Got a guy yesterday asking for something ‘grittier than Grisham,’” you said, forcing a lightness into your voice as you stirred your coffee, the sunflower mug warm in your hands. “Ended up selling him a Lehane. Felt like a small victory.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes on the counter where he was wiping an already clean spot with a rag. “Sounds like you’re good at it,” he said, his voice low, clipped, like he was rationing words. “You always know what people need.”

The compliment fell flat, lacking the warmth it might have held a month ago. You swallowed, trying again. “How’s Sam doing? You two been busy?” you asked, leaning forward, hoping for a glimpse of the Bucky who used to share stories about missions over late-night pizza.

“He’s fine,” Bucky said, his gaze flicking to the window, avoiding yours. “Missions are… same as always. Nothing to tell.”

The curt response was a wall, and you felt the distance growing like a crack in the earth, splitting the kitchen in two. You sipped your coffee, the bitterness sharp on your tongue, and searched for something else to say, but the words felt heavy, useless. Alpine sensed it too, splitting her time between you, curling up on your lap one moment, her white fur soft against your jeans, and nudging Bucky’s hand the next, her green eyes pleading as if she could stitch you back together.

“Alpine’s been clingy lately,” you said, scratching her ears, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Think she knows something’s off.”

Bucky’s hand paused on Alpine’s head, his fingers stilling in her fur. “Yeah,” he said, his voice softer now, but still distant, like he was speaking from another room. “She’s smart like that.”

The silence crept back, heavier than before, and you felt the ache in your chest deepen, a quiet warning that something was slipping away. You wanted to reach for him, to demand he tell you what was wrong, but the fear of his answer kept you quiet. Instead, you held onto Alpine’s warmth, the coffee mug, the fragile normalcy, and prayed it would be enough to hold you together.

One evening, you caught him staring at the bookshelf in the living room, his fingers brushing the spine of an old, dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby. It wasn’t a book you’d ever seen him read, but he touched it like it held a secret. Later, you found him in the kitchen, standing over the record player, a jazz vinyl spinning silently because he hadn’t lifted the needle. The song was one you didn’t recognize, something from the 1940s, all trumpets and longing. He didn’t play it, just stared at the record like it might speak to him.

“Buck,” you said, leaning against the doorway. “What’s going on?”

He startled, his hand jerking away from the record player. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?” You stepped closer, your heart pounding. You wanted to reach for him, to pull him back from wherever he was, but the space between you felt like a chasm.

He shook his head, a small, defeated gesture. “Old stuff. Doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. You could see it in the lines of his face, in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand he let you in. Instead, you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and turned back to the kitchen to feed Alpine. Her purring was the only sound in the apartment that night.

The breaking point came at 2:13 a.m. You woke to an empty bed, the sheets on Bucky’s side cold. Alpine was curled at the foot of the mattress, her white fur glowing faintly in the moonlight, but Bucky was gone. You slipped on a sweater, the oversized one he’d bought you at a flea market last summer, and padded into the living room. He was there, sitting on the couch, a glass of water untouched on the coffee table. His metal arm glinted in the dim light, and his flesh hand was clenched into a fist, like he was holding onto something he couldn’t let go.

“Bucky?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but he flinched like you’d shouted.

He looked at you, and for a moment, you saw something raw in his eyes—grief, fear, maybe both. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that guarded look you’d come to dread. “Go back to bed, sweetheart,” he said, but there was no warmth in it. It was a plea, not a request, and it cut deeper than you expected.

You stepped closer, heart pounding. “Talk to me. Please.”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “It’s nothing. Just… bad dreams.”

You wanted to believe him, but the lie hung heavy in the air. You sat beside him, close but not touching, the couch sagging under your weight. Alpine jumped up, settling between you, her warmth a small bridge in the growing chasm. You reached to pet her, and your fingers brushed against Bucky’s, the brief contact sending a jolt through you. It was the closest you’d felt to him in days, and it hurt more than it should.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They hung in the air, sharp and final. “Watching you disappear every year. I need to know what’s going on, Bucky. I need you to let me in.”

His hand stilled on Alpine’s fur, and he looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time in weeks. His eyes were tired, haunted, and you saw the weight of a hundred years in them. “You don’t want to know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Trust me.”

But you didn’t trust him, not about this. Not anymore. The realization hit you like a punch, stealing your breath. You stood, wrapping your arms around yourself, the sweater suddenly too thin against the chill in your bones. “I do trust you,” you said, your voice trembling. “But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at the glass of water, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a blow. You turned and went back to bed, Alpine trailing behind you, her soft meows the only sound in the dark. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the ache in your chest spreading like a bruise. October 17th was ten days away, and you knew, with a certainty that made your stomach churn, that it was the key to everything.

The next morning, Bucky poured your coffee first, as always. You sipped it in silence, watching him move through the kitchen like a ghost, his eyes avoiding yours. You didn’t ask where he was going when he grabbed his jacket and left. You didn’t ask if he’d be back for dinner. Instead, you sat with Alpine, her warmth against your leg, and made a decision.

