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[notwith0utyou]

Jericho Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, flashbacks etc. Bucky Barnes x (injured) F Reader Oneshot 4430 words Angst, fluffy, fluff.  18+ MDNI

Reader is Tony’s sister, a non-enhanced shield agent who recently resurfaced. Bucky loves her. He really loves her. So what happens if she gets hurt? not for long, just for angst.

She wakes up slowly at first. Consciousness creeping in towards her like a flame flickering at the end of a very deep tunnel.

It’s memories. Jumbled and inaccurate. And then it’s voices.

It’s Tony’s voice. His laughter, echoing around her. It’s the sound of his panic, thick and hidden under the more familiar lilt of frustrated sarcasm.

And then it’s screaming.

It’s Natasha shouting urgent, desperate phrases in English and Russian.

It’s the word Sister, and Sestra- which mean the same thing.

And it’s Steve. Steve using the Captain tone he usually reserves for lectures.

And then it’s silence.

It’s silence, and an ache in her side as the reason for the darkness behind her eyes comes back to her at once.

I got stabbed, she thinks— or was I shot?

Both, maybe? Probably both, knowing my luck.

She hadn’t thought about how likely this outcome was when she’d acted, really.

She hadn’t thought of anything other than Steve.

Of the way his shield was on the ground behind them both, and the way that he was looking the wrong way, talking to Bucky-

Oh, god— Bucky.

His face, watching horrified as she’d pushed his old friend out of the way— only getting more distraught as she’d fallen.

At least she didn’t have to hear him screaming.

Her chest aches as she tunes into the distant sound of beeping.

It’s getting faster by the second.

She wonders if she’s dead. If maybe this is- well, it’s probably not hell.

Remembering the traumatised look on her lovers face is painful, but it’s not torture.

Not hell torture anyway. Though the more she dwells on the last thing she remembers seeing that wasn’t darkness she’s not certain that it’s not getting harder to bare.

Purgatory seems possible.

That would be okay. She could make her peace with purgato-

Ouch.

Okay- Okay- that’s new

A hot, sharp pain flares across her flank, making her whole body tense.

She still has a body.

That realisation makes her head spin.

And then, yeah- that’s a groan.

She’s groaning.

Not dead, then.

Wounded, though. Definitely wounded.

Her hand goes to feel the source of the pain, but no-

“Hey, No”

Back to voices then, she thinks grimly, surrendering to whatever state her body wants to be in with a sigh.

“Are you awake?”

Am I? she thinks, trying to decide on an answer.

“Y/N- Can you hear me? It’s Bruce.”

Bruce. Bruce Banner.

“You’re in medical” he says next, “You took a hit, been out a few days”

She tries to reply, knowing she should, but all she hears is a moan, barely louder than a breath.

Still, she hears a spool of elated laughter.

“Good! That’s good- I’m going to get Tony-”

and then she can’t decipher words anymore. Just steps and excited chatter.

and she wants to ask him not to go- because now she’s aware, she’s scared.

The beeping is getting faster, and faster and the pain is getting sharper and sharper and she doesn’t know what’s happening other than that she’s clearly in bad shape—

“—Hey, Hey—” she hears, “—calm down, you’ve got to stay calm”

That is so annoying.

It’s the same thing she’s said to hundreds of patients, but still, hearing it from the other side is just… annoying.

She tries to roll her eyes and realises they’re taped shut.

That only makes her panic more, because if they’re taped shut then she’s been unconscious for more than a day—

days, he did say, days

“Where is she?!”—“What’s goin’ on?!” —“Is she awake?!” “—get out of the way—”

The last voice is Tony’s.

It’s the only one she recognises instantly, and it’s the only one that actually makes her feel better.

“Hi, kid” he says, tone soft and almost relieved, “can you hear me? You’ve gotta let me know you’re okay..”

He sounds desperate. It hurts worse than her ribs.

I’m okay, she tries to say, “-‘m okay”

and then he’s laughing, loud and relieved, and she realises that at least some of that had been audible.

“Get the tape off her eyes” Tony instructs next, “up the pain relief.”

Just the knowledge that he’s there. That her brother is there taking control of the situation makes her feel better. Safer, and more able to relax.

She feels fingers on her face, gentle and cautious as they peel the adhesive strips away from her lashes.

“Keep them shut” a voice she recognises as Bruce advises, “Just for right now.”

“I know” she thinks— she says. That’s her voice. She’s speaking.

A smile tugs at her lips as she tries to wet them.

“I’m a doctor, remember?”

Yeah, it’s a little dry, but it’s her voice for sure.

And now there’s laughter, again.

So much laughter. Tony’s and Bruces, and others, mixing with the annoying medical sounds that are still going off in the background.

“Friday, dim the lights-”

I’m in tower medical, then, Y/N thinks, or Tony wouldn’t be talking to FRIDAY.

“-Alright, slowly—”

That’s Natasha.

That’s Natasha’s voice and god, she’s almost certain that’s her hand on her brow.

“—Open your eyes.”

With a poor attempt at a grimace, Y/N obeys. Blinking tiredly until her vision clears enough to make out the collection of faces surrounding her.

Tony and Natasha are the two closest. Both look hopelessly relieved. Steve is there too, off to the side with Bruce, he looks elated. They both do, actually, they’re both beaming so wide that she can’t help but try and return the expression, even though her cheeks ache.

Bucky.

He’s not there.

Her poor attempt at a grin drops instantly.

Eyes flicking around the room in frantic search-

What if he did something stupid after I went down?

“Hey” Tony cautions, reaching down to steady her head, “Hey, relax”

“Where is he?” she asks, dry voice cracking, “Bucky, is- is he okay?”

“He’s fine” Natasha replies, “He’s there, see, he hasn’t left.”

She watches the red head nod over to her right, to the side where the others aren’t gathered.

Oh.

He is there.

He’s sat on a plastic chair that looks ridiculously small compared to his frame, starring at her with wide, sore looking eyes and all she wants to comfort him.

She goes to reach out, but then she feels it.

Metal fingers curled around her palm. Warm and solid and locked in position.

“Hi” she whispers, seeing the sheer exhaustion he’s sporting, and realising he probably hasn’t even been blinking much while she’s been out— “Did ya’, miss me?”

Tony scoffs again, and she feels something cold running into her vein from the cannula he’s clearly messing with;

She doesn’t even bother to look. She trusts him completely, and besides, her gaze is set on the tears that have started to stream across Bucky’s face.

He’s still. Not even breathing in a visible way, but tears are now pouring from his eyes.

“I’m alright” she swears, “I’m okay, I promise.”

As she says that, she cringes. Something hurts.

There’s pressure on her side, and it’s painful. She grits her teeth and breathes.

“Sorry” Tony tells her, “I’m almost done.”

“What happened?” she asks, looking back at Natasha now.

“You got shot” the other woman replies, “Pushing Steve out of the way.”

“I’m so sorry-” Steve goes to say, Y/N cuts him off with a shake of her head that makes her temples throb.

“How long was I out?” she asks firmly, directing the conversation away from his misplaced remorse.

“3 days” Bruce replies, before Natasha can, “2 nights.”

“From a bullet wound?” she says, exasperated, “I’m getting old.”

Tony scoffs again, and then he’s back in her line of sight—

“It wasn’t a bullet that hit you, it was Steve they were aiming for-”

When she furrows her brow, he sighs, pawing at his goatie and frowning.

“-Remember those Super Solider ballistic plans we found in Berlin?”

Vaguely.

She vaguely remembers a USB stick full of weapon plans.

Tasers and grenades and smoke bombs full of crippling gas and -

Bullets that expand upon impact, releasing toxins into the muscle to paralyse the target while increasing the amount of blood loss—

“Oh, god” she moans, “That sucks.”

“You’re an idiot—” Natasha cuts in, just as Tony starts laughing again, relief making him almost giddy—

“I’m a hero” Y/N corrects smugly, “I”

“You could’ve died” Bucky says suddenly, in a voice that sounds totally shattered-

Ouch.

That hurts more than whatever her brother was doing to her wound.

“Hey” she exhales, turning her head back over to stare at him, “I told you, I’m alright”

“…I- I could’ve lost you” he replies weakly, like he hasn’t even heard her reply, “…You went down and I- I couldn’t-”

“-Buck” Steve cuts in, tone sympathetic but warning, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t” Y/N agrees, hating how injured she looks, flat on her back on a hospital bed, “Is this what you’ve all been doing while I’ve been past out? Trying to decide who’s fault it was that I got shot?”

The disbelief in her tone turns almost angry by the time she’s finished her question.

“Seriously?” she says, bitter now, “It was my fault- There- I’ve answered it for you— Ow! Tony, what the hell are you doing?!”

“Sedating you” he replies calmly, “Your pulse is 210”

“Asshole”

He mutters out a ‘yep’ that sounds so cheerful she almost suppresses her groan of dismay-

Almost.

“I thought you wanted me awake” she says, angry now. “You’re going to sedate me because I’m telling you-“

“I’m sedating you because you’re going to give yourself a stroke” Tony cuts in.

She hears it then, the strain in his tone that lets her know that he’s no more happy about her returning to unconsciousness than she is.

That’s all it takes for her to stop fighting. To sag back onto the trolly with a sigh of defeat and final glance at Bucky which is half apologetic and half accusing.

Has he really been sitting by my bedside wondering if he could’ve gotten himself hurt instead? She thinks bitterly, Maybe he just wishes you could’ve changed things some how? But- how exactly?

What could he have done?

What could any of them done?

Darkness shrouds her before she can come up with any answers.

Her lack of clarity doesn’t matter, though. Because Bucky- Bucky has a list of answers.

He’s been formulating it since the second he took his place at her bedside, aching and non blinking with the image of the love of his life lying wounded on the ground.

Reminding himself of her new position, safely within the medical bay of the tower hadn’t helped much. Not with her looking the way she did.

Steve had called it ‘peaceful’.

“She looks peaceful, Buck.” He’d told him, “not like she’s in pain, she just needs to sleep it off- she took a hit”

Like he didn’t already know that she’d taken a hit.

She’d taken more than a hit.

She’d taken a super-soldier grade ballistic to the chest to save him. To save Steve. To save him from losing Steve.

‘It’s not his fault’ The ghost of Y/N’s voice had reminded him, or- or maybe it had been Natasha’s? Soft and Russian, whispering like their conversations should be a secret.

‘Don’t blame Steve, Barnes. He feels bad enough about it already’

In hindsight that was definitely Natasha.

Y/N only calls him by his last name when he’s in trouble. It’s always playful and teasing and never, ever, sandwiched by Russian.

Ms Romanoff on the other hand? She calls him Barnes more than any other name or title, and she’s always barking at him in whatever language she wants, though, somewhat expectedly, Russian is the default when they’re trying not to be overheard.

Why are they trying not be over heard now, anyway?

It’s not like it would’ve mattered if someone had heard them. Steve would be upset, he supposes, but, even that wouldn’t make a difference to his current situation.

Realising that almost makes him feel something other than the all consuming ache he’s been drowning in ever since he’d seen-

No.

Absolutely not.

Bucky is very good at not letting himself dwell on certain memories and that is one he has no intention of ever revisiting.

All he knows is that something changed the moment it happened.

Something in him changed. It’s like his DNA shifted to allow for more pain than he’d ever felt before, which is saying a lot really. Considering how much pain he’s lived through already.

All of that had been better.

He’d happily beg for another lifetime of Hydra tortures if it meant he could erase the memory of that.

But he can’t. He can’t do that. And he can’t feel anything other than the agony now it’s there. So, even when faced with the very real possibility of hurting his oldest friends feelings in a way that even he recognises as cruel, he can’t bring himself to care.

Not about anything other than Y/N, and the way her breathing is slower now.

Not much slower, but, yeah- it was rhythmic before. Quick, but stable. Now it’s… less.

Panic.

Panic makes his throat tight as he watches.

‘She’s fine’

That’s not Natasha.

That’s Steve.

There’s a brotherly hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t even make himself shrug it away. No, he just sits. Watching.

Making his list of what he could’ve done differently.

Of what they all could’ve done differently.

It’s a long list.

429 items long by the time she opens her eyes.

By the time Tony has made sure she closes them again its up to 500.

He wonders absentmindedly if he’s ever going to stop adding into it.

Maybe?

Probably not.

He knows people are talking around him. Tony and Bruce, Wanda even drops in to check on Y/N, but Bucky tunes them all out. Eventually Steve and Natasha become background noise. They blend in with the rhythmic beeping of machines and hum of the air conditioning.

‘Buck, did you hear me?’

He tilts his head a fraction, eyes not shifting from his lovers chest as a familiar voice presses for his attention.

‘I’ll go’ Natasha says calmly, clearly not expecting him to reply.

That’s fair. He wasn’t listening anyway.

‘I just thought he’d want to-‘

‘Want to what?’ He hears himself say, voice gruff and dry.

It’s sounds foreign to him now, like it’s coming from a stranger.

‘She’s going to want her own clothes’ Steve repeats, putting his palm back on his shoulder, "since she’ll be up soon, I figured you might want to go grab her something from your room’

It takes a while for his brain to process the other man’s sentence,

‘Where’s her brother?’ He asks, looking around for the other Stark, wondering why he wouldn’t have gone himself.

‘Tony crashed a couple of hours ago’ Natasha says conversationally, ‘now they know she’s out of the woods, him and Banner decided to finally try getting some rest- you might want to think about doin’ the same’

He shakes his head sternly. Eyes back on his partner.

Her chest is still rising and falling so gently that his own heart races in response.

‘She still keep her sweats in the second drawer across?’ Romanoff aks, not bothering to press the issue of him sleeping.

It takes Bucky a few seconds to answer her with a confident nod, and then she’s gone.

Steve leaves at some point too. Silently, or at least, without Barnes noticing, and then, Natasha comes back. She hands him a bundle of cream cashmere that is so soft that his metal fingers barely register the weight of it.

‘Be careful putting the top on’ Natasha advises, ‘it’s a button up, so it should be pretty easy’

He looks at her, sore eyed and confused. She cracks a laugh at his expression before crouching beside him so that she can make eye contact more easily.

‘If you swap her outfit now, she won’t have to move, if she does it herself when she wakes up, she’ll feel it’

He swallows drily, understanding. He looks over at Y/N again and feels tears spilling across his cheeks again.

Natasha shakes her head kindly, before reaching up to wipe them away with her palm. The action reminds him so much of Y/N and how she comforts him that he flinches. She stays silent, looking at him with sisterly concern.

‘This time tomorrow she’ll be telling you she’s fine’ Natasha says calmly, ‘until then, I promised her I’d always look out for you if she couldn’t, so do us both a favour and drink some water-‘ she pauses, handing him a metal flask, ‘and help her into her clothes, you’ll be gentler than me’

She pats his knee fondly before standing and leaving the room, knowing he’s more likely to follow her instruction if given space and privacy to do so.

He’s not sure when he brings the bottle to his lips, or when he puts it down, empty and light by his boots.

He doesn’t know when he makes the conscious choice to move either- to stand, peeling the covers away from Y/N so that he can remove the thin hospital gown from her body and start to replace it with the cozy offerings Natasha had brought down from the room they share.