October 17th dawned gray and cold, the Brooklyn sky heavy with clouds that threatened rain. You woke to the familiar sound of the coffee maker gurgling in the kitchen, the scent of roasted beans mingling with the damp air seeping through the window. Bucky was already up, as always, pouring your coffee into the sunflower mug before filling his own. The ritual, once a quiet promise of love, now felt like a tether pulling you toward something you weren’t sure you wanted to face.

He set the mug in front of you, his eyes avoiding yours, and mumbled something about errands before grabbing his jacket and leaving the apartment. Alpine watched him go, her tail flicking from her perch on the windowsill, and you felt a pang of guilt for what you were about to do.

You were going to follow him.

You’d made up your mind last night, after days of watching Bucky slip further into that unreachable place. The calendar on the fridge was a silent accusation, October 17th looming like a storm cloud. You couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t keep pretending his silence wasn’t breaking you. So, when he left, you grabbed your coat, a gray wool thing that smelled faintly of the bookstore where you worked, and followed him out into the morning chill.

The subway ride was a blur, your heart pounding as you kept your distance, a scarf pulled high to hide your face. Bucky moved with purpose, his leather jacket blending into the crowd, but you knew his walk, the slight limp in his left leg, the way his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the world. He didn’t look back, didn’t notice you trailing him to a small cemetery just outside Brooklyn, its iron gates rusted and creaking in the wind.

The air smelled of wet leaves and earth, and your breath caught as Bucky slipped through the gates, his steps slowing as he approached a row of headstones.

You hung back, hiding behind a gnarled oak tree, its branches bare and skeletal. Your stomach churned, a mix of dread and curiosity, as Bucky stopped at a grave near the edge of the cemetery. He knelt, his head bowed, and you saw his shoulders tremble, a motion so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t watching so closely.

The sight of him, so raw and vulnerable, made your chest ache, but you couldn’t look away. You stepped closer, careful to stay hidden, your boots sinking into the damp grass.

The headstone was simple, weathered by decades but well-kept, the grass around it neatly trimmed. A small, oval photograph was embedded in the stone, and your breath hitched as you saw her face—a woman, young, with dark curls and a soft smile, frozen in black-and-white.

The name etched below her read "Dorothy “Dot” Hughes, 1918–1943. October 17th, 1943" Today’s date, eighty-two years ago. Your legs felt weak, and you gripped the tree for support, the rough bark biting into your palm. Dorothy. Dot. Who was she to him?

Bucky’s hand reached out, brushing the photograph with a tenderness that stopped your heart. “I’m sorry, Dot,” he whispered, his voice so low it barely reached you. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve been better.”

The words were a knife, sharp and clean, cutting through the fog of your confusion. You didn’t know her, didn’t know her story, but you knew that look in Bucky’s eyes—grief, raw and unending, the kind that carved out pieces of a person and left them hollow.

You wanted to go to him, to wrap your arms around him and pull him back from that dark place, but your feet were rooted to the ground. He didn’t know you were here. He didn’t know you’d seen this, seen her.

Your mind raced, piecing together fragments of the past three years. The dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby on the bookshelf, the jazz records he never played, the way he’d stare at the calendar every October like it was a guillotine.

Dorothy Hughes. Dot. His first love, maybe, from a life before the war, before Hydra, before the Winter Soldier. A woman he’d lost, and carried with him for nearly a century.

The weight of it pressed against your chest, stealing your breath. Why hadn’t he told you? Why had he let this ghost live between you, unspoken, for so long?

The first raindrop fell, cold against your cheek, and you realized you were crying. Not loud, not sobbing, but silent tears mixing with the rain, your scarf damp against your lips.

You felt betrayed, but not by infidelity, by silence. By the piece of himself he’d kept locked away, a piece you’d never been allowed to touch. And yet, you couldn’t blame him, not entirely.

The grief in his posture, the way his fingers lingered on her photograph—it wasn’t betrayal in the way you’d feared. It was something deeper, something that hurt more.

You turned away before he could see you, your boots squelching in the mud as you hurried back to the subway. The rain was falling harder now, soaking through your coat, but you barely noticed. Your mind was a storm of questions, each one sharper than the last. Who was Dot to him? A fiancée, a sister, a friend? Why did her death anniversary pull him so far away from you? And why, after three years of coffee mugs and shared beds and Alpine’s purring, did he still keep her hidden?

The subway ride back to Brooklyn was suffocating, the crowded car pressing in on you as you clutched the pole, your reflection ghostly in the window. You saw yourself—tired eyes, wet hair, a face that looked older than it should—and wondered if you’d ever really known him. Bucky, with his quiet smiles and steady hands, his nightmares that woke you both in the dead of night.

You thought you’d seen all of him, the broken parts and the healing ones, but now you weren’t sure. The photograph of Dot Hughes burned in your mind, her soft smile a contrast to the hard edges of your own heart.

When you reached the apartment, Alpine was waiting by the door, her green eyes wide as she meowed for attention. The sunflower mug still sat on the kitchen table, half-empty, the coffee long cold. You stared at it, the chipped ceramic a reminder of Bucky’s morning ritual, and felt a sob catch in your throat. He’d poured your coffee first, as always, but now it felt like an apology he didn’t know how to say.

You sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, and Alpine curled up beside you, her warmth a small anchor. You didn’t know how long you sat there, replaying the image of Bucky at the grave, his whispered words to Dot.

The door opened hours later, and Bucky stepped inside, his jacket dripping with rain. He looked at you, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t name, and for a moment, you thought he might know you’d followed him. But he just hung his jacket on the hook, his movements slow, like he was carrying a weight too heavy for words.

“You’re back early,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You pulled the blanket tighter, hiding the tremble in your hands.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “Errands didn’t take long.”

He didn’t mention the cemetery, didn’t mention Dot, and you didn’t ask. You wanted to, God, you wanted to, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you nodded, petting Alpine as she purred, and watched him move to the kitchen.

He opened a cupboard, pulled out a can of soup, and started heating it on the stove, the motions automatic.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, his back to you. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” you lied, your stomach too knotted to eat. “Maybe later.”

He glanced at you, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t push. He never pushed, not when it came to the things that mattered most. You hated that about him sometimes, the way he let the silence grow, thinking it protected you both.

You stood, the blanket falling to the floor, and walked to the window, staring out at the rain-soaked street. The cemetery felt miles away, but it was here, in this room, in the space between you.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

He froze, the spoon in his hand stilling over the pot. “I’m fine,” he said, but the lie was thin, brittle. “Just… a long day.”

You nodded, your throat tight, and turned back to the window. It wasn’t blame you felt, not exactly—it was the ache of being left outside his heart, of knowing there was a piece of him you couldn’t touch.

The next morning, Bucky poured your coffee first, as always. The sunflower mug sat on the table, steam curling from its surface, but the gesture felt like a wound now, a reminder of the love you shared and the secrets he kept. You sipped it in silence, watching him move through the kitchen, his shoulders hunched, his eyes avoiding yours.

“You got work today?” he asked, his voice low, almost cautious.

“Yeah,” you said, gripping the mug tighter. “Closing shift at the bookstore.”

He nodded, stirring his own coffee, the spoon clinking against the mug. “I’ll be out late. Sam’s got a lead on something.”

You didn’t ask what. You used to, back when his missions with Sam felt like a shared adventure, when he’d come home and tell you stories over dinner, his voice warm with the relief of being back with you. Now, his work was another wall, another place you couldn’t follow. You nodded, petting Alpine as she rubbed against your leg, and tried to pretend everything was normal.

The days that followed were a dance of avoidance. You went to work, shelving books and recommending novels to customers, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the cemetery, Dot’s face, Bucky’s whispered words.

At home, you and Bucky moved around each other like strangers sharing a space, polite but distant. He poured your coffee every morning, the ritual unchanged, but it felt like a ghost of itself, a habit he couldn’t break rather than a gesture of love.

Alpine split her time between you, curling up on your lap one night and nudging Bucky’s hand the next, as if she could sense the fracture and was trying to mend it.

One evening, you caught him staring at the bookshelf again, his fingers brushing the spine of The Great Gatsby. The sight of it made your stomach lurch, and you wondered if Dot had loved that book, if it was hers, a relic of a life he couldn’t let go.

You wanted to ask, to demand the truth, but the words felt too heavy, too dangerous. Instead, you busied yourself with dishes, the clatter of plates drowning out the silence.

“You’ve been quiet,” Bucky said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. He was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his eyes searching your face. “Did I… do something?”

Your heart stuttered, and you set a plate down too hard, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. “No,” you said, too quickly, your voice cracking. “Just… tired. Work’s been a lot.”

He didn’t believe you. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered on you, searching for the truth you weren’t ready to give. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You wanted to laugh, a bitter sound that caught in your throat. If something’s wrong? Everything was wrong—the photograph, the grave, the years of silence. But you couldn’t say it, not yet. So you shook your head, forcing a smile that felt like a lie. “I’m fine, Bucky. Really.”

He didn’t push, but his eyes stayed on you, heavy with something unspoken. He turned back to the counter, pouring himself another cup of coffee, and you felt the distance between you grow wider, a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

The next morning, the coffee ritual repeated, the sunflower mug waiting for you on the table. You sipped it, the bitterness sharp on your tongue, and watched Bucky move through the kitchen, his movements slow, like he was wading through grief. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand he tell you about Dot, about why her death anniversary broke him every year. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The silence was a weight you both carried now, and you were drowning in it.

Alpine leapt onto the table, nudging your hand, and you scratched her ears, your eyes burning. Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, might finally break the silence. But he just grabbed his jacket and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sat there, the coffee growing cold, Alpine purring in your lap, and felt the tension building, a storm you couldn’t outrun.

You didn’t know how much longer you could do this, live in the shadow of a woman you didn’t know, love a man who kept her hidden. The thought of leaving crossed your mind, sharp and fleeting, and it scared you. You loved Bucky, loved the life you’d built, loved the quiet mornings with coffee and Alpine’s warmth. But love wasn’t enough, not when silence was eating you alive.