The room he hasn’t been able to force himself to enter without her.

He disconnects her IVs with ease. Slipping her arms into the sleeves with such painfully gentle movements that she would have struggled to feel them even she had been awake. It’s only when he has to shift her hips to raise the bottoms that she seems to notice at all.

It’s only the slightest furrowing of her brow, but it makes his breath catch painfully in his throat all the same.

The thought of her hurting her is more than he can bare.

He finishes quite quickly after that, and then, he realised that he doesn’t want to return to his chair. He wants to stay right by her side, where he can feel the warmth of her breath in the air, where he can see details of her face, even when his eyes inevitably glaze over.

He drops to his knees without hesitation, resting his cheek on the pressed sheet by their tangled palms.

It’s dark.

Y/N realises as she blinks tiredly that it must be night time, now. There is a gentle glow from the monitor and the lights in the hall, but otherwise the room is shrouded in shadows.

Her eyes find the seat that Bucky had been in before, when she finds it empty, she hisses in a nervous breath, catching a glimpse of her own chest and noticing the clothes she’s wearing. Before the distraction can take too much of her attention, she hears the low breathing beside her. It’s so familiar that her pulse settles in response.

There he is.

Sleeping quietly with his face by their hands.

He looks exhausted. Even in the dark she can see the deep-set hollows beneath his eyes. She can see the sunken edges of cheeks that always appears when he skips a few to many meals.

“Your metabolism runs too quick for that, Barnes’ she reminds him in a horse whisper. “You need to eat”

That’s all it takes to startle him awake-

Her almost inaudible scolding.

“Hey” she purrs, seeing his eyes snap open, “I’m sorry, sweetheart… I didn’t mean to wake you”

She means that. He clearly needs to rest.

He’s gawking at her, horrified that she’s apologising to him.

Before he can formulate a response she swallows dryly. It looks painful and he’s instantly moving, reaching over with his flesh hand to pass her the glass of water that’s waiting on the side table.

She takes it silently, draining it before passing it back to him. He discards it quickly, and then she sighs;

“Come on, angel” she murmurs, “come snuggle up”

He blinks at her confusedly until she humours him, offering a smile as she pats the space beside her on the bed.

It’s small, a regular hospital trolly, but she moves herself over before he can object, knowing the pain the adjustment must’ve caused her-

“I’m worried about you, Buck” she says quietly, “I know I scared you, I’m sorry, but I’m okay- I promise, alright? I’m gonna be just fine”

He opens his mouth to object to her apology, but she shakes her head to silence him before he finds the words,

“I missed you” she adds gently, “I’m tired, baby- You must be too”

When he sees the way she’s looking at him, he finds himself nodding in agreement.

“Yeah” she says encouragingly, “yeah I thought so, come on, come up here” again, before he can object, she adds, “You’re not going to hurt me, Tony’s got me on so much morphine I can’t feel anything, and we both know I’m not going to back to sleep with you down there…”

It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh then. He knows when he’s beaten, and even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it, he really does want to just hold her.

Despite her assurances, he’s so afraid of harming her that he barely lets himself touch her, leaving half of his body over the edge of the bed as he puts his head mechanically on the pillow. He’s on his side to face her, and when he sees her laughing silently, shaking her head fondly he feels himself crying again. The tears burn his eyes, stinging sorely before spilling across his cheeks,

“C’mere…” she purrs, adjusting herself and trying her best to tuck him into her front, “don’t cry, sweet boy… I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere….”

“I’m so sorry” is all he manages to say as he surrenders, sniffing lamely as he curls into her embrace, “It’s all my fault- I nearly got you killed-”

“Hey” she cuts in, reaching down to cup his jaw, “it wasn’t even you I took the hit for”

He shakes his head stubbornly,

“I was watching Steve” he reminds her quietly, “I had his six, that way my position-”

“Yeah, during the job” she counters dryly, “we were done, Buck… nobody was holding their positions or I’d have been with Natasha, not Steve”

He goes to shake his head again, but her hand on his face stops him,

“James” she says seriously, “I knew what I was doing- I thought it was a bullet, but still- the only people to blame are me and the bastard that shot me, I’m guessing there’s no point asking how he is?”

“No” Bucky admits quietly,

“Did Natasha get him?” She wonders,

“Tony” he corrects gently, ashamed that it hadn’t been him.

She beams at his response though, and then he feels her fingers in his hair and has to bite back the desperate whine it draws from him.

“Did she take good care of you for me?”

He feels his cheeks burn pink,

“She tried” he confesses, “I-”

“Haven’t been very cooperative?” She guesses softly,

He nods, biting his lip to stop himself from sobbing.

“That’s okay” she purrs, leaning in to press a kiss against his brow, “I’m not always good at that either”

The skin is hot against her lips, she nuzzles into him, knowing how desperate he is for the contact. It feels nice for her too, having him so warm and close beside her-

“Let’s call a Jericho” she suggests next, knowing that considering their situation, that should’ve been the first thing out of her mouth.

He blinks at her, stunned.

A Jericho was something they came up with when they first got away from Hydra. When the idea of working with SHIELD was first broached with the young Stark, when Bucky had panicked and gushed about his fears about not being able to handle being in the field, despite his overwhelming desire to help out.

No matter what was going on, no matter who was asking either of them to do anything. If either of them ever wanted to pull out, for any reason, they’d call a Jericho, and they’d both know that until further notice, fighting was out of the question. They’d gone over the details with Tony, knowing that he’d be the one dealing with any disappointed council members should the two former winter soldiers decide to take a leave of absence.

He’d only ever called one, when he’d had a flash back so terrible on route to the job that he’d whispered the word frantic and in Russian to his partner, while they’d been sat together on the Quinn jet. She hadn’t said anything to him, just nodded once and whispered something to her brother. All Bucky remembers happening after that, was the hanger emptying around them, and Y/N turning the craft around, flying them both straight back to the tower. Nobody had ever questioned them, and he’d never had to explain.

Even now, he thinks she’s probably calling it on his behalf. Despite the nagging guilt that thought breeds, he can’t help but feel an overwhelming wave of relief.

‘Yeah’ she nods encouragingly, ‘yeah, baby… Jericho, huh? I’ll let you fuss over me for a while… just promise me one thing”

He’s exhausted he realises. 3 days without sleep had finally caught up with him, he can’t even make himself reply.

Anything, he thinks tragically, I’ll do anything, I swear-

“Stop blaming yourself” she requests gently, knowing he can’t really help it, “don’t blame Steve, don’t blame anybody, okay? If I thought any of you could’ve done something to stop it, I’d have told you…”

Hes crying again. He can feel it. And then, before he can lock his jaw to stop it, a sob jumps up from his throat.

“Barnes” she whispers again, “it wasn’t your fault, don’t beat yourself up because I got brave, you held your position, you did so good in there—”

“I- I- didn’t keep you safe” he argues wetly, words cracking in his throat,

“Sweet, sweet, solider” she says adoringly, “of course you did, even while I was passed out you kept watch”

I did, he thinks urgently, I kept watch- just like he’d done back then, when the medical staff were far from caring, where watching from wherever they could was the only way they could protect the other from further harm-

She nods in agreement, even though he hadn’t spoken.

“You did great” she murmurs gently, “now, you need to rest up, okay- rest up with me”

[notwith0utyou]

New York, Interrupted

3B; Part 4 - Masterlist

Summary: Bucky is used to being alone, so is the girl living in apartment 3B. He keeps to his routine, to crossing off amends. But mutual loneliness forges an unlikely friendship. Alone and reclusive, sweet and incredibly strange, with deep secrets and regrets, 3B has more to reveal than meets the eye.

This Chapter: The reader confronts Bucky. They find out they have a common problem.

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~6.9K

Warnings: Mentions of death, abandonment issues, mentions of racism, fatws series spoilers

A/N: This series from this point forward assumes that you've seen fatws. This will be 6 parts and will take place before and during fatws. Please let me know what you think!

August 2023 - 3 months after the return

She’s standing in the entrance to one of the reception tents for the camp that had sprung up just outside New York, trying not to scream. A hot breeze plucks at her skin, ripping her raw. It feels odd to be visible, to feel so seen, to know people are looking at her. Her sister stands at one of the many tables, signing paperwork, listening carefully to the aid worker in a crisp black t-shirt and jeans, just the right amount of sympathy on his face.

She digs her fingers into her palms in an effort not to fade and flicker and disappear.

My mother is dead, she thinks distantly. Not disappeared, not lost, not waiting to come home. She’s dead and it's her fault.

It isn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known. What were you supposed to do, stop living your life for five years and wait? Sit in the apartment and never leave? Her sister had asked on the car ride over, always the realist. The scent of the rental car, clean and sleek, and the pulse of guilt in her belly had made her want to vomit.

Maybe, she had said. Maybe I should have.

Standing straight-backed and strong at the table, she can see how her sister wants to cry, she can see it the way her shoulders slump slightly, in the way she breathes, shaky and hard, pretending to listen to whatever the aid worker is saying. It reminds her of the day their father died, how she had stood next to their mother and not shed a tear, not made a sound.

Her sister had been unfairly lucky. She had reappeared and found her family intact. Her husband and child remained unchanged, having been blipped away too. Their home was kept by her in-laws, who didn’t sell and had let no one inside. Her sister’s life was exactly the same as it had been the day of the blip, only she hadn’t been able to reach her sister at her Georgetown apartment, she hadn’t been able to reach her mother in New York.

“She told us that her apartment had been repossessed and she had nowhere else to go,” she can hear the aid worker recounting the story she already knew well. “No one was there and there was no contact information. The DC number didn’t work.”

Her sister touches his hand, “Thank you. I know that everything was done that could have been.”

“Well, hopefully people are able to go back to their homes soon. It’s crazy right?” He opens his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “You think everything is the same and then someone else is living in your house? I can’t imagine.”

She turns and walks away, not able to listen anymore. Her mother and sister had been blipped but she hadn’t been. The apartment was her property, gifted to her shortly before her graduation. New York was her home. She should have been in New York when the blip happened, she should have been in New York when the return happened.

She should have looked harder for her mother, as soon as people started showing up again. She should have been able to save her mother. She should have been there to do something, to help.

The grounds outside the white reception tent are filled with other people trying to find loved ones, some are hugging and crying, others carry sheafs of paper determinately striding away. Some look devastated. People that hadn’t been blipped away are arriving, receiving meager food, having been kicked out of whatever home they had made for themselves during the blip.

She pauses and crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for her sister to finish coddling the GRC rep and catch up.

She watches as a child is led by another aid worker toward a set of parents who fall to their knees in tears. How had they managed to go on all those years, their only child ripped away? Blipped to oblivion? How had any of them managed to survive the grief without end, the uncertainty of what had happened?

How was she supposed to go on now? How was she supposed to go on, after all that she had done, after the one failure she promised she would never commit? Letting her mother down was never part of the plan, no matter what other sins she had committed.

She thinks of all the disturbed lives.

Human lives floating by, bumping into each other and moving on, seeking something, the lives they led before, their friends and family and sanity.

“He would not stop talking,” her sister huffs as she approaches, shoving paperwork into her bag, her eyes rimmed with tears as she struggles not to cry. “Her...body,” her voice wobbles dangerously, “will be moved to a funeral home today. We can make arrangements tonight, sort out what we’ll do with the apartment-,”

“The apartment is mine,” she says sharply. “What would we do with it?”

Her sister stares at her blankly, swiping away tears from her cheeks. “Well...I thought maybe we would sell it. But it's such good property and rent controlled-,”

“And where would I go?” She asks, aware that she sounds unreasonable.

“You said it yourself, you haven’t been in New York in years.” She looks away from her sister’s earnest eyes searching her soul, a sharp pain wracking her chest, guilt settling snugly between her bones, making a home of her tired body. “Hey,” her sister takes her hand and she jumps so hard at the sudden contact that her sister tilts her head to the side in askance.

She isn’t used to touch anymore.

God, she is so tired. She wants to go home.

“Hey,” she tries again, slowly releasing her hand. “It's me and you, kid. We’re all that’s left now. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t want you to be alone. I thought you could come live with us in Portland.”

For a moment, she imagines it. Selling the apartment, packing away their childhood home, moving to a new start, away from the stalking past and haunting future. But the future is dimmed in her mind by dust and ash, by neighbors and friends and family disappearing again and again and again. The future is darkened with a stain, that she will become something terrible again, that she didn’t deserve to move on.

“I can’t leave New York again,” she shakes her head. In New York she knew who she was supposed to be, what she was supposed to do. “I should never have left.”

“You couldn’t have stopped this. Mom wouldn’t have expected you to remain exactly where you were. She would have wanted you to live, to move on and-,.”

“You don’t know what it was like,” she whispers, eyes jerking up from the ground to meet her sister’s gaze. “You weren’t here, you don’t know what I did. You didn’t have to see people lose everyone, you didn’t hear the screaming, or feel the confusion. You didn’t have to lose everyone. You didn’t-,” she stops, throat working hard, trying not to cry. “All I ever wanted was to be enough, to do the right thing. For mother, for everyone. I did what I thought I had to, and I was wrong. I ran away.”

Her sister reaches out and pats her cheek. Her sister who used to be five years older, but who has suddenly become her twin. She never realized how similar they looked. “You’re right, I don’t understand. But, I know you have always been enough. We were never ashamed of you, we were afraid for you. We never wanted you to have to make those choices. Whatever you did or had to do these last couple of years, it was what you thought was best. You have always wanted to do good.”

She feels her face contort with grief, with unshed tears and regret, and thinks of the comic books slipped under her door, of pretending at being an avenger during the Battle of New York. “But I did make those choices,” she whispers, “And if I were in New York, mother wouldn’t have come to this camp. She wouldn’t have died. I didn’t need to be a hero like you always let me believe, I just needed to be here. And I wasn’t.”

She pulls away from her sister’s hand. “Go ahead back to the apartment. I’ll catch up.”

Her sister says her name, gentle and tired but she can’t look at her and eventually she walks away.

For a moment, she stands in silence, letting the grief circling her heart sink into her bones, wash her in regret. She watches her sister pass through the crowd and through the gates, back to the parking lot beyond where they had left the car. The sun is high overhead, the day already hot and humid.

“You’re her aren’t you?” Someone asks close by her shoulder.

She flinches away from the sudden presence beside her and turns.

A man stands there, assessing her, eyes flicking over her before he grins. “It is you,” he confirms, sounding impressed. He says her name and she feels dread settle over her.

Layered over her intense sorrow, it's almost enough to make her vomit. She steadies herself against one of the tent’s wooden poles. “How do you know my name?”

“Vanish,” he says. “That’s what people called you. Vanish.” He sounds almost reverent and it makes her take a step back.

“I don’t-,”

“I know what you did. I heard you talking to your sister. She’s right, you did the right thing. You helped save a lot of lives.”

She scoffs and rubs one hand over her forehead. “What I did was terrible.” Those first few horrible, confusing days after the blip, where the whole world felt like it was burning down, suddenly doesn’t feel so distant. The days where she hadn’t been able to return to reality, where she tore and ripped and burned, just to be felt, just to not feel so alone.

The man doesn’t reply for a moment, only stares at her. “If you hadn’t killed those people, many more would have suffered and died. You saved people. They were able to keep going because of you.” He gestures out at the crowd, “Now look where we are. People like you in a place like this. We kept the world running and now we’re being kicked out of it again.”

“My mother died.”

“And this place killed her. We could use someone like you.”

She glances over at him, suddenly afraid, wishing she could crawl back inside her own skin, disappear from this stranger’s prying eyes. She’d been apart of something before and didn’t care to do it again. “And who is we?”

In response, he hands her a square of paper, a red handprint against black, the outline of a world. “The Flag Smashers. You wouldn’t have to kill. We aren’t killers. But we could use someone with your gift.”

Flag Smashers.

Her gift.

She doesn’t have to ask what their mission might be.

She crumbles the paper in her hand, “Telling yourself that you know better, becoming judge, jury, and executioner for everyone around you is a dangerous road to go down. It eats your soul. Everyone coming back isn’t going to be an easy transition but you have to give it some time.”

“They already want us kicked out and I know you don’t stand for things like that. We just want to keep our homes.” He nods to the paper, “Offer’s always good, if you want it.”

Present Day

When Bucky makes it back to the apartment building, he knows he’s fucked up. There’s been a roaring in his ears, a rage cutting around the edges of his heart, since he saw the goddamned announcement. John Walker with Steve’s legacy like it belonged to him.

He knows he should have texted 3B, but by the time he missed their dinner he was already out of New York, on his way to DC, nothing on his mind but confronting Sam Wilson. But getting the shield back to who it rightfully belonged.

And then so much else had happened.

The Flag Smashers, and the supersoldier serum making its rounds in the world again, and John Walker and the shield.

He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He doesn’t want to think about how he will have to face Zemo in a couple of days, how the serum always brought death. He doesn't want to think about a stranger carrying around the last memory of his oldest friend, his only connection to his past and who he used to be.

But Bucky really doesn’t want to think about how he just left 3B without warning, without so much as a word, without so much as a text.

He tells himself he hadn’t had a chance, not until they were on the jet back to DC and then Baltimore. And then it had seemed wrong, like he was too late anyways. He told himself he might as well wait until he was back in New York, so he could properly explain where he had been, why he hadn’t been around, in person.

He’s afraid that it will be too little too late, that she might not want to hear from him at all. That he’s broken the thing between him that they had crafted so delicately and with such care, that he’s lost her before he ever really had her.

A thread of anxiety wraps itself around his lungs and pulls taut, razor wire against the soul. Bucky hasn’t been able to properly breathe in hours, the fear circling him making it impossible.

Sam had looked at him curiously when he said he had to take care of something in New York, that he’d be back in DC in time to make their flight to Germany. Even after their confrontation in the police station, Sam was still courteous and hadn’t asked, promising to text details when he had them.

He should have texted her the second he walked out his front door, he knew how spotty communication could be out in the field, whether from signal or opportunity. He should have stopped in at her place before he left but the blind panic and rage hadn’t let him.

Jogging up to the third floor he comes to a stop outside 3B’s door, looking at the brass lettering against the dark wood.

He imagines her mother and sister, her father, all the neighbors that used to frequent the quiet apartment standing outside the door as he is now, laughing and mourning, carrying food and gifts, arriving for dinners and birthdays and holidays.

Bucky can’t help but feel inadequate, like he did not belong, did not deserve to be there.

He knocks.

He waits.

Two minutes pass, then three.

Anxiety squeezes his heart, chews into the middle of the softest parts of him. He knocks again, reminded of the first time he had called on her, how she hadn’t answered right away.

When ten minutes have passed and pounding on the door has yielded nothing, he resolves to pick the lock. He could just snap the bolt but decides against it, decides that breaking down her door would likely not gain him any favor.

Five seconds later, the door swings open under his hand to an empty apartment, though he does have to break the security chain.

He calls her name, silence echoing back at him.

3B hasn’t left the apartment since their outing to 7-Eleven, aside from her occasional appearances at his own door at all hours of the day. A fear of the likes Bucky has never known reaches up and crushes his heart in an icy fist. Someone could have taken her, something terrible could have happened to her, but a quick check proves all the windows untampered with and the security chain had been in place before he ripped it out.

Was she gone or invisible, silent and waiting for him to take a hint and leave?

“3B, please,” he says. “If you’re here, please sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Something came up, I had to go. I should have let you know.” He turns in a slow circle, hands spread wide in supplication. “I didn’t get a chance to reply and then by the time I did I was already on my way back.”

Bucky tries not to think about her texts, the missed calls.

Bucky Barnes, you’re late. That means whatever counter argument you have for me is automatically wrong.

Will you be here soon? This is one of those times you should text me back.

If Bucky Barnes doesn’t arrive on time and only his neighbor is around to notice, is he still late?

Please message me back.

Bucky, please.

I’m so worried, please just let me know not to worry.

Eventually the messages had tapered off into nothingness and silence. No more missed calls. No more texts.

The room is still and hushed as a morgue. Empty, dead space choking him.

Bucky crosses the room and sits on the couch, elbows against his knees, pressing his fingers into tired eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, regret suffocating him. This was her unforgivable sin. He knew, he knows, that this is her greatest fear. Being left behind, the dead and disappeared and gone trailing behind her.

“Lemme tell you about where I was.” A headache is forming at the base of his skull. He’s exhausted and bruised, but he’ll sit there all night if that’s what he needs to do. He can’t have fucked this up, he can’t have fucked up the only real connection he’s managed to form, this thing between them that was so good and real that it shakes him right in the center of his soul.

“They gave Steve’s shield to John Walker and named him Captain America. It was supposed to be Sam’s. Steve gave it to Sam. I was so fucking furious, I was gone before I knew what I was doing. I-,”

3B suddenly materializes in the center of the room, a wave of hot emotion accompanying her. Where before the room had been empty of any presence, as though no one was in the apartment, the room is abruptly bathed in tension. Anger, grief, hurt.

She flickers just a little with the force of her pain. It crackles in the air, spiderwebs through the room and punches him square in the chest, knocking the breath out of him.

“Have you ever considered, James Barnes, that the world does not revolve around you?” He flinches at the use of his first name. “Did you even consider me? Did I cross your mind? You had to walk past my door to leave. Was I not worth telling? Have I ever mattered to you? I wouldn’t have tried to stop you. Am I-,”

Her voice trembles dangerously. She isn’t looking at him but her eyes are blazing. Her normally calm, inquisitive aura is gone, replaced with something unrecognizable. The room is tainted with the stickiness of fear. “Perhaps I’ve become a bit overbearing. I’ll stop bothering you. I promise I will. But I need to know, I need to know to stop looking and waiting.”

Bothering him? She was his whole world at the moment, his whole irritating, frustrating, wonderful, unbelievable world. And she thought she was bothering him?

Though, what else was she to think? He left her. She was afraid of being left behind with no explanation and he had done just that.

She was terrified of being forgotten and that is something he knows too, feels deep inside of himself like a never ending well.

Bucky’s never seen her like this, has never known her angry. Guilt drowns him, gnaws at his veins. “I-,”

“No,” she whips toward him. “You must listen to me. I am alone for a reason. I didn’t seek you out a second time, you sought me. You chose me. I thought we would never speak again after you left me at my front door that first night but you came back. You don’t just get to leave me behind.”

She shakes her head, “I let you choose me and I trusted you not to leave me alone, Bucky Barnes. I trusted you to let me know not to wait, not to worry. And you didn’t. Three days?” Her voice cracks open, splinters raw, a wide river of hurt pouring out, “I thought you were never coming back. And if you were never coming back, then I made a mistake because you should not have been allowed in in the first place. People who are gone for three days never come back, they-,”

She cuts herself off, anxious nails digging into her palms.

“I thought you were dead, or gone. Or disappeared. I thought maybe you just left and I wasn’t worth explaining to.”

He licks his lips, shakes his head, “Never. No, never, 3B. I didn’t. I didn’t, 3, I promise. I came back. I was always going to come back.”

Bucky expects her voice to turn cold, but it's wounded and small instead. “How was I to know that?” She whispers. “All you had to do was tell me and I would have understood. I would have known to wait, that you were coming back eventually, maybe not even soon. But you couldn’t be bothered.” She shakes her head. “I knew better than this.”

His eyes snap up, “What does that mean?”

“It means you didn’t care enough to warn me and I was stupid enough to believe that you did.”

~

For a moment it’s quiet, so quiet she could hear a pin drop. Her heart is banging against her ribs.

She’s said too much.

He hates her.

Bucky sighs and gets to his feet heavily. Her heart drops, seizes violently in her chest, but she lifts her eyes and meets his gaze. She won’t hide, stare at the floor while he leaves and confirms everything she’s always known.

She was not enough, she was too much. She was delusional and opinionated. She was clingy and flighty and irritating. She was not worth the trouble of sticking around.

And now she’s made him realize it, realize his mistake in ever letting her close.

Why else would the universe have blipped away everyone in her life and left her alone if she wasn’t meant to be that way?

But his blue eyes are ablaze, fierce and all consuming. He stops in front of her and she wouldn’t be able to look away if she wanted to. She juts her chin out, squares her shoulders, prepared for whatever goodbye is about to happen between them.

“Sweetheart,” he begins. “I’ll apologize forever for leaving you in the lurch like that, everyday for the rest of my very long life if I have to. But I’m not fucking going anywhere. I’m sorry to say you are very much stuck with me. Ask anyone, I’m the unlucky penny you can’t seem to get rid of.” He pauses and turns his right hand out to her, palm up, “But if you’re expecting me to go willingly, you’ve got another thing coming. You’re going to have to tell me to go. I care about you, much more than I probably should.”

Bucky shakes his head but stands firm. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t leaving you behind but you didn’t know that.” He swallows thickly. “You’re right, I picked you that day and you’re mine now. You are stuck with me. I’m still not used to not always being alone either.”

She blinks, shock shattering her resolve.

There’s anxiety in his eyes, shivering out of him in waves. He thinks she’ll do it. He believes he’ll be tossed away.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one afraid of being forgotten and lost and alone.

She bites her lip and looks at his hand, still in the space between them. “Bucky Barnes,” she says. “I do believe we’re becoming rather co-dependent.” She reaches out and touches her finger to the center of his palm, just as he had done to her the day he fixed her coffee table.

Hope and duct tape.

The act of not leaving someone behind, trust.

The tension floods out of his shoulders in a violent wave, the sharp lines of him softening. But when he turns his hand to circle her wrist, she pulls away. “I don’t trust you. You walked past my door, you could have let me know,” she says, honesty sticking heavily inside her mouth. “But please don’t go. Please don’t leave.”

Maybe she loves Bucky, maybe she loves him more than she should, faster and harder than expected. But she wouldn’t be disposable, and he should know that now.

This was her life that she had let him into, despite everyone that had come and gone.

She had still opened the door for him and she wasn’t ready to see it closed.

Bucky closes his eyes, his jaw clenched tight, and for a moment she thinks that he’s angry with her. He apologized and she wasn’t accepting it, not yet. She feels heat spool out inside her veins, embarrassment and fear, her skin going translucent, when he lets out a long breath and nods. “Yeah, figured so, 3B.”

All she finds in his eyes is self-loathing and regret and heartache. She recognizes it well.

She curls her fingers into her palms, fighting the thing inside her trying to swallow her, take her away from the world. Bucky makes her shaky, makes her control and resolve crumble. It's with great effort that she doesn’t disappear.

“I trust you though,” he says her name gently, “and I can say that about almost no one. I’ll prove it to you again. I got you. I won’t let you go. I won’t leave you. I won’t let you disappear.”

She wants so badly to reach for him, but doesn’t, holds herself carefully away. All she wants is to disappear inside his skin, into the safe cocoon of their world together, to pull him close and kiss him, let him press his nose against her neck, to hold his hand while they ate something good.

But she doesn’t, she can’t.

“Would you like to know how you can start?”

“Anything,” he says, desperate.

She can’t help it then, looking into solemn eyes, she reaches out and pats his cheek. “Get me some food.”

~

He gets 3B her food.

After returning with french fries and pizza from two different joints, he settles down at her coffee table, like before, and tells her everything that had happened.

He doesn’t leave anything out, because he meant it. Bucky trusts 3B more than he cares to admit, and as he watches her delicately fold a slice of pizza in half with fries smashed in the middle, and try to take a bite without making a mess, he can’t help but feel like it's more.

The feeling inside him is more. He trusts her, maybe he loves her. But it feels like more, more than words can capture. More than trust, more than love. What should he call that?

He tells her about the shield, about Sam and Steve.

“Sam is right,” she says, licking sauce from her thumb. “This country has never been kind. A Black man with the shield? That is a heavy load to carry, a load I don’t envy.”

“It wasn’t his to give.”

“Sure it was. Steve gave it to him, Steve is gone. It was Sam’s to give. Especially if he thought he was doing the right thing.”

“So John Walker should have ended up with it?”

“That’s a false equivalency, Bucky Barnes. I didn’t say that. I’m saying Sam made the choice he thought best. Did Sam hand it to John Walker? No, our bastard government did. I’m saying that we live in a very racist country and I wouldn’t want to carry a burden like that shield. How can someone be expected to take up a mantle that so many will hate you for just for the color of your skin? It's something you’ll never understand. It's something many will never really understand.”

There’s no argument to that and so he lets it lie. “The shield is the last part of who I used to be. It's the only thing left from my past.”

“Maybe you should explain that to Sam so he doesn’t think you’re just being an obstinate ass. And Sam didn’t put it in a museum to spite you. Not everything is about you.” She leans forward and for a moment he thinks she might kiss him. His heart thumps a painful beat, and he tilts his face to hers but she just presses a finger into his chest. Her hand lands against the hard metal of his dog tags hidden beneath his shirt. “And it's not the only thing. You still have you.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, lungs tight. “Fantastic.”

She leans back abruptly, looking embarrassed, the warmth of her hand disappearing as she puts space between them and tucks her feet beneath her, eyes wandering to the window. It's dark outside, and Bucky is exhausted. But he doesn’t want to stop looking at her, he doesn’t want to tell her that he has to leave again in the morning. His heart hurts, his eyes ache.

But he keeps talking and after the last few days of speaking as little as possible, it's a relief. His mouth is dry but 3B’s curious eyes are on him, head tilted to the side as she listens to every word like it's precious to her, and so he continues on.

He tells her everything. Jumping out of the plane, the fight on the trucks, talking to Walker and Lemar, Isaiah Bradley and the police station.

Her gaze doesn’t waver, eyes soft as she watches him talk.

Maybe it hadn’t only been anxious waiting and worrying.

Maybe she had missed him, maybe she cares about him just as much as he cares about her.

It's a funny, fickle thing but he still has to wonder, did she care about him or had she been alone for too long? Would anyone have done? Would anyone else be better?

Bucky thinks he already knows the answer.

He glances away, leans back against the sofa from his place on the floor. “Those people we fought, they call themselves the Flag Smashers. The serum is making rounds again, especially in their circle, so we’re going to talk to Zemo, see what he knows about it since he wants the damn stuff destroyed.”

Silence rings, tense and harsh. “What did you call them?”