The days after the cemetery felt like walking through fog, each step heavy with the weight of what you’d seen. Dorothy “Dot” Hughes’ photograph haunted you, her soft smile a silent accusation in your mind. The apartment, once a haven of warmth with Bucky and Alpine, now felt like a museum of your unraveling love.

It was a soft night, the kind where the Brooklyn air carried the faint hum of the city and the moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting shadows on the living room floor. You sat on the couch, Alpine curled in your lap, her warmth a small anchor against the storm inside you. Bucky was in the kitchen, washing dishes, the clink of plates a steady rhythm. You watched him, his shoulders hunched, his metal arm glinting in the dim light, and felt the words you’d been holding back rise like a tide.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your chest. “We need to talk.”

He froze, the dish in his hand still under the faucet. He turned slowly, drying his hands on a towel, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in days. “What’s wrong?” he asked, but there was a wariness in his voice, like he already knew.

You set Alpine down, her soft protest breaking the silence, and stood, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I followed you,” you said, the words spilling out like a confession. “On October 17th. To the cemetery. I saw you at her grave. Dorothy Hughes. Dot.”

His face paled, the towel slipping from his hands to the counter. He didn’t speak, didn’t deny it, just stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear.

“Who was she?” you asked, your voice cracking. “Why didn’t you tell me? Every year, you disappear into yourself, and I let it go because I thought it was your past, your pain. But this… this is different, Bucky. You’re carrying her, and you’ve never let me in.”

He looked down, his hands clenching into fists, the metal one whirring faintly.

“She was…” He stopped, swallowing hard, his voice rough. “She was my fiancée. Before the war. Before everything. She died… tuberculosis, 1943. I wasn’t there. I was already overseas.”

The word fiancée hit like a punch, stealing your breath. You’d guessed she was someone important, but hearing it, knowing she’d been his first love, the one he’d planned a life with, made the ground shift under you. “Your fiancée,” you repeated, the words tasting bitter. “And you never told me. Three years, Bucky. Three years of coffee mugs and Alpine and us, and you never told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not… it’s not about you. It’s about me. About what I lost. I didn’t want to put that on you.”

“But you did,” you said, tears burning your eyes. “You put it on me every October when you shut me out. Every time you look at that book, that record, and I know you’re thinking of her. I saw you at her grave, Bucky. You said you should’ve been better. And I’m standing here, loving you, but I don’t know how to compete with that.”

“You don’t have to compete,” he said, stepping closer, his voice raw. “It’s not like that. I love you. I do.”

“I know you love me,” you said, your voice breaking. “I feel it every morning when you pour my coffee, every time you hold me at night. But it’s not enough, Bucky. I can’t keep living in her shadow, waiting for you to let me in. I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

He reached for you, his hand hovering, but you stepped back, the space between you a chasm. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Don’t do this. I’ll try. I’ll do better.”

But you shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I love you, Bucky. God, I love you so much it hurts. But I can’t stay here, not like this. I need to breathe, and I can’t do that with her between us.”

He didn’t speak, just stared at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The silence was worse than any argument, a confirmation that he couldn’t give you what you needed. You turned away, unable to look at him, and walked to the bedroom, your heart pounding. Alpine followed, her soft meows a plea you couldn’t answer.

You pulled a duffel bag from the closet, moving on autopilot, packing clothes and a toothbrush, each item a step toward a decision you didn’t want to make.

You waited until night, until the apartment was dark and quiet, the city’s hum a distant lullaby. Bucky was in bed, his back to you, his breathing too even, too controlled.

You stood over him, your bag slung over your shoulder, and watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the moonlight catching the edge of his metal arm. Alpine lay at the foot of the bed, her eyes glinting in the dark, and you reached down to stroke her fur one last time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, not sure if you were speaking to Bucky or Alpine or yourself. “I love you, but I have to go.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but you saw the slight tense of his shoulders, the way his breathing hitched. He was awake, pretending, letting you walk away because he knew he’d hurt you too much to ask you to stay.

The realization broke your heart all over again, and you turned away, tears streaming down your face as you slipped out of the bedroom.

You stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you, and the sound was final, like the closing of a book you’d never finish.

The Brooklyn street was cold, the air sharp against your damp cheeks. You walked, bag heavy on your shoulder, not knowing where you were going, only that you couldn’t stay. The city lights blurred through your tears, and you felt the ache of unfinished love settle into your bones, a weight you’d carry long after you left Bucky behind.

The apartment was a tomb without you, each corner holding the echo of your absence. The silence was suffocating, a constant reminder of the night you’d left, your whispered “I love you, but I have to go” cutting through the dark as Bucky lay still, pretending to sleep. He’d wanted to reach for you, to beg you to stay, but the weight of his silence. Years of hiding Dorothy “Dot” Hughes’ memory, had pinned him to the bed. Now, four months later, the emptiness was a wound that wouldn’t heal, and he was drowning in it.