“Flag Smashers. Why?” She inhales a sharp breath and stands. “Hey,” he says, watching her twist her hands together, watching her pace, “what’s wrong?”

Her fingers dig into her palms again. “I think there’s something I need to tell you.”

Some days later

When Zemo walks ahead of them toward the jet on the runway, his back firmly turned, Bucky reaches out and tugs at Sam’s sleeve.

He motions for him to hang back and stop which Sam does without hesitation. “I have to tell you something.” Sam’s eyes immediately flick to the plane Zemo has just disappeared into, concern sweeping over his face. “Not about him,” he tries to reassure.

“You sure, Bucky? Because we’re about to get on a plane with that man.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “And of the two of us, which can fly? It's not about him.” He pauses and then crosses his arms over his chest. “I brought someone with me from New York.”

He knows how crazy it sounds, all things considered, that this person would not have materialized at any point from DC to Germany, from prison breakout to airport.

After the impromptu prison riot, Bucky hopes this is something else Sam will take in stride.

The worry that crosses Wilson’s face tells Bucky he thinks he’s lost his fucking mind. “And can you see them right now?”

Bucky huffs, annoyed. “I’m not fucking hallucinating.” He glances around, Sam following his gaze, truly alarmed now. Bucky can hardly blame him. “3B, it’d be really helpful if you could show yourself now.”

“3B?” Sam asks, “What, like a droid?”

The air beside them suddenly splits open, energy lancing through both of them as she reappears. “Not a droid,” she chirrups. “That would be much cooler. 3B is only an unfortunate nickname I’ve been saddled with.”

Unfortunate nickname. It's like a punch to the gut. Maybe he should stop calling her that.

Sam looks between them for a moment, shocked though not as surprised as someone who wasn’t constantly bombarded with new strangeness would be. “Who is this? What the hell, Bucky?”

3B takes the opportunity to stick out her hand to shake and introduce herself by her real name. When she takes her hand back she twists her fingers together anxiously in front of her, glancing over her shoulder.

Bucky wants to push her between him and Sam, so at least she doesn’t feel so exposed. But he doesn’t dare touch her. It was obvious his touch wasn’t exactly welcome anymore. She jerked away from his hand anytime he neared her, not a flinch precisely but something close.

He clenches his jaw, looks away from her, and resists the urge to reach out to her.

“My neighbor. She’s had run-ins with the Flag Smashers before,” he tells Sam instead. “I told her to stay put in New York but she wouldn’t have it. She would have just followed anyway.” And Bucky would much rather have her where he can see her, protect her, instead of floating in the background somewhere unseen and unknown.

Besides, he doesn’t want her to have to erase herself from the world, especially not on account of him.

“Sam Wilson,” she says, interrupting Bucky before he can continue. An unwelcome and unexpected flash of jealousy darts through his veins. He’s never had to share 3B’s attention with anyone, has never had to watch her interact with anyone else. Maybe her naming tick wasn’t just a peculiarity reserved for him.

Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes, ricochets around his brain. Apparently not particularly important after all.

“It's very much a pleasure to meet you. Don’t blame Barnes for my being here, as he said I would have followed. I’ll try to make this brief. I’ve been approached by the New York group several times. I’ve always said no to joining their ranks but as you can imagine I have a skill set they find very useful. For many reasons, I’ve been a recluse since the return, but also because of this. I don’t know what they know about me. And I think the circulation of the serum would be a mistake.”

Sam looks suspicious, but she only tilts her head to the side and waits patiently, blinking at him. “Why are you here?” He asks eventually. “This doesn’t have anything to do with New York.”

“Ah, but what’s abroad always makes its way home. This group popped up almost as soon as the return happened. They don’t do much now in New York, but I think they follow cues from leadership abroad.” She lifts her shoulders, “New York is an attractor of problems. It's always been the case.”

“You're worried they might distribute the serum in New York eventually.”

“Perhaps. I think New York needs no more supersoldiers. If it can be contained, it should be. Bucky mentioned that the serum tends to invite new death.”

With no small amount of effort she pulls her hands apart and tucks them inside her sweater sleeves. She’s riddled through with anxiousness, while her voice is sure, she trembles violently with suppressed worry and fear.

Bucky again feels the urge to shield her, though from what he can’t say.

“I don’t think they’re bad,” she says suddenly. “I think they aren’t being properly listened to or addressed. They’re witnessing terrible things everyday in these camps. Heading them off, that’s what’s most important. They steal medicine and food for people who need it. How can I say that’s bad?” She looks up and squares her shoulders looking from Sam to him and back again. “You should know that’s something I’ve assisted them with before.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, “I thought you weren’t one of them.”

“I’m not,” she answers, smiling at Sam, “They don’t know I did it. Just happened upon a few security guards on shift at the storage facility and made sure they were...otherwise occupied.” She only has eyes for Sam at that moment. Bucky furrows his brow as he watches them, she’s marked Sam out as leader of their group. She isn’t wrong. “I only tell you this so that you can make the best decision. I am clearly not unbiased.”

Sam sighs and glances at the waiting jet. “Yeah, well, I think we’re well past unbiased. Zemo’s not exactly balanced.”

She presses her lips together, suppressing a smile. “Yes, I’d agree with that.”

“Do you have any training?”

“I can handle myself,” she answers and Bucky wonders for the millionth time what her past held, what she did during the blip.

“Great, let's go.”

She falls in beside them as they approach and board the jet, Sam making quick work of the introductions. 3B takes the seat across from Zemo, their eyes meet and neither of them look away. Zemo is holding a thin book in his hands.

Bucky had started to explain who Zemo was to her back in New York, but she had already known. She knew her modern history well. I wanted to be a foriegn service officer, of course I know about the man who destroyed the accords, she had said.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, just the neighbor.”

A full minute passes in silence, their eyes locked, before Zemo looks to him, “Your girlfriend, James?”

Bucky glares but remains silent, not giving Zemo the benefit of drawing his reaction. Even so, something hot rises up inside him, though he’s not sure what the feeling could be identified as. Shame that she wasn’t or stupid fucking hope?

“Excuse me,” 3B says.

Zemo looks back to her.

“His name is Bucky Barnes.”

Sam suppresses a snort and Bucky has to look away.

He catches her cock her head to the side in that slightly aggressive, challenging way of hers, waiting to be disagreed with.

Something about it reminds him a little of Steve.

Zemo inclines his head slightly in acquiescence and she settles back into her seat looking out the window, satisfied. He turns his attention toward the book in his hands.

“Why don’t you tell us about where we’re going?” Sam says, trying to diffuse the tension.

Bucky’s watching 3B, not paying much attention to Zemo, but he notices her head suddenly tick to the side as though sensing something. “I’m sorry,” he says, flipping the book in his hands open, “I was just fascinated by this. I don’t know what to call it, but this part seems to be important.”

There’s a slight pause, Bucky can’t see what he’s looking at.

“Who is Nakajima?”

Rage sparks, snaps, and breaks free, racing along his veins before he can reign it in. The stress of the last few days, his anxiety over 3B coming along and where they stood with each other, and the fact that he still wasn’t sleeping culminates to a breaking point as his hand presses around Zemo’s throat.

“If you touch that again, I’ll kill you.”

Bucky wants to kill him, can feel it in his bones. And he hates himself for it. He doesn’t want to feel out of control, he doesn’t want to feel like his past, murderous and hateful, hated.

Something about the man drives him up a wall. Zemo knows exactly which of his buttons to push.

In the split second it took him to lunge across the aisle, 3B had reached across in the same instant and snatched the book out of his hands, landing a hard kick against Zemo’s shin in the process. “Oops, very sorry about that Zemo,” she says, sarcasm heavy on her tongue.

Bucky releases him, prying his fingers away with deliberate slowness before he sits back down, not taking his eyes off the other man.

3B reaches across, and for the first time in more than a week willingly touches him. She presses her fingers to his wrist, saying more than her voice ever could, it's okay it's okay it's okay I’m here, and hands him the book. A hard wave of guilt washes over him. 3B was always there.

It only serves to remind him that he hadn’t done the same for her, that he had just shown the worst parts of himself to her, the dangerous sharp parts of him.

Bucky tucks it into his jacket as her touch disappears.

Tension melts out of his shoulders and Zemo coughs and rubs his throat. “You two have quite the hive mind.”

3B juts her chin out, “I don’t like you.” The protective edge in her voice lightens his guilt just a little. Even upset with him, she still cared.

Sam looks like he might be regretting every decision he’s ever made.

[notwith0utyou]

Vanishing Cabinet

3B; Part 3 - 3B Masterlist

Summary: Bucky is used to being alone, so is the girl living in apartment 3B. He keeps to his routine, to crossing off amends. But mutual loneliness forges an unlikely friendship. Alone and reclusive, sweet and incredibly strange, with deep secrets and regrets, 3B has more to reveal than meets the eye.

This Chapter: Bucky unexpectedly discovers more of the reader's past, and finds if difficult to contain his growing feelings for her.

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~6.1K

Warnings: Mentions of death, panic attacks, abandonment issues, fatws series spoilers

A/N: This is the first chapter that really moves into the fatws timeline. This will be 6 parts and will take place before and during fatws. You can find a link to tag your self in the series masterlist. Please let me know what you think!

There’s a delicate knock on his door late one Friday. The knock almost has a pattern, one two, one two, one.

Bucky picks himself up from the chair in the living room and trudges toward the front door. His eyes are bloodshot, his spine aching with fatigue. He’s been awake for more than 72 hours, sleep evading him with a viciousness that can only be described as a vengeance.

3B stands on the other side, picking lint from her sleeve with graceful fingers.

“Oh good, you’re at home,” she says as though she often visits.

“Are you aware that it's 3 in the morning?” He says, maybe a little sharply.

She cocks her head to the side, and although it's a familiar gesture, something about it in that moment feels like a dare. “Are you aware that time isn’t real?” Her voice is just as sharp with no small amount of do not fuck with me.

“What do you need, 3B?”

A smile lights her face, one of those smiles where she bares all her teeth, like a challenge wrapped up in a pretty package. It's the kind of beautiful that makes him think it's not meant to be viewed by human eyes, let alone his eyes. “I brought you something to eat...if you would let me pick your brain about something.”

“Only if I let you pick my brain?”

“Only if,” she confirms, still smiling.

He eyes the container in her hand, maybe just to avoid her gaze.

“At 3 in the morning?”

“Ah, because you were so busy watching QVC.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch between them until her shoulders droop. “Is there any better time, Barnes? I couldn’t sleep.”

Something about her voice makes him think it was more than an evasion of sleep that had brought her to his door. She looks tired too, like the kind of exhausted he feels when his mind won’t stop working.

“It wasn't QVC,” he grumbles, stepping out of the way. She’s trying to suppress her triumphant grin and failing miserably.

Bucky would have let her in no matter what, and they both know it.

She purses her lips and then flits by, setting the stacked tupperware in her hands on the counter to rummage around in his cabinets without asking. 3B’s presence immediately brightens the place up, an energy that made him feel like he wasn’t floating alone in the ocean.

He shuts the door and trudges heavily to sit on one of the barstools. “You could do with some decorating, Bucky Barnes. It’s rather mournful and depressing in here.” It's a not so subtly pointed remark.

Bucky likes how she does that. Assesses him without looking at him, pointed without being sharp, reminding him of himself. He likes the sound of his name on her lips. She has a strange habit of speaking his full name, intent with purpose, that he adores.

Bucky Barnes, you are a menace.

Bucky Barnes, you and I have something to discuss.

Bucky Barnes, keep your fork out of my pad thai.

He wonders if she knows what it means, how important his name is to him. Something about it doesn’t feel like one of her strange quirks though, like she knew exactly what it meant to have his name as part of his identity again.

In any case, he’s never heard her speak of anyone else by their entire name.

Bucky had been an absence, a blank space, for so long that the constant reminder is almost jarring. He is Bucky Barnes. What that means couldn’t be more confusing.

He has no idea who he is, who he’s supposed to be.

But when 3B is flitting around cuckooing his name, Bucky Banres, Bucky Barnes, he knows exactly who he is, who he wants to be.

A plate is sat in front of him, a fork placed next to it before a slice of tiramisu is doled out. “Eat up,” she commands, serving herself. “You look like you could use some caffeine.”

He’s learned that 3B’s love language is food. Sharing food, making food, providing food, and trying new food.

She’s worried about him. Worried about something, he corrects himself immediately. She likely didn’t think of him outside their Wednesday dinners. Although her presence in front of him at that very moment negated that fact.

In any case, tiramisu at three in the morning was a sign of anxious worrying.

“Can I be honest?” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he deadpans. “Very much appreciate that, 3.”

She putters around his kitchen for a moment before picking up her plate and moving around the counter, knocking her shoulder very gently against his. “Not to worry, Barnes. Even very much exhausted you’re still quite handsome.”

Bucky has nothing to say to that and so instead of saying anything, he digs into the food in front of him.

“So,” she clears her throat, daintily picking up her fork, back straight as she peers over at him. “Have I ever told you what it is I study?”

He realizes that, no, she had never spoken of her master’s degree beyond complaining of the workload, and he had never asked. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you have.”

She perks up, head tilting ever so slightly in that curious, owlish way of hers, her elbow brushing his. “Human migration.” She pauses and gathers her thoughts, winding up for a release of words, a flurry of thoughts that she could no longer contain. It reminds him of the first time she spoke to him in the bar, a person bursting with unsaid words.

“The GRC, the Global Repatriation Council, is voting soon on a resolution to move displaced persons back to their country of origin. Would this not cause undue harm?” As usual she sounds like she’s about to begin an academic debate. “To send back whole communities, firmly ingrained in the current society back to host countries that are underprepared to receive them? Some countries that a few months ago did not exist?”

Bucky mulls over it, 3B waiting patiently. “They exist now. Shouldn’t they have their people come home?”

“And if this populace does not want to return? They aren’t bringing people home to somewhere, so much as kicking people out of somewhere else,” she insists. “After the blip, a lot of countries ceased to exist. Leadership was wiped away. Populations moved. Why should these people be moved again, back to somewhere they haven’t been in five years just because the world has changed?” Bucky isn’t given a chance to respond as she continues, “Any mass migration of people comes with untold disaster and countless deaths. There will be a humanitarian crisis, more so than we already have. Forcibly removing people will only isolate those groups.”

“So they should keep living in these camps forever?” he asks, providing the opposition she clearly needs, spearing a piece of cake. Bucky is often the sounding board for her debates, not really arguing so much as automatically offering a counter point, to sift through the flaws in her own thoughts.

“They shouldn’t have been forced there in the first place.”

“What about the returned? They had no idea time had passed and came back to a changed world. Are they just supposed to accept new people in their homes? In their cities?”

She goes quiet for a moment, not eating but staring into the plate as though it held a perfect solution. “That’s what I keep coming back to,” she says quietly, all her bright energy suddenly diminished. “Had there not been people where they weren’t supposed to be, maybe my mother would have lived. Maybe others would have lived. But this plan to move 20 million people? It's a bad one. Logistically it doesn't make sense and immigration authorities are harsh during the best of times.”

Her fork shakes in her hand and she carefully sets it down.

“Maybe the resolution won’t pass.”