Bucky woke each morning to the same ritual, a stubborn act of hope he couldn’t let go. He’d brew the coffee, pour it into your chipped sunflower mug first, then his own plain black one. The mug sat on the kitchen table, steam curling like a ghost, untouched but waiting, as if you might walk through the door and claim it.

Alpine watched from her perch on the windowsill, her green eyes tracking his movements, her white fur catching the dawn light. She’d nudge the mug sometimes, her soft meows a question Bucky couldn’t answer. He’d sit across from it, staring at the empty chair where you used to sit, your laughter a memory that stung more than it soothed.

He tried to fill the void with work, throwing himself into missions with Sam. The adrenaline of a fight, the focus of tracking leads across the city, kept his mind occupied, but never for long. Your absence was a shadow, following him through Brooklyn’s streets, lingering in the quiet moments between gunshots and briefings.

He’d come home to the apartment, Alpine greeting him with a plaintive meow, and the weight of your absence would hit him again, a punch to the gut. He’d feed her, her kibble clinking in the bowl, and sit on the couch, staring at the bookshelf where Dot’s copy of The Great Gatsby sat, its spine worn from her hands, not his.

Every October 17th, he’d visit her grave, whispering apologies for failing her, for not being the man she deserved. He’d thought that grief was the deepest cut he’d ever feel, a wound that defined him. But now, sitting in the apartment without you, he wasn’t so sure.

Your absence was different, sharper, a pain that seeped into every moment. Dot’s death had been a tragedy, a loss he couldn’t control, but losing you was a choice, his choice, born of silence and fear.

The realization was slow, creeping through him like frost, and it hurt more than he’d expected. Dot’s loss had broken his heart, but losing you was breaking his soul.

One night, after a mission that left him bruised and weary, Bucky sat in a diner with Sam, the neon sign buzzing outside. The smell of greasy fries and burnt coffee filled the air, and Sam pushed a plate across the table, his eyes sharp with concern.

“You look like hell, man,” Sam said, his voice low but pointed. “You’re still pouring her coffee every morning, aren’t you? She’s gone, Bucky. You gotta let go.”

Bucky stared at the fries, his jaw tight. “I can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s all I’ve got left of her. I have to believe she’ll come back.”

Sam leaned back, crossing his arms. “This isn’t just about her leaving. What’s eating you? You’ve been like this since October, and it’s not just her.”

Bucky’s hand clenched around his mug, the ceramic warm against his palm. He didn’t want to talk about Dot, didn’t want to drag her memory into this diner, but Sam’s gaze was unrelenting. “It’s… someone from before,” he said finally, his voice barely audible. “Dorothy. Dot. My fiancée, back in ’43. She died while I was overseas. I wasn’t there for her.”

Sam’s expression softened, but he didn’t look away. “And you’ve been carrying that guilt ever since. That’s why you shut her out, isn’t it? You thought you could keep Dot separate, but it cost you everything.”

Bucky nodded, his throat tight. “She followed me to the cemetery. Saw me at Dot’s grave. I didn’t tell her because I thought I could handle it alone. But I couldn’t. I lost her because I couldn’t let Dot go.”

Sam leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. “You’re not betraying Dot by living your life, Bucky. She’s gone, and that’s awful, but you’re here. And she, the woman you love, she was here too, until you pushed her away. You gotta figure out what you’re holding onto and why.”

Bucky looked away, his eyes burning. He’d spent decades grieving Dot, thinking her loss was the worst pain he’d ever know. But now, in the quiet of the diner, he saw it clearly, losing you was worse. Dot was a memory he’d loved, but you were the life he wanted, the one he’d failed to hold onto.

One evening, he pulled The Great Gatsby from the shelf, his hands trembling as he opened it. A photograph slipped out, faded and fragile, of him and Dot in Coney Island, her laughter frozen in time. He stared at it, his chest aching, and realized he wasn’t grieving her love anymore, he was grieving the guilt, the belief that he’d failed her. But that guilt had cost him you, and that was a loss he couldn’t bear. Dot’s death had taken a piece of his heart, but your absence had taken everything—his hope, his home, the man he’d become with you.

“I lost her, Alpine,” he said, scratching the cat’s ears as she nudged his hand. “Dot’s gone, and I’ve been holding onto that pain like it’s who I am. But losing her… losing her… it’s worse. I can’t live like this.”

Alpine blinked at him, her eyes wise and patient, and Bucky felt something shift. He played one of Dot’s jazz records, the trumpets filling the apartment with a sound that was both painful and freeing. It was the first time he’d listened to it since 1943, and it felt like letting go, like breaking a chain.

He kept pouring your coffee every morning, but it wasn’t just hope now, it was a vow to himself, a promise to be better if he ever got the chance. He started talking to Sam, opening up about Dot, about you, about the guilt that had defined him for too long. It was slow, painful, but it was a start.

By summer, Bucky was different, not healed, but clearer, like a window wiped clean. He sat on the roof one evening, Alpine sprawled beside him, the city lights stretching out below. He held your sunflower mug, empty now, and thought of you, not as a ghost, but as the woman he loved, the one he’d failed but still wanted.