“Maybe,” she leans an elbow against the counter and meets his eyes. “Maybe, but it probably will because the same people are in power who have always been in power. I just know forced migration policies don’t work, especially when the destination is ill prepared host countries.”

A blanket of silence falls, but she doesn’t look away from him. “Politics have never been my strong suit, sweetheart. I think you’ll have to find someone else to sound off against.”

She looks momentarily offended, “Oh come now, the World War II verteran doesn’t have an opinion? And I wouldn’t dare find another sounding board.”

“I was drafted,” he says dispassionately.

“Yes and I’m sure you had no thoughts at all about the war you were being forced to join, or how it affected people,” she says primly, reaching over the counter for a napkin.

He snorts, “Nope. I’m a soldier, you just go where you’re told. You don’t get thoughts.”

Her mouth falls open and she punches his arm, light enough that it could have been a butterfly landing on his sleeve. “Bucky! I know that’s not true. Steve Rogers was almost court martialed for breaking into the base your unit was captured in.”

“Yeah, Steve did that,” he says just to watch the irritation spread over her face, nose scrunching.

She clicks her tongue. “And I’m sure you never went off base when you were leading your unit before that? The rule following Bucky Barnes would have never-,”

“Watch it-,”

“And I’m sure the Howling Commandos never, ever, ever, strayed from one single order-,”

“Alright I get it,” he grumbles. She looks satisfied, perking back up and beginning to eat again. Relief floods him. “It's unsettling how much you know off the top of your head about me.”

“Maybe if you listened to me,” she snips, “You would know a thing or two as well.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I know things about you. You think too much. You’re very annoying,” he lists off on his fingers, “You’re paranoid.”

“Wow,” she says, glancing away from him. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Barnes.”

To his surprise, she really does look hurt. “Hold on 3B, you didn’t let me finish...as usual.”

“And I talk over top of people,” she says mournfully. “What else could be wrong with me? Do tell, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes - a whole full person who realizes more everyday that he cares deeply and desperately for his neighbor. 3B, a lifeline in a lonely world.

Maybe, maybe he cares just a little too much.

Right now, she’s waiting for him to continue.

He says her whole name, like she so often says his. With intention and purpose. “You are caring and very intelligent. You keep me on my toes, and I’m not easy to surprise.” He has her full attention now. 3B is listening raptly, waiting. “Who else would bring me food in the middle of the night?” He finishes, wondering if he’s shown his hand.

3B doesn’t look away from him and so he keeps his eyes trained on hers.

Bucky isn’t usually so serious with her, but it's important she knows. He hopes she knows what he means.

Something important is happening, he’s just not sure what, but looking away in that moment as he often does feels like it would be confirming something for her and so he doesn’t.

“It's because you don’t have any other friends,” she whispers suddenly.

Bucky laughs then, real and loud. “Neither do you.”

She’s pressing her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Fair enough,” she says, standing up and gathering their plates. “I’m not washing for you, Bucky Barnes.”

“I got it,” he says, irritated that he’s disappointed she’s leaving.

The dishes are deposited in the sink carefully, one at a time, forks lain gently beside. “I’m leaving this tupperware here too. You look like you need a household task, this place is like a show home.”

She’s been poking at him for weeks to at least put up a photo, a piece of art, anything.

“I’m not giving it back,” he says instead.

“Correct,” she says, crossing to stand beside his stool. She’s so close that her knee brushes against his leg. Over the last few months she’s become increasingly comfortable with closeness, slowly invading his personal space like a slow creeping vine. “You’ll return it to me when you have something to put inside it. And then I’ll bring it back to you when I have something for you. Such is the nature of tupperware between neighbors.”

He nods, “Vanishing cabinet.”

“Vanishing tupperware.”

She leans even closer, peering into his eyes. “You need something, 3B?” He snarks but doesn’t move away.

“I’m looking at your soul if you would hold still.”

“Why are so many people insisting on seeing into my inner self,” he grumbles.

“Are people often looking?”

He looks away, shrugging nonchalantly. She’s still so close, he can smell the perfume on her skin, the scent of her soap. Bucky meets her gaze when he says, “I went on a date.”

3B blinks but doesn’t look away. “And how did that go?”

An immediate sense of shame seizes him, not for just how he left Leah or his failure to tell Yori that he had been the one to kill his son. Shame slithers through his veins for the disappointment he feels. Disappointment that 3B did not seem upset in the least that he had gone on a date. She looks as she always does, pensive and questioning.

“Bad,” he manages, still looking into her prying eyes. Maybe she can see it, that thing inside him that made him furious with longing for her.

It was strange, how quickly and firmly someone could settle themselves into his life. Maybe that part of him, the part that loved quickly and fiercely hadn’t been quite stamped out by all the years of violence and loneliness.

She frowns and snorts, “But bad how? Like they-,”

“Our neighbor, Yori, you know him?” He says suddenly, cutting her off.

She pulls back a little in surprise, brow furrowing, “Of course, you have lunch with him on-,”

“Don’t start regurgitating my schedule, it's just going to remind me how much of a security risk you are.” She smiles, but stays quiet, waiting patiently. He swallows and takes a breath, looking at the floor instead of her eyes. She’s wearing slippers, pink with white fluff around the edge. “Anyways, Yori set me up on this date while we were at lunch. And I thought why not, ya know?”

He can sense her nodding, leaning toward him again.

If it were anyone else but 3B, he would have pushed off the barstool already and moved away. But something about her...he knows she’ll never be close enough to him. She could push her way inside his skin, meld them together, and he doubted it would be enough.

He decides to stop beating around the bush, what he was about to say would probably make her step away herself, would make her realize who she was dealing with, whether he was still that person or not. “I killed Yori’s son. Years ago…back when, when I was the winter soldier.”

A silence stretches then, but where he expects it to be tense with the admission, it's the usual calm, introspective silence he’s come to expect from conversing with her.

Eventually he looks up, afraid to see what might be brewing in her gaze. If her silences didn’t reveal her hand then her eyes did.

But she only looks inquisitive, her head slanted to the side. And that’s when the unexpected does happen, she reaches up and cradles his face in her hand, one finger tracing the delicate skin just below his eye, the violet bruise imprinted there.

And it feels so fucking good. Like lightning under the skin, warm and soft and fizzling delicately. He leans into her palm just a little.

“Is that why you aren’t sleeping?”

“There are a lot of reasons I’m not sleeping.”

Any closer and their noses might touch. Her eyes flicker over his face and she nods.

She doesn’t tell him it's not his fault, that it wasn’t him and in that moment he appreciates the hell out of her. She assesses him at face value and says, “You will figure out how to say it one day. You have time. Is he an amend?”

Bucky had explained the amends to her a while back but she hadn’t had much to offer on the subject. Only murmuring a cryptic I shall trust the process then, Bucky Barnes.

“Yes.”

“I predict him to be an important one. You’ll figure it out.”

She offers nothing else, but it's enough. She seems to understand.

Her hand is still on his face, warm and kind. Slowly, she leans forward until her forehead is pressed against his.

The silence that descends is like a bubble to another world. He’s afraid to move, afraid that if he did it might crack open and spit them back out.

“Did you know, Barnes, that you’re my best friend?” Her voice is little more than a whisper.

“Maybe it's because I’m your only friend.” He echoes her earlier words. She’s so close he can’t stand it, the heat of her melting into his skin like butter. It's an addictive feeling, being seen and touched and felt for. It's been a long time since kind hands have brushed his skin so deliberately, delicately.

She laughs just a little bit. “It may be true but you shouldn’t say so, Bucky Barnes. It's rude.” Her fingers sweep over his cheek.

He should pull away, not sure how they would go forward after this moment. Friends, did not invade the others skin and air and heart like this, so wide open and raw he can’t breathe. Could he pretend it hadn’t happened? He would, if it meant that nothing changed, that she stayed, even if his heart broke.

Instead, he kisses her. Bucky reaches up and touches her hands, touches her bare wrists carefully. For a moment, she doesn’t kiss him back, she’s completely still, hovering beside him.

Shock.

He can feel it in the air like another presence in the room.

Fuck.

What the fuck did he - who the fuck did he think he was?

This was 3B, whose strange affection surprised him every damn day. Likely, he’s just ruined a good thing, squashed underfoot like so many others in his life, fleeting in and out, streaming before him and away.

Her fingers suddenly tighten against his skin, a warm pressure, and he thinks she’s preparing to push him away. Instead she kisses him back, abrupt in its ferocity.

She kisses him like he’s the last breath of air.

Bucky pulls her close, until she’s standing between his legs, before bracing his arms around her, palms against the counter to box her in close to him, matching the firm insistent pressure of her mouth. He’s afraid to touch her but is more than happy to let her drag a hand through his hair, let her fingers trace down his spine.

Her mouth slows against his and she laughs when she licks the corner of his mouth. He wraps an arm around her hips then, caution be damned. He feels giddy, like a kid on a first date, and nips at her mouth just a little, just because he can.

She tastes like coffee and cream, like cake and sugar.

There, she laughs again.

He hasn’t opened his eyes, can’t bear to see what she might look like, with kissed lips and stunned eyes. With laugher on her lips.

It's so good it feels like she’s disappearing, like the harder he kisses her, the harder she is to feel. Not just the feel of her skin, but her energy, like she’d fading from the room.

Maybe she is pushing under his skin, worming her way into his heart.

He pulls away and opens his eyes, not sure what to say but knowing he needs to say something.

Bucky stops short.

She’s translucent, like a ghost, a shade of herself.

Great. He’s lost his fucking mind. Maybe she’s been a figment of his imagination this entire time. A ghost girl his psyche used to fill the lonely holes in his heart.

He whispers her name and reaches out and watches her fade further, almost a wisp of nothing. Her satisfied smile vanishes, jarring and abrupt.

“Oh,” she says, horror in her voice.

She meets her eyes and then vanishes.

~

She disappeared for the first time when she was five years old. Her father had died and she had not understood what that meant. All the adults in her life were acting strange, asking constantly if she was okay.

How was she supposed to be okay? Was she supposed to be okay?

She didn’t know.

Mourners were in and out of the apartment all day, trailing in long black lines through their living room. Saying things like, I’m sorry for your loss.

Her mother looked so strange, composed and stone faced. Thank you, thank you. He was a good man.

Anxiety seeped into her bones with the strangeness of it all. She couldn’t recognize her mother, her father was gone, all her beloved neighbors and friends were dressed in black. Her sister was busy being the dutiful eldest daughter, standing beside their mother, tears hidden and back straight.

Loneliness consumed her, ate at her, chewed her up and spit her out.

She hadn’t even realized when it happened.

One moment everything was fine, the next, her mother was searching for her after the last mourner had left. Calling her name even though she was right in front of her.

“I’m here, mama,” she said. But her mother looked over her in growing panic, asking her sister to help her look. “I’m here! I’m here, mama, I’m right here!”

Nothing had been able to get their attention, not until she threw herself on the floor and screamed, straining her voice until it popped and cracked. The echo of her crash into the floor made them stop.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes, mama. I felt it too.”

Her mother looked worried, glancing around. “Dear daughter if you can hear me, if you’re here, knock once.”

She rapped her hand hard into the wood floor, sobbing. “I’m here, mama.”

What they learned, when she was able to reappear, was that she was gifted. She could disappear at will. When vanished, no one could hear her, see her, or even sense her.

It was if she did not exist at all, if not for the fact that she could affect everything around her. She could break and tear and hurt.

She could only affect things physically.

Even when she knocked over a bookshelf, she had no more energy presence than did the books that fell from the shelf.

Her sister helped her, patiently helped her control the new thing inside her that wanted to consume her, make her silent and vengeful and mean.

She heard them whisper at night.

“You know what happens to children like her,” her mother whispers. “Power invites power. Someone will want to take her away, by choice or by force. It is the way of our world.” Her mother pauses and then says gravely, “The terrible things she could do, could be asked to do. No, we must keep her safe.”

“Not if she can hide it, mom. She needs to go to school. She can control it, I’m helping her, and I know she can get it under control. I know she can.”

“She fades when faced with strong emotion. She’s only five. That is too much responsibility to saddle her with. I can’t let her go. I can’t have her taken away.”

But she had gone to school. All summer after her father’s death, her sister had tested her and tested her, helped her figure out her stressors. High emotion, mostly fear and anxiety, rage and grief, triggered her, made her slip out of reality. But so did intense happiness.

So, she blunted her emotions, she steeled her nerves. Any feeling was a danger.

“What if one day I can’t touch things either? What if I fade and I can’t come back?” She asks her sister, curled tight by her side. Her sister is five years older than her and wise beyond her age, smarter than she could ever hope to be.

It’s mid-August and her first day of first grade is coming up quick, looming and terrible.

“You won’t. You will always come back.”

She looks into her sister’s eyes, fiercely protective, strong. “I don’t want to be alone. What if I fade and you lose me? What if no one knows me and you can’t sense me? What if I’m lost forever?”

She imagines it for a moment, screaming and screaming, burning down the world to be heard and felt, and not a single soul knowing she was there, that she would rage until someone knew it was her.

Her sister turned and made her look into her eyes. “Listen carefully, this is important. I will always be able to find you. I will always be able to hear you. I will find you if you become lost. You will never be alone because mama and I love you. Someone who is loved can never be lost.”

School turned out to be a breeze. She learned how to control her gift and hid it well, using it only when necessary. Like helping a neighbor who hated being assisted despite needing it, stopping a mugging on her street, punching a bully at school squarely in the face when they thought she had already left for the day. Her mother was never the wiser about her occasional dip into her power.

And then the world stopped turning, everyone she knew turned to ash, her heroes failed. A grief and rage had consumed and burned and she hadn’t been able to stop her departure from reality.

Seconds before she faded on that Georgetown street, she thought of her sister years earlier sliding comic books beneath her bedroom door, a note stuck to them that said Mom thinks you should hide your gift, maybe one day you won’t have to.

~

She flickers in front of Bucky, trying to get a handle on her emotions, the warring joy of his kiss and the horror of losing control making it difficult. She’s also suddenly contending with grief, grief that this had ruined everything they had carefully built around themselves, their little lonely friendship that has so suddenly sprung into more.

“Sorry,” she says, frustrated. “I wasn’t...I’m normally paying more attention. You caught me off guard. I-,”

This is not her. She doesn’t mumble or falter. She’s articulate and strong, she doesn’t need to explain herself but maybe she should apologize.

She straightens her spine. “Bucky, I’m sorry-,”

He doesn’t let her finish, reaching out to touch her wrist with warm fingers. “Do it again, 3.”

For a moment, she can’t respond, her mouth and throat working as she struggles not to cry. “Why?”

“So I know this is real and I’m not having a psychotic break. And because I want to sort this out in my head so I can get back to kissing you,” he smiles at her, a real smile.

She’s never shared her gift with another, not outside her mother and sister. And those she had, had used it. It, she, had only ever been a tool, as useful as a knife.

A wet laugh bubbles up from her throat, relief rushing through her veins, surging between her bones. “Is that so, Bucky Barnes?”

She turns his hand in hers and clasps them around his flesh hand. She closes her eyes, because she can’t bear to look at him, and lets herself fade away.

There’s a light intake of breath, not necessarily shock, but intrigue.

He moves one hand up her arm to cup her elbow and bring her gently toward him. Bucky wraps his arm around her hips and pulls her close, leans his head down onto her shoulder.

“I can touch you but I can’t feel you. It's like you aren’t here, you aren’t present.” She nods against him but doesn’t bother trying to reply, he wouldn’t hear her anyways. He holds her there for a moment longer, she can feel his lips resting against her neck, the soft scratch of his stubble against her skin.

She takes a shaky breath and leans her head against his, knocking his cheek gently. “Come back,” he murmurs, and she swears she’s never heard a voice so gentle and pleading.

As soon as she’s back he kisses her again, pressing her back into the counter. He touches her this time, fingers against her skin, running up her sides, bringing her hips flush against his. It's a struggle to remain present, not to drown in the happiness filling up her lungs, choking her.

“Stay with me,” he says.

She can’t remember the last time she felt so happy, so free. She wraps one hand behind his neck and brings him impossibly closer, the nerves in her belly jumping when he groans against her mouth, her fingers in his hair.

Bucky’s hands run down her back and over her hips, settling beneath her thighs for a moment before he picks her up.

Shock ricochets around her brain when he settles in the armchair with her in his lap, knees braced to either side of his hips. A moment of silence passes in which she gazes down at him, head tilted to the side, and Bucky turns just a little bit pink around the ears. “Too much?” He asks, scrubbing one hand over his hair in a familiar gesture of discomfort.

He feels exposed, and so she leans in closer with a hand balanced on his shoulder, so there’s not so much space between them, so it’s just the two of them again.

“Perhaps I’m only pondering what an absolute show off you are.”

She bites her lip to keep from laughing at him as he groans and throws his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. “I imagine you are.” But his hands stay on her hips, flesh thumb drawing circles against her skin where her shirt had risen up a little.

Gently, so as not to startle him, she presses a hand to his neck and traces the line of his jaw with the pad of her thumb.

“Bucky Barnes, do give yourself a bit more credit.”

“In what way sweetheart?”

She snorts. “Your neighbor, who you were kissing, just disappeared in front of you and you have not a thing to say about it? Not one question.”

“I figured questions could wait.”

He still hasn’t opened his eyes but he’s leaning into her palm, like a cat basking in the sun, raking in the heat of her hand.

It puts a tiny damper on her mood. Did he want to be kissing her or had he been alone so long that anyone would do, enough the put off questions of her disappearing act?

Instead of asking, she leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Some questions are meant to be asked.”

His eyes flick open then and he sits up, so they’re nose to nose again, his chest flush against hers. “Some questions don’t need to be asked, if you know someone will eventually answer them all anyways.” She can smell soap on his skin, could count the lashes on his lids if she tried. Something about Bucky makes her feel entirely safe, secure, even maybe if she shouldn’t. “And anyways, I’ve seen crazier things.”

For once in her life, she’s rendered entirely mute.

There’s only acceptance in his eyes, of what to him must just be another oddity of hers.

She could answer, tell him that she’s glad she isn’t the craziest thing he’s ever seen, that it's such relief she could cry.

Instead, she lets his hand press firm against her spine, lets him kiss her drunk.

And for the moment, they’re two entirely ordinary people, kissing until the sun comes up.

~

The only thing that changes between them over the next few weeks is the addition of touch to their routine.

They sit closer, some part of them always touching, pinkie fingers interlinked.

Bucky kisses her hello and goodbye, he knocks his knee against hers between snarky comments.

Some Wednesday evenings, the best Wednesday evenings, they make out. She feels stupid with hapiness, giddy like a kid. Their world is a perfect bubble, one that is designed to be burst.

She touches his wrist, the dimple in his cheek, the back of his neck. She runs her fingers through his hair and watches him lean into it like she was the last ray of sun before winter.

He falls asleep on her couch one evening, sleeping fitfully. She leaves him there, amazed that he managed to fall into any kind of peace, retiring to her room. Around 4 AM, she wakes to the telltale sound of wood shattering, heavy breathing and muttered curses, and the front door opening and closing softly.

She finds the coffee table in pieces the next morning but he arrives with tools around noon that day and patches it back together while she’s in an online seminar. Before he leaves, he reaches out and presses the tip of his index finger to her upturned palm, drawing her attention to a mouth that is whispering an apology.

I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Wake me up if I fall asleep here again.

“Broken things are but that,” she shrugs after muting her mic, “something worth fixing.”

Something in those blue eyes shatters and reshapes. “Well,” he snarks at her, “that table is mostly held together with duct tape and hope so don’t put too much pressure on it.”

“Fear not, Bucky Barnes. I understand the limit of tape and hope.”

They are perfectly in sync, perfectly in tune, and the table holds.

Then, one Wednesday evening, he’s late.

She texts him and receives no response.

He doesn’t show up at all.

The thing inside her, the not so buried anxiety, claws its way out of her stomach and bites down hard on the meat of her heart.

It doesn’t let go and she had almost forgotten how suffocating it can be. She can’t leave the window suddenly, can’t turn off the news. In the last weeks and months she had gotten lenient with her vigilance at the window, because she had Bucky, because she had someone that was always there with her again, consistent and always present.

The building feels empty, like she can sense his absence through the walls.

The new Captain America likely has something to do with his silence, with his absence. John Walker’s TV special replays over and over, all hours of the day, touting his qualifications, as though the role of Captain America can simply be assigned. He’s all the news talks about.

She hates him maybe a little bit. She hates him for masquerading as Steve Rogers.

Still she sits in the window and waits, counting and recounting the neighbors, waiting for the choking dust and ash, waiting for the need to disappear.

Waiting for Bucky to come home.

Or at least text her.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t answer the door when she takes a brief break from the window to check if he’s home.

She is utterly abandoned. All over again, she is alone.

She can’t breathe. The feeling of alone otherness she normally kept a hard foot on bubbles up and consumes her. It eats the inside of her soul, rips open the wounds that had closed over the last few months with Bucky’s solidity and patient friendship.

A panic attack hasn’t wiped her out in months but one does now. Her hands shake, her lungs constrict until she’s struggling to breathe. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t let the hot tears bursting at the edge of her vision spill over.

What if he never came back? What if he was never real, what if they were never real?

One day passes without a text. Then three.

All she needs is one text, one text that he was okay and would be back eventually. So she could have a new routine, so she could wait as she always had.

But he doesn’t.

The perfect bubble that had surrounded her life since she met him in that bar the first time shatters so violently it burns her, makes her lungs ache with suppressed breath.

And for the second time, Bucky Barnes makes her fade from the world.

[notwith0utyou]

Confessions at the 7-Eleven

3B; Part 2 - 3B Masterlist

Summary: Bucky is used to being alone, so is the girl living in apartment 3B. He keeps to his routine, to crossing off amends. But mutual loneliness forges an unlikely friendship. Alone and reclusive, sweet and incredibly strange, with deep secrets and regrets, 3B has more to reveal than meets the eye.

This Chapter: Bucky and 3B grow closer. Part of the reader's past is revealed.

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~5.3k

Warnings: Mentions of death

A/N: Posting a bit early this week, as I'll be out and won't be able to reblog with tags. This will be 4-6 parts and will take place before and during fatws. You can find a link to tag your self in the series masterlist. Please let me know what you think!

May 2018 - The day of the blip

The moment the screaming stops, pandemonium breaks out. She watches from her DC apartment window as a helicopter spins out of the sky. Ash is still streaming through the air, in place of people.

People who had been there moments before.

Mass confusion reigns as she bolts out her front door and down the steps, jumping them three at at time, out onto the street. A plane is careening through the air in the distance, rapidly approaching the ground, a car has crashed into a storefront, cellphones, backpacks and purses litter the street where they’ve been dropped, their owners having disappeared into the flesh of the sky.

She can’t make sense of what’s happening, where people have suddenly gone. She can’t make her mind connect the ash and dust with people, humans who had suddenly disintegrated.

She can’t breathe, panicked in a way she hasn’t been since she left New York four years before. The ash is thick, she thinks she can feel it coating the inside of her mouth, lining her teeth.

The ground shakes as the plane slams into the earth somewhere simultaneously far away and much too close. Air rushes around her with the blow back.

The last time things had come crashing to the ground in DC, Steve Rogers had been uprooting and tearing down Shield.

This was not the same. Something terrible and unstoppable was happening.

Earth’s mightiest were in Wakanda, she knew that from the news. Something had happened earlier in the week in New York, she knew that from the news too. Something with aliens again.

She had been in New York the first time the sky had opened up and aliens poured out, years ago. But New York was New York. DC was different, DC was supposed to be different.

Washington DC was where she was meant to be normal, to follow the life plan her mother had set her on. DC was where she was meant to be what her mother wanted her to be. Only two weeks ago she had graduated, she had an internship for the summer in a senator’s office.

“What’s going on?” She shouts at the people on the street.

No one answers her, no one seems to know.

Some people are crouched, stunned, fingers brushing the ground where moments before a human life had just stood.

Others are screaming, crying, hysterical and inconsolable.

She turns and jogs down the block, looking for people to help, possibly shelter. If it was aliens, a terrorist group like Hydra, something else, people would be hurt, they would need somewhere to hide.

But what kind of group had the power to make people disappear? Those turned to ash didn’t seem to die so much as fade away.

She could offer her apartment complex’s basement, she had a few cases of water she could spare and pass out. She knew some first aid and had plenty of medical supplies.

But no one is bleeding, no one seems to be hurt. There’s nothing for her to do, no one for her to help. No one seems to be running from anything.

How did you help people who had just seen loved ones vaporized without warning?

Her skin flickers, translucent back to solid. She stops to catch her breath beneath a Georgetown shop awning, pressing her fingers to her eyes until she’s sure she’ll be solid when she opens her eyes.

Don’t disappear, she begs whatever is inside her that sucked her out of reality. Not now.

“This is not New York,” she says, out loud. Saying things out loud made them real, made her real.

She pinches her skin, opens her eyes and says, more firmly, “This is not New York.”

She had skipped school, rode the bus uptown with a friend whose name she no longer remembered. They went to a cafe with a good view of Stark Tower.

There was a rumor that some days you could catch a glimpse of Tony Stark in the Iron Man suit, if you waited long enough.

She drank a latte, took a selfie, and considered the day a good one.

Until the sky opened up and aliens flooded out.

Her mother had just called, what was she doing out of school? The school had called, why was she not in school?

“Mom,” she remembers saying, “I have to go. Something is happening.” People were screaming and running. There was blood. Aliens, monsters scaling the sides of buildings.

She had gotten a glimpse of Tony Stark then, rocketing toward the hole ripped in the sky.

“Do not,” her mother had said, shrill and tinny in her ear, “Do not, you are not one of them. You are not one of them. There is nothing you can do. You promised to keep it a secret. Promise me you will hide.”

But wasn’t she?

She had been 15 and believed that maybe that was true, that a gift couldn’t be a terrible burden, couldn’t cause her immeasurable harm.

“Stay inside, I don’t know how far they’ll go. Tell the neighbors, call whoever you can,” she had said. “I love you, Mom.”

She hadn’t so much as hung up as the connection had crackled out as everyone tried calling their loved ones, her mother still screaming in her ear. She had texted her sister a warning and hoped that it went through, before shoving her phone in her jean jacket’s pocket.

Her friend had left her behind in the ensuing panic. It hadn’t mattered, she let herself fade into nothing, disappearing from reality, and then charged down the street, corralling people into buildings with basements with gentle touches and nudges, away from the aliens that could not see her, sense her. Crowd control was easier when the crowd believed it wasn’t being guided.

The building she led them to shook with the impact of that monstrous thing in the sky, colliding and floating away.

What if the building collapsed? Would she have led all these people to their deaths?

She was like a ghost like this, almost as good as dead. She left them there, went back for more.

She had gotten close enough to the police to overhear that Captain America had issued an order.

She had picked up a fallen alien firearm and continued on, the cold metal disappearing in her hands. No one ever saw her coming, not even aliens, because she did not exist.

It would be the first time she would kill something, but certainly not the last.

She suddenly can’t breathe. There is nothing to fight this day, no orders to follow.

Someone is screaming again, hysterical. “It's everywhere! It's not just here. It's everywhere. They’re gone, they’re-,” the voice cuts off. A guttural howl replaces it, pure grief.

She plucks her phone out of her pocket and dials her mother, and then her sister.

Nothing, nothing. She knows with sudden certainty that she is absolutely alone in the world.

The sudden grief and shock is almost enough to knock her out of existence.

No, she thinks. It's not the Battle of New York.

It’s worse.

Present day

Every Wednesday evening Bucky Barnes stops by her apartment with a takeout bag. Some nights, they talk. Other nights, they watch TV together for hours, or listen to music.

Some Wednesday nights, they eat in silence, they never speak a word. Sometimes she will quietly do schoolwork at the coffee table, Bucky silent and observant across from her.

He’s never looking at her, although she gets the distinct impression that he’s watching her, observing her. Somehow he peers into her without ever glancing at her. She likes it, she likes feeling seen, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

Though Bucky has firmly worked her into his routine, she rarely hears from him the rest of the week. He remains fixed in his methodical daily life, never responding to text messages no matter how many she sent.

Do you think our society could be considered dystopian? Or was it dystopian during the blip?

Do you think patriotism and nationalism are basically the same thing?

Are vegans just elitists?

Can you bring me some sugar?

Bucky never answers her texts, claims he doesn’t know how, which she knows is absolute bullshit. But he always has an answer ready for her when he comes over on Wednesday, starting the debate of the evening, because she always has an answer for everything too.

The world has always been dystopian.

Probably.

Maybe.

The time she had asked for sugar, he had dropped it off outside her door and knocked, disappearing before she could speak with him.

Only once had he responded to her.

Barnes, I’m dying. She had tested him. Did he read her messages, ignore them?

He had responded in six seconds.

I would know if you were dying.

Despite her best efforts she hadn’t been able to suppress her smile. He read her texts, immediately apparently. She also knew what he meant. You are not alone.

“Fatemah said to pass this along to you,” Bucky says when she opens the door one Wednesday evening, a few months into their strange friendship, handing her a paper bag from a Persian bakery she often frequented in their neighborhood, and breezing by into her apartment. She appreciates that he always knocks, though she imagines that he could let himself in if he really wanted to. Tonight he doesn’t carry any other food, she had insisted instead that she would cook after months of various takeouts.

Bucky seemed determined to go on a culinary journey around the world from the comfort of their neighborhood.

Her mother had loved that bakery, had been friends with Fatemah’s mother for years, since she was a baby.

She hums, the warmth of being remembered flooding her chest, She peers into the paper bag, and says, “How very kind of her, these are my favorite.” In the bag are several powdered qottab. “Would you like to try one, Barnes?”

Bucky follows her to the kitchen counter and settles himself on one of the barstools as she pulls out a plate and deposits the pastries there. The bag rustles as they slip out and she crushes the bag in her fist before tossing it in the trash.

Normally, she would keep the bag to store them away for later.

But she’s fully aware that Bucky Barnes is about to inhale 3 of the 4 qottab without so much as asking.

“What are they?”

She doesn’t doubt that he already knows. “They’re delicious,” she snarks. “Just try one.”