“I messed up, Alpine,” he said, his voice steady for the first time in months. “But I’m gonna find her. I’m gonna make this right.”

He didn’t know where you were, didn’t know if you’d forgive him, but he knew he couldn’t keep living for Dot’s memory. She was gone, and he was here, and you were out there, somewhere, carrying the love he’d failed to protect. The coffee mug was cold in his hands, but he held it anyway, a reminder of the mornings he’d taken for granted. He’d find you, not to beg, but to ask for a chance, to show you he could let go of the past, to prove he could love you the way you deserved.

The Boston air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves and harbor salt, a contrast to the heavy, familiar hum of Brooklyn. Bucky stood outside the small bookstore on a quiet street, his breath clouding in the October chill, his heart a drumbeat of fear and hope. It had taken five months to find you.

Five months of dead ends, discreet inquiries through Sam’s contacts, and sleepless nights staring at your sunflower mug, still filled with coffee every morning as if you might walk through the door.

He’d almost turned back a dozen times, the fear that you’d moved on a constant whisper in his mind. What if you’d found someone else, someone who didn’t carry a century of guilt, someone who didn’t shut you out? But the memory of your voice “I love you, but I have to go” and the ache of losing you, worse than losing Dot, pushed him forward.

The bookstore’s window glowed with warm light, books stacked in neat displays, a chalkboard sign advertising a poetry reading. Bucky adjusted his cap, pulling it low over his eyes, and stepped inside, the bell jingling softly.

The air smelled of paper and ink, a scent that tugged at memories of you coming home from your old job in Brooklyn, your hands dusted with bookshop dust, your voice bright with stories. He scanned the room, his pulse racing, and there you were, behind the counter, shelving paperbacks, your hair tied back, your face softer but carrying the weight of the past year.

You were talking to a man, a regular customer by the ease of your smile, his laughter light as he leaned against the counter. He was tall, with glasses and a easy charm, holding a stack of books and gesturing animatedly.

Bucky’s stomach twisted, a cold knot of doubt tightening.

Was this what he’d feared?

Had you found someone new, someone who didn’t carry ghosts like he did?

He stood frozen, his metal hand clenching in his pocket, until you looked up and saw him.

Your eyes widened, the books in your hands stilling, and a storm of emotions crossed your face—shock, pain, a flicker of something warmer he clung to. The customer said something, but you didn’t hear, your gaze locked on Bucky.

He stepped forward, his boots heavy on the wooden floor, and stopped a few feet from the counter, his heart in his throat.

“Hi,” he said, his voice rough, barely audible over the hum of the bookstore.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice a whisper, like saying his name might break something. You set the books down, glancing at the customer, who raised an eyebrow but stepped back.

“Um, give me a second, Tom.”

Tom nodded, shooting Bucky a curious look before wandering to the fiction section.

Bucky’s chest tightened, the name Tom echoing in his mind, fueling the fear that he was too late.

Had you moved on?

Was Tom the reason your smile seemed lighter, your life here in Boston fuller?

“I’m working,”

You said, your tone cautious but not cold. “I get off in an hour. There’s a coffee shop across the street. Meet me there?”

He nodded, relief warring with the gnawing doubt. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

He left the bookstore, the bell jingling behind him, and crossed to the coffee shop, a cozy place with mismatched chairs and the rich scent of roasted beans. He ordered a black coffee, the bitterness grounding him, and sat by the window, watching the Boston street.

His mind replayed the image of you with Tom, your easy laughter, the way you’d leaned toward him.

Was Tom a friend, or something more?

The thought made Bucky’s hands clench around his mug, the metal one whirring faintly. He’d lost you once because of his silence, he couldn’t lose you again, not to someone else, not when he was ready to fight for you.

An hour later, you walked in, your coat wrapped tight against the chill, your eyes wary but soft. You ordered a coffee, too much cream, just like always, and sat across from him, your hands cradling the mug like a shield.

The silence was tentative, not heavy like in Brooklyn, but fragile, like a bridge you were both afraid to cross.

“How’s Alpine?” you asked, your voice breaking the quiet, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“She’s good,” Bucky said, his own lips twitching. “Misses you. Sleeps on your side of the bed now, leaves fur everywhere.”

You laughed, a soft sound that eased the knot in his chest, but it faded quickly, your eyes searching his. “Why are you here, Bucky? Really?”

He took a deep breath, his hands tightening around his mug.

“I messed up,” he said, his voice low, raw. “I kept Dot from you, kept my past locked away because I thought I was protecting you. But I was just scared, scared of losing you, scared of letting you see the mess I am. I’m sorry. I’m not here to beg for forgiveness. I just… I want a chance to make it right.”

You looked down at your coffee, your fingers tracing the rim, and he saw the flicker of pain in your eyes.

“Dot,” you said, her name heavy between you. “You said she was your fiancée. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She was my fiancée, back in ’43,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes pleading for you to understand. “We were gonna get married when I got back from the war, but she got sick. She died while I was overseas. I’ve carried that guilt for eighty years, and I thought I could keep it separate from us. But I was wrong. It hurt you, and I hate myself for that. Losing Dot broke me, but losing you… it’s worse. It’s like I can’t breathe.”