Bucky picks one up, bites into it and chews. She watches the line of his throat, his jaw flexing, before she glances away, picking up her own qottab. Sometimes she hates Bucky Barnes simply for how beautiful he was.

It’s unfair, she thinks, for someone to look like that and be unaware of that fact.

She hates the fondness he inspired in her. For how simply he showed affection, like he was trying not to. She wonders if she should have ever let him get so close.

He has powdered sugar on his lips which he licks away and says, “Good.”

She hates him, she decides. If for nothing else than coming into her life and licking that sugar away like that.

“You’re a simple man aren’t you?” She tilts her head to the side.

“In most things.”

He’s not looking at her as he picks up another one, sugar dusting the front of his black t-shirt. Something about it is a little bit endearing. She finds herself suppressing a smile, amused. “And how did Fatemah know that you would be heading here? I didn’t order anything today, nor did I ask you to stop by for me. Not that you would have since I’m so easily ignorable.”

“Maybe if you left the apartment I would talk to you more.”

“Very rude,” she reprimands. “And maybe people would talk to you more if you didn’t scowl and stalk.”

“I don’t stalk.” He makes no mention of the scowling.

“Sure you do,” she leans down to rest her elbows on the counter, propping her chin in her hand to peer across the counter at him. “Maybe stalk isn’t quite the correct word. Perhaps storm? I would describe you as stormy.”

He doesn’t answer, inhaling the final qottab without asking, as predicted, in three seconds flat.

Bucky doesn’t look at her when he answers. He had a very frustrating habit of speaking while staring into the middle distance. She waves a hand in front of his face to get him to look at her and he briefly glances at her with an irritated crease between his eyes, mouth tilted in a scowl.

“I was trying it out. Maybe I mentioned you.” He seems irritated to be admitting it.

It shouldn’t make her heart jump, bump against her ribs. “Oh,” she tries to hide her surprise, tries to imagine Bucky speaking to a stranger about her. “I see,” she quips instead, “you chat to the neighbors about me. Any good gossip you’re spreading around?”

Bucky grumbles something under his breath, something about I do not chat to people. She thinks maybe his neck has reddened just a little bit. “I can’t help that every shop within a three block radius seems to know who you are, 3B,” he deadpans.

She waits, chewing her pastry slowly. They stare at each other and she makes a point of smiling at him, all teeth. Bucky doesn’t blink. “You mentioned the place a couple of times, that’s why I was trying it out. I figured they’d remember you.” He looks so disgruntled about it that she laughs.

Surely her ribs must be bruised from the rapid leaps and bounds her heart is taking.

“Not to worry Bucky, I won’t tell anyone you secretly have feelings.” He glances away from her then, purposefully avoiding her eyes. “My mother was friends with the owner when I was growing up. Fatemah is a friend,” she explains, tearing off a piece of the qottab to pop in her mouth.

A beat of silence passes, he seems to teeter on the edge of saying something.

“She asked about you and,” he pauses, hesitating, “and your mother,” he says, swiping a napkin from the metal holder on the counter, seemingly just for something to do, wiping away powdered sugar that he had already licked away.

She stops, a cold hand clamping over her heart. It squeezes tight and doesn’t let go. “Oh,” she says, trying for nonchalance, but she can’t breathe and her fingers are already digging into her palms, terrified of fading into nothing, that her grief would swallow her whole. Terrified that even as she spoke that she had already gone translucent.

Grief made her into nothing, made her into rage.

Bucky has noticed her stillness, the way her fingers bite into her skin. He’s looking at her, gaze fully and firmly on her for once, like she’s a fawn he’s startled and doesn’t want to dart away.

She makes her fingers relax with no small amount of effort, slowly uncurling them and tucking her hands inside her sweater, before she gives him a wobbly smile, feeling a bit sick. “What did she ask?”

His voice is soft when he returns. “How you’re holding up.” Bucky raises his hand, like he means to reach out to her but drops it just as quickly.

The world falls out from beneath her feet, all that she keeps locked away in the deepest recesses of her heart bursting free. The past seems to rise up from the darkness and swallow her whole, wash her in new anguish and hate.

She needs Bucky to leave. She knows it will hurt his feelings, that his face will go blank like he’s been sucker punched before he covers it with a mask, pretending it didn’t sting.

But she can feel her own body start to devour her. Any moment she could fade, disappear.

“I’m sorry,” her voice cracks. “I need you to leave.”

He blinks, eyes wide, confused, almost betrayed. “What?” She’s never heard him sound like that before. Genuine, she thinks. The word bathed in hurt.

“Please. I’m sorry, but you have to leave.”

His face flickers blank.

Never before has she asked him to leave.

She expects him to argue but something in her voice makes him nod and stand. She flips the lock behind him as soon as the door closes.

She falls to her knees, her body disappearing as she hits the floor and screams her sorrow anew, invisible and silent to everyone but her.

~

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to find out what had happened to 3B’s mother.

Her mother and sister had been blipped away while 3B had been left alone. Their mother had assumed that her apartment had been repossessed and a new family lived there. While her children had searched for her after the return, she has stayed put in a displaced persons camp.

Camps that rapidly popped up all over the world. Their populations fluctuating from the returned to those displaced by the returned with a viscous rapidity.

She had weak health before the blip, and quickly fell sick.

She died before her daughters could find her.

Bucky had sworn under his breath when he had found the information.

He’s so fucking stupid, he shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. What did he think she was going to say? But as soon as Fatemeh mentioned it, had asked how she was holding up, that 3B had returned and not visited anyone, he had needed to know too.

She was grieving, as it turned out, hurting, and he’s irritated he hadn’t realized it earlier.

Clearly she hadn’t always been reclusive and alone. Clearly, she was going through something.

Still, it irks him that despite his best efforts he still can’t figure out where 3B had been during the blip.

Bucky can’t curb the urge to check on her and so he texts her three days after the incident, for only the second time, ignoring all the dumb things she texted him throughout the previous week.

He hadn’t heard from her since that day and he was worried maybe he fucked everything up, their strange but peaceful friendship. Already, he knows he’s in too deep, his habit of laying down loyalty thick and early, makes imagining his life without those Wednesday nights impossible.

The only time he felt calm, like the world had stopped being too much, like he had space to breathe that he did not deserve, was on Wednesday nights, sitting on the floor with his back pressed to the sofa 3B perched on, close enough to feel her body heat.

Her last message reads, Are smoothies technically a kind of soup?

He shakes his head, exasperated all over again, and then types out, Let me know if you need anything. I’m sorry.

Almost immediately, she responds. We didn’t get to have dinner Wednesday. Come over when you have time.

Relief floods him. Maybe she doesn’t hate him. Maybe everything was fine. He heads to her apartment right away and has barely knocked when the door swings open and 3B steps out.

Bucky is so surprised that he doesn’t immediately move out of the way. She brushes against him as she turns to lock the door behind her.

A warmth rushes through him at the contact, one he tries to stamp out, before he remembers himself and steps carefully away.

“We going somewhere, 3B?”

“Yes.” She’s wearing sunglasses that take up half her face, her lips pursed and eyebrows tilted in that strange way of hers. He knows she’s staring into his soul again and focuses on the wall behind her head instead.

“Okay,” he says. “Where?”

“7-Eleven.”

He follows her closely down the stairs and onto the street.

It's odd to see her in daylight, bathed in the afternoon sunshine. She pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath, orienting herself. The sun is warm, the city sighing around them.

He expects her to keep their carefully trained distance when she starts to walk, but instead she steps closer and puts her arm through his. “If you’re escorting a lady, you should at least do it properly,” her voice is high with false haughtiness.

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth twitch, but doesn’t look at her. “Fine.” The weight of her arm against his is nice, companionable. Maybe he leans into it just a little. “Why am I escorting a lady to 7-Eleven at all?”

“You would simply not understand if I told you,” she says, slightly cryptic as always. “I doubt that you would understand.”

“Try me.”

The concept of a gas station drink is then explained to him in great and delicate detail, the same way 3B told him about anything or put together any argument.

She was eloquent and clever in a way that always made him feel like he was missing something, like she was looking at the whole puzzle while he only held a piece.

When she had asked him if he thought the world was dystopian, he had simply said The world has always been dystopian.

She had tilted her head to the side, strange eyes assessing him and his answer. He was always found wanting. 3B had replied, But a dystopia is an imagined society where there is great injustice or suffering. By definition, since our society is not imagined, it can’t be a dystopia. She had paused and then continued, Also injustice and suffering are defined by the prevailing societal norms. What if the society doesn’t recognize something that is clearly an injustice or suffering as such, is it still unjust and should that society still be considered a dystopia?

Bucky had said That’s derivative from your original question.

3B had laughed, positively delighted.

No matter what answer he thought of, she had an answer for it right back. Nothing was ever adequate but she was never satisfied by her own answers either.

Bucky finds her most easy to observe without notice when she’s sitting in her apartment window, eyes on the street, brow furrowed, clearly having a vicious internal debate.

Listening to her explain what a gas station drink is, feels a little like debating the definition of dystopia. Pointless and yet hopelessly confusing.

“You go to a gas station, get the largest cup, fill it with candy almost all the way to the top and then top it with soda and an energy drink.”

Bucky blinks. “But why?” he asks, appalled. “That sounds disgusting. Can it be considered a drink if it's just a cup filled with candy?”

She turns and beams a smile at him that makes him wonder what he did to deserve it. He glances away almost immediately, scanning the street ahead instead. “Now you’re getting it, Barnes. Every answer has a question, but not every question has an answer.”

He snorts. Maybe there was a point to all her pondering but decides not to question the drink further for his own sanity.

They arrive a few minutes later at the 7-Eleven a couple blocks over from their apartment building. 3B makes a beeline for the candy aisle, waving at the clerk behind the counter as she flits by. Bucky watches her grab two of everything and realizes he’s about to be subjected to the gas station drink too.

She shoves two baby bottle pops, two packages of gummy worms, and two packages of sour patch kids into his arms. The foil crinkles loudly in his hands as he follows her to the drink aisle. She grabs two big gulp cups, a bottle of sprite, and an energy drink.

At the counter the clerk raises his eyes from the junk she picked out to meet 3B’s gaze with skepticism, “TikTok?”

“That’s right,” she says, smiling.

The clerk clicks his tongue, “Yeah I got kids in here everyday trying this shit.”

She considers the loot on the counter and holds up a straw nicked from the shelf by the cups, “Do you have straws larger than this? So the candy can be sucked up?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, looking amused. He considers her, sticking the candy in a plastic bag slowly, “You know what though? There’s a bubble tea place down the block.”

“Perfect. You are a man who understands docurm in these matters entirely.”

The man glances at Bucky, raising an eyebrow. Bucky gives a minute shake of his head. Don’t ask.

She sticks a rather large tip in the jar on the counter after Bucky pays, and then heads out the door.

There’s a couple of wooden picnic tables out front. 3B surprises him by settling herself down delicately, spine straight, hands fluttering like birds wings. He had assumed she wouldn't want to be out long and that they would head back to the apartment. “Would you mind going to get those straws?”

So he heads down to the bubble tea shop and asks for two straws, claiming he was there earlier and had forgotten them. The woman behind the counter only raises an eyebrow. Thoroughly vexed, he puts a twenty into the jar on the counter and is promptly handed two straws. This outing was starting to cost him.

Back at the table, 3B has already dumped the powder from the baby bottle pops into the bottom of the cups. He waves the straws in front of her nose before sitting across from her.

“I’m sorry about the other day.”

“You don’t beat around the bush,” she plucks off her sunglasses and meets his eyes before refocusing on the cup.

“Time seems to slip away from me so I should probably just get on with it.”

She snorts. “Self deprecating. Two can play at that game, Barnes.” She dumps the entire package of sour patch kids into one cup. Bucky grimaces at the concoction being brewed up in front of him. When he looks up from the cup he finds her peering at him, owlish eyes prying into the marrow of him. “I’m sorry. I very much am not dealing with what happened. It's easier to hide, to forget. I’ve been trying to hide and forget for a long time.”

3B’s gaze pivots again to the candy, the other bag of sour patch kids going into the other cup, the gummy worms following promptly. “If there’s one thing I do appreciate about you, Barnes, it's that you already seem to know everything. So I assume you know how she died.”

Bucky nods. “I do.”

She pours the sprite and then the energy drink. “I was top of my class at Georgetown. I had just graduated and gotten an internship with a senator when the blip happened. I hated politics but I had a plan.”

A cup is passed to Bucky and then one of the colorful straws. “My mother wanted me to be,” she seems to hesitate slightly, “normal, but also the best that I could be. So after the internship, I would take the foreign service exam and I would pass. I would work in an embassy or a consulate. I would be a diplomat one day. I was supposed to make my mother proud. I owed her that. I owed her a successful daughter, to make up for past mistakes.”

3B meets his eyes, almost pleading, begging him to understand without her having to explain it. Something is hidden in their depths that tells him she isn’t telling him everything, there is a secret embedded in this story, something she isn’t revealing yet. “But it was not to be. I lost everyone and it broke me, my sister and mother, most of my friends. And I couldn’t bare to come back to New York and look for my neighbors, to see who was left.” She shrugs, “And then they came back,” her voice wavers, “and I lost my mother all over again and this time it was my fault.”

She pokes her straw into the cup. “I should have been in New York. I should have come back and waited until they returned. But instead I disappeared, gallivanting about like some kind of-,” she cuts herself off and takes a long breath. “Anyways. My selfishness proved disastrous.”

That strange habit she has, of watching steadfastly for all their neighbors, counting and recounting everyone on their block that she can remember, suddenly makes sense. “You couldn’t have known,” Bucky says gently, fighting down the urge to ask where she had been. Disappeared where? Doing what?

Why couldn’t he find her during that time? Not even the winter soldier had been so effective at hiding so as not to show up anywhere.

She considers that for a moment. “Maybe not. But the disappeared weren’t dead, they were just gone. Shouldn’t we have been able to know that? Shouldn’t I have...felt something? Known to come back and sit tight and wait?”

“Couldn’t tell ya,” Bucky says, angling to make her smile, lighten the mood just a little. Something was fundamentally wrong with 3B not smiling, not frowning with intense concentration. Her morose expression sits heavy on his soul. “I was too busy being disappeared myself.”

The tension in the air snaps.

A laugh startles out of her and she covers her mouth with her hands, looking mortified. “Bucky, I’m sorry, it's not funny,” she whispers, still giggling. “Oh, Bucky! The blip was the least amount of years you’ve lost.”

His name in her mouth spreads liquid gold in his veins. The warmth of the sun had nothing on that sound.

He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling that surges through him when she laughs. Elation didn’t begin to cover it. A genuine smile pulls at his mouth. Bucky finds himself laughing too.

“What’s five fuckin’ years, doll? Chump change.”

She scoffs and finally leans forward to take a sip of the disgusting concoction masquerading as a drink.

Bucky takes a sip of his too, watching her closely.

3B leans back and smacks her lips, tilting her head to the side, considering. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Fucking foul,” he confirms.

“The candy,” she chews, “really adds a nasty texture to the pure sugar of it all.”

“Why did you want to try this?”

“Why not?”