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, blinking back tears. “It wasn’t just that you didn’t tell me,” you said, your voice trembling. “It was the way you disappeared every October, like I wasn’t enough to share it with. I loved you, Bucky. I still…” You stopped, swallowing hard. “I needed you to let me in.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I didn’t. I thought I was sparing you my pain, but I was just pushing you away. I’m here because I don’t want to lose you again. Not to this city, not to… anyone else.”

His eyes flickered toward the door, where Tom might have been, and the angst in his chest flared, a sharp edge of fear that you’d found someone who didn’t carry his baggage.

You followed his glance, your brow furrowing. “Tom?” you said, reading his thoughts. “He’s a friend, Bucky. A regular at the bookstore. We talk about books, that’s all.”

Relief flooded him, but the doubt lingered, a shadow he couldn’t shake. “I saw you with him,” he admitted, his voice low. “You were laughing, and I… I thought maybe I was too late. That you’d moved on, found someone better. Someone who doesn’t shut you out.”

You shook your head, a small, sad smile on your lips. “There’s no one else. But I’ve built a life here, Bucky. I’m not the same person I was in Brooklyn. I’m not ready to go back, not yet. But I don’t want you to be a stranger either.”

His heart lifted, a fragile hope taking root. “I’ll take that,” he said, his voice steady despite the ache. “Whatever you’re willing to give, I’ll fight for it. I’m not giving up on you.”

You nodded, your eyes glistening, and the silence softened, a tentative connection forming. You sipped your coffee, and the conversation shifted to lighter things. Boston’s unpredictable weather, the bookstore’s eccentric customers, Alpine’s habit of stealing socks. When you stood to leave, he walked you to the door, the autumn air sharp against your faces.

“Text me,” you said, pulling out your phone. “Let’s start small.”

He saved your number, his fingers steady despite the storm in his chest, and watched you walk away, your figure fading into the Boston evening. That night, you sent the first text.

You: Still drinking that awful black coffee?

His reply came quickly,

Bucky: Only way I know how. You still take yours with too much cream?

He smiled, the angst easing just a fraction, and felt the spark of a fight worth fighting.

The weeks that followed were a slow, careful dance. You texted about small things, coffee preferences, books you loved, funny stories about the bookstore.

He sent a photo of Alpine sprawled on the couch, her paws in the air, and you replied with a heart emoji, a gesture that felt like a lifeline.

But the doubt lingered, especially when you mentioned Tom in passing, a book recommendation he’d given, a joke he’d told. Each mention was a needle in Bucky’s heart, a reminder that you had a life here, one he wasn’t part of. He imagined you laughing with Tom, building something new, and the fear that he was too late gnawed at him, pushing him to keep reaching out.

One evening, you asked about Dot, and he opened up, his texts slow and deliberate. He told you about their summer in Coney Island, her love for The Great Gatsby, the way she’d dance to jazz records in his tiny apartment. He told you about the guilt, the way it had chained him until he realized losing you hurt more.

You shared your own pain, the loneliness of his silence, the way you’d felt invisible, and he read every word, his heart aching but open. He wanted to fight for you, to prove he could be the man you needed, not the one who’d let you go.

The distance between Brooklyn and Boston shrank with each message, each shared truth. You weren’t ready to return, but you were talking, and that was enough for now.

Bucky kept pouring your coffee every morning, the sunflower mug a symbol of his determination. Alpine watched, her purrs a quiet encouragement, and he’d think of you, building a life in Boston but leaving a door open for him.

One crisp October evening, as the leaves turned gold, you texted.

You: Come back next weekend. There’s a park nearby. We can walk, talk some more.

He stared at the message, his heart racing, the fear of losing you to someone like Tom battling with his resolve. He typed back.

Bucky: I’ll be there. Can’t wait to see you

He didn’t know if you’d ever come back to Brooklyn, but he’d fight for every moment, every text, every chance to show you he was all in.

It was early October, ten days before the 17th, and you sat in your Boston apartment, a cup of coffee, too much cream, as always, warming your hands. The sunflower mug was in Brooklyn, still filled by Bucky every morning, a ritual he’d clung to even in your absence.

You’d been thinking about Dot, about the cemetery where her photograph had shattered your trust last year. You’d seen Bucky there, kneeling, whispering apologies, and it had broken you. But now, after months of rebuilding, you felt a pull to face her, not as a rival, but as a part of Bucky’s past you needed to understand.

You didn’t tell him, didn’t want to burden him with your decision.

You needed to do this alone.

You took the train to Brooklyn, the journey familiar yet strange, the city’s skyline a reminder of the life you’d left behind. The cemetery was just outside the city, its rusted iron gates creaking in the morning breeze.

The air smelled of wet grass and earth, and you walked the gravel path, your heart pounding as you found her grave, Dorothy “Dot” Hughes, 1918–1943. The photograph was still there, her dark curls and soft smile frozen in black-and-white, but it didn’t hurt like it had a year ago.

You knelt, your fingers brushing the cold stone, and took a deep breath.

“Hi, Dot,” you said, your voice soft, trembling. “Thought I’d come by, before I let him in again. I know you loved him too, and I’m sorry for what happened. I just wanted to meet you, to say I’m taking care of him. I hope that’s okay.”

The words felt right, a quiet acknowledgment of her place in Bucky’s heart, but also a claim to your own. You sat there, the autumn wind rustling the leaves, and felt a strange peace settle over you.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close, the crunch of gravel pulling you from your thoughts. You turned, and there was Bucky, his leather jacket open, his cap low, his blue eyes wide with shock and something softer—relief, maybe, or love.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough, stopping a few feet away as if afraid to break the moment.

You stood, brushing dirt from your knees, your heart racing. “I felt the need to see her,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “To tell her, I didn’t want to keep running from her, from your past.”

Bucky stepped closer, his gaze flickering to the headstone, then back to you. “You came here… for me?” he asked, his voice breaking, and you saw the weight he’d carried for decades, the guilt, the fear of hurting you again, etched in his face.

“For us,” you said, reaching for his hand. His fingers were warm, the metal of his left hand cool, and the touch grounded you both.

He pulled you into his arms, his embrace tight, like he was afraid you’d slip away. “I’ve been so scared,” he whispered against your hair. “Scared I’d lose you again, scared I’d never be enough.”

You clung to him, tears spilling over, the cemetery fading around you. “I’m all in on this, Bucky” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “No more shadows.”

The moment was a turning point, the weight of Dot’s memory lifting like fog burned away by the sun. You stood there, holding each other, until the wind grew colder, and he led you back to the car, his hand never leaving yours.

The drive to his Brooklyn apartment was quiet, but light, filled with small smiles and shared glances. Alpine greeted you at the door, her purrs loud as she rubbed against your legs, and you laughed, the sound echoing in the familiar space. The sunflower mug sat on the kitchen table, filled with coffee, steam curling upward, and you touched it, the chipped ceramic a symbol of love reclaimed.

October 17th arrived, and it was no longer a day of grief. You’d asked Bucky to come to Boston, to a spot by the Charles River where you’d walked during his visits, a quiet bench under a willow tree, the water reflecting the golden leaves.

It was your place, a sanctuary built from shared laughter and tentative hopes, free from Dot’s shadow. You sat together, wrapped in coats against the chill, a thermos of coffee between you, his’ still that awful black. Yours with too much cream, just like always.

The day unfolded in gentle moments, a rhythm of love hard-earned. You walked along the river, the leaves crunching underfoot, and talked about the future, dreams, not plans, but possibilities that felt within reach.

You told him about Boston, about the bookstore, about Tom, whose friendship had been a comfort but never a threat. Bucky’s hand tightened in yours at the mention, a flicker of the fear that had haunted him, but you stopped, facing him under the willow’s shade.

“Tom’s just a friend,” you said, your eyes locked on his. “He’s never been you. No one’s ever been you.”

Bucky’s smile was soft, the doubt fading. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his voice low. “I thought I was too late. But I knew I had to fight for you, no matter what. Seeing you at Dot’s grave… it showed me you’re fighting for me too.”

“You won’t lose me, never will.” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

He pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead, a tender promise that warmed you through. You shared the thermos, laughing when you spilled coffee on your scarf, the cream leaving a faint stain. The river flowed beside you, its surface catching the afternoon light, and you felt the past settle into place, not gone, but no longer a weight.

That evening, you returned to your Boston apartment, a cozy space of books and plants, and invited Bucky to stay. You cooked together, the kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and herbs, and laughed when you overcooked the pasta, the noodles sticking to the pot. It was messy, ordinary, a moment that belonged to you, not to the ghosts of the past. You called Brooklyn, checking on Alpine, and the neighbor reported she was curled on your side of the bed, content.

“I’m coming back to Brooklyn,” you said, sitting on your couch, Bucky beside you, his hand in yours. “Not right away, but soon. I want to come home.”

His eyes lit up, hope shining through. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, his voice steady. “Pouring your coffee every morning, keeping Alpine out of trouble.”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Still that awful black coffee?”

“Only way I know,” he said, his smile teasing. “You still drowning yours in cream, I see.”

“Always,” you said, leaning into him, your head on his shoulder.

A week later, you visited Brooklyn, not as a permanent return, but as a step. The apartment smelled of coffee and Alpine’s fur, and she greeted you with insistent purrs, weaving between your legs. Bucky led you to the kitchen, where the sunflower mug waited, filled with coffee, steam curling upward. He’d poured it first, as always, and you touched it, tears pricking your eyes, not from pain, but from the love it held, a love fought for through pain and honesty.

You sat together, Alpine curled between you, and talked late into the night. Bucky spoke of Dot one last time, not as a burden but as a memory laid to rest, a part of his past that no longer held him captive.

The sunflower mug sat between you, a symbol of love reclaimed, and Alpine purred, her warmth a bridge across the years of pain. You were home, not just in Brooklyn, but with Bucky, in a love hard-earned and fully chosen, the past finally at peace.

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