And for 3B, he knows he won’t get any better answer.

It's quiet for a moment, before she gets up and trots back inside, returning with a bottle of water to share. “The clerk is laughing at us. He said it looked like you had taken a sip of piss.”

The water is the best thing he’s ever tasted, washing away the sticky sweetness of the sugar stuck in his gums.

“I know something about not dealing,” he says to her suddenly, words dragged out of his throat without his permission. She glances up, eyes razor sharp, surprised and expectant. “I know. I’m right there with you.”

He nods, swirling the straw and looking away. He wants to say more, wants to tell her what's eating him up inside. But that’s all he can manage to speak on his own issues, and how fucking pathetic was that. A few measly words.

But then her hand lands on his. “Thank you.” He sits frozen for a moment, the heat of her sinking through the glove, to slip in and rest against his skin. “Thank you for always letting me know I’m not alone, Bucky Barnes. And I know you can tell I’m not telling you everything. Thank you for not asking.” Before he can respond, she rises, the warmth of her hand disappearing, “I have to get home, make sure everyone is accounted for.”

Sun glows around her as she walks away, floating through the afternoon haze like she commanded it herself. She waves to the clerk through the window and turns to wait for him, sunglasses back in place.

Bucky can’t imagine what she might be hiding.

He follows her anyways, soft, loyal heart damning him.

[notwith0utyou]

The Other Side of the Door

summary: Bucky would do anything to keep you safe. Even if it meant sacrificing himself. Even if it took him to the bottom of the ocean.  pairing: Bucky x reader word count: 8.8k warnings: canon level violence, drowning (again? yes) a/n: this was written for a writing challenge for a user who was exposed for plagiarism sooooo…. but anyway….. this is based off the score of Taking a Stand - Henry Jackman (Captain America TWS). 

Bucky never wanted to hurt you like this. He never wanted to be the reason for the tears burning on your cheeks or the violent trembling of your hands as you so desperately tried to reach him through the steel lock of the door between you, to change his mind before it was too late.

He didn’t want to do this. It was imperative that you knew that, but you were so furious, so pain-stricken and terrified to see that he didn’t have another choice. He’d lost his recklessness, his willingness to throw himself headfirst into flames and bullets the day he met you. He had something to fight for now, something to live for, and he had no desire to throw it away. It was the last thing he wanted, and still, here he was.

Trapped in a cold, empty control room aboard a sinking cruise liner with his hand on the lever holding open the only door to your escape. The handle broke in the fight between him and the dead man currently laying at his feet; the ricochet of a bullet rendering the lever useless without a hand to keep it latched. Everyone else got out in time, but not you. No, you rushed back into the flooding halls, dripping wet with ocean water in search of him.

He was the one to lock the door, trapping himself inside. A barricade between you. A lifetime.

The devastation in your eyes, the betrayal, nearly crumbled his resolve, but he held his ground. He’d break your heart a thousand times over if it meant you survived this. He’d done so much evil in his life, saving yours might be the one decent thing he could do before the water took him under, back to the ice where he belonged.

Keep reading

[notwith0utyou]

Bucky Barnes vs. god

Summary: Bucky is used to being alone, so is the girl living in apartment 3B. He keeps to his routine, to crossing off amends. But mutual loneliness forges an unlikely friendship. Alone and reclusive, sweet and incredibly strange, with deep secrets and regrets, 3B has more to reveal than meets the eye.

This Chapter: It all begins with a question.

3B; Part 1

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~5k

Warnings: Mentions of god (not religion), mentions of death

A/N: This will be 4-6 parts and will take place before and during fatws. Please let me know what you think!

“Do you believe in god?”

Bucky Barnes, sort of Avenger, assassin, and formerly brainwashed soldier, glances over at her. He looks momentarily startled, like he hadn’t noticed her approach or take the seat next to him. In all honesty, he probably hadn’t. She tended to have that effect on people. He eyes her with a sort of faint wariness. His expression is a question mark, beer bottle paused half-way to his mouth.

She only blinks at him, waiting. Nerves gnaw at her belly, hope battling in her throat that he wouldn’t tell her to get lost. It is her first trip out of the apartment in months after all, and she wouldn’t want to fail too dramatically. She twists her fingers together.

A few more seconds pass in silence, where every other noise in the busy bar becomes amplified and warped, before he sets his beer down on the counter, and says, with confusion, “What?”

She clears her throat and sits up straighter. “Maybe I should rephrase. Do you believe in the idea of a singular god? Not gods, but god. As in an all powerful creator.” She had been debating with herself all week, found her own mind wanting, and decided that picking the brain of a man that had been alive for more than a century more than warranted an exodus from the safety of her apartment. “Excluding organized religion and their teachings, do you fundamentally believe that there is an all powerful, all seeing, all knowing god?”

She pauses, collecting her spiralling thoughts, “I’ve been puzzling over it for a week. I’m still not entirely sure.”

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Why not?"

To her infinite surprise, he thinks about it for a moment, seeming to really ponder her question as his eyes roll up to examine the dark ceiling. Most people seemed to have a knee jerk response of yes or no, especially when a complete stranger was the one asking. But she supposed a century worth of life experience gave one a bit of perspective on the question that most people wouldn’t have.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t.”

“Okay.” She waits for him to elaborate.

When he avoids her eyes and doesn’t offer anything further, staring at the liquor bottles behind the bar, she decides it's in her best interest to depart before she makes more of an ass of herself.

She pushes down the disappointment. She had hoped for just a bit more, but decides not to push it.

She hums, clicks her pen and scribbles as such down into her notebook. “Thanks very much, Mr. Barnes.” When she looks back up at him, he looks confused again, glancing around like he thinks he’s being punked.

“Am I being punked?”

“What would the joke be?” She asks, tilting her head to the side in puzzlement.

He shakes his head and takes a swig of beer, before he forces a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. I have a bad relationship with notebooks.” She makes a confused but sympathetic noise before he asks, “Did my therapist send you? How do you know my name?”

“Give me a little bit of credit,” she says, “I do watch the news. And if you suspect your therapist of sending random strangers to accost you in bars, might I suggest getting a new therapist?” She snarks.

“And have you noticed that no one else seems to know who I am?” He asks, his tone flat and droll, equally as sarcastic as her own. She finds herself smiling, she wouldn’t have expected the former winter soldier to be farcical.

“I did notice that, yes.” She clears her throat, “We live in the same apartment building you see. I’m working on my master’s degree and I saw you crossing the street one day. And then I saw you do the same thing the next day. And the day after that.” She pauses, fiddling with the tip of her pen. “Seems a bit of a security risk to keep to the exact same pattern everyday,” she muses, chuckling just a bit.

Barnes scrubs his hand over his eyes.”Fantastic,” he mutters, looking exhausted.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone else has noticed you,” she says, smiling and waving at the bartender. She orders a lemonade to go before continuing, trying to reassure him, “No one has been following you or acting strangely, although I’m sure you already knew that. Just as I’m sure you scoped out the residents of our building and you’ve already guessed which apartment I belong to and my name. I don’t really leave the building anymore so I have a lot of time to notice patterns.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He watches her closely as she brushes off her corduroy mini-skirt and adjusts her bright sweater. She smiles at him, folds her hands on the counter and tries to ignore how sticky it feels beneath her skin.

There’s a crease between his brows. His frown is deep, skeptical to the highest degree.

“I’m not some goon,” she says, exasperated.

“I can see that,” he mutters.

“Yes, but I mean it. Not in like a ‘I’m saying that to throw you off the scent of danger.’”

It only makes him squint at her, head tilting to the side like a curious dog.

She smiles at him again. “I really did just want your opinion of the existence of god.”

Eventually he nods, seeming resigned to her presence for the moment. She thinks maybe he’s decided she isn’t a security risk, in which case he would be absolutely wrong.

She glances over her shoulder but no one seems to be paying them any mind. When she turns back around, an ice cold bottle of lemonade has been placed in front of her.

“Okay,” she says, standing and rummaging for a few bucks in her skirt pocket, a little amused at his brooding silence. She thought she would find him just a tiny bit intimidating but finds the opposite true. His dark shirt and leather jacket strain against the bulk of him but somehow it feels like she’s sitting next to a particularly gloomy teddy bear rather than a world renowned assassin. “Probably won’t see you around so this is goodbye.”

She turns to walk back through the bar packed with neighborhood regulars when he says, “Why don’t you leave the building?”

Turning back, she finds him tossing a few bills on the counter himself and standing. He snatches her money back and hands it to her, “I got it.”

“What are you doing?”

“Paying for your drink. Walking you back,” he says gruffly. “There was an armed robbery a few nights ago a block from our building. I don’t want to find you dead in the foyer tomorrow morning.”

“How charming,” she says.

She waits patiently, notebook clutched to her chest as he checks his pockets and nods to the bartender. She wonders why on earth he would concern himself with walking her back to the building, murder or no, she’s just someone who had accosted him in a bar with questions of divine existence.

Finally he seems ready to go and gestures her ahead of him. “This is very chivalrous of you. I walked myself here so if I get murdered on the way back, I would have only myself to blame.”

“Call it a hard habit to break,” he says. Once on the sidewalk, he asks again, “Why don’t you leave the building?”

“That’s sort of a loaded question,” she says, following as he sets off down the street. There’s about a foot of space between them on the sidewalk, Bucky’s pace quick and steady. He doesn't look at her. His voice is gruff in a way that tells her he rarely speaks.

“You asked me if I believe in god. One loaded question for another.”

“Actually,” she corrects, “I asked if you believe in a god. There’s a difference.”

“How?”

She hums, “One begs the question of religious teachings while the other is more of a philosophic ponderance.”

She glances sidelong at him, but he still isn’t looking at her. His eyes scan the street ahead of them, rarely settling for more than a few seconds. She wonders again what possessed her to leave her apartment tonight, why she felt she should venture out and ask this question of a person she did not really know. She feels like she knows him though, she had watched him long enough, knows exactly which turns in the street he’ll take because they’re the ones he always takes.

Her heart pounds a little harder, and she thinks about lying to him. Instead, she settles for a half truth. “I’m not comfortable outside anymore.”

Silence yawns between them, Bucky Barnes thinking about her answer so loudly she can almost hear his thoughts. He consumes her answer, swallows it whole, and decides its not enough.

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Not entirely,” she snarks, “A half answer for a half answer.”

Bucky scoffs, “Mine wasn't a half answer. No isn’t a half answer.”

“In this case it is. If you think that the complexities of the existence of god can be boiled down to yes or no, I’ve overestimated you.”

Frustration and irritation sweep over his features. He tilts his head, squinting at her. “Do you? Believe in god?”

She suppresses her smile poorly. Her answer is only going to frustrate him further.

“I don’t know,” she says cheerfully.

They reach their building, Bucky lets them in and they take the stairs to the third floor, the noise and stench of the street fading away. She had only been gone for an hour, but she’s still relieved to be back in familiar surroundings, back in the safety of their building.

When they stop outside of her door he says bluntly, “You’re a very frustrating person.”

“So I’m told.” So she was once told, she doesn’t correct herself. Back when she had people, family and friends.

She unlocks her door and steps gently inside, carefully, one foot at a time. Bucky notices but doesn’t say anything. “What are you studying?” He asks, gaze moving from her feet to her eyes.

“What?”

“Why are you tracking me down to ask about the existence of god at all?”

“Oh,” she smiles, “that’s not what my research is about. It was out of personal curiosity.”

She starts to shut her door, leaving a puzzled Barnes outside.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

She’s made a fool of herself and now that she’s back in the familiarity of her apartment she can’t imagine what came over her in the first place.

A longing opens up inside her, wide and raw. She had not realized quite how lonely she was. The apartment seems too big and empty, too many hidden echoing memories.

Although it had been brief, she had felt safe with Barnes, and seen. Maybe she’s finally losing her mind.

She doubts she’ll ever speak to him again, and tells herself that she’s okay with that.

Five months earlier

She spends the first three days in her new apartment lodged in the window overlooking the road. Well, not exactly new, she muses. Her mother’s old place no longer holds any of its old furniture from her childhood. It's odd to be back, and alone, but comforting all the same.

She watches the Brooklyn street and tries to determine who were the gentrifying yuppies and who were the locals.

That’s easy.

She tries to figure out who had been disappeared during the blip and who had remained.

That’s a little harder.

Sometimes, it was impossible to tell. The blip and the return had affected everyone differently, though the societal loss and upheaval had been incalculable.

Some people had thrived, doors opened that would have otherwise remained closed. Some saw their abuser wiped from existence. Terrible people had disappeared, people the world was better without.

And some people lost their entire family, all their friends. Everyone gone in the blink of an eye, a gaping wound left bleeding in their chest.

She had been in a different apartment in a different city when people had suddenly started disappearing. She has not been able to reach her family on the phone. The one time she should have been in the city, she hadn’t been.

It had been a different day and a different window, she tries to remind herself of that. But she can’t stop her quiet vigilance, wondering if it might start up again. She diligently watches people, counts the neighborhood locals, makes sure that they’re always there, because what if she never saw them again?

But the people below stay firmly in reality, present and solid, not fading to dust, their edges returning to the stars.

She sighs and lowers the binoculars, gazing forlornly over at her laptop. It mocks her with all the work she still needs to do, the words stretching out into infinity. She curls tighter into herself, tugging the blanket around her knees closer.

She clenches her eyes shut, trying to drown out the blinding anxiety clawing up her throat. Everytime she opened her eyes, she thought it would be happening again. Dust and ash in place of people, horrible screaming, howling confusion about what had just happened.

The screaming never leaves her, that bone deep grief of sudden horrifying loss. All the more horrible for its unpredictability, its suddenness. It had taken people weeks to realize that the disappeared weren’t coming back.

Were they dead? In another dimension? Did you hold a funeral? Were you supposed to mourn? What were you supposed to feel? Sadness, grief, anger, relief?

Confusion. Everyone was confused.

The return only complicated things further.

People had moved on, built new lives. Some of the returned found no one left for them. More grief, more anger, more confusion.

Now, those that had been left behind were faced with the reality of the returned wanting their lives back.

Some days, she’s conflicted about the return. Things had been different, her carefully arranged life had gone up in flames after the blip. She had been free and she had been trapped. She had done things maybe she shouldn’t have.

Now, she’s back in Brooklyn, back in school, back to being afraid.

Evening begins to fall and she takes to watching the street again instead of working on her coursework like she should. People swarm in the street below, meeting up for after work drinks, couples pairing off on dates, roving groups of teenagers ducking into the glowing electric lights of the under 21 clubs.

And then she notices someone strange. Not some hipster trying their luck in New York, but not quite a local. Her gaze snags on him and she can’t look away, familiarity settling heavily between her bones.

“What are the chances?” She asks aloud, amused and delighted.

She can’t remember that last time she’s spoken to anyone. She can’t remember the last time she’d spoken at all.

No one answers, dust motes float through the golden hour light. But there’s an Avenger in her neighborhood and that makes her feel just a little bit safer.

The former winter soldier, Bucky Barnes, crosses the street and heads into their building.

She picks up her phone, her finger hovers over her sister’s name. She has to tell someone.

But she doesn’t.

It’s not that easy anymore.

~

Bucky is tired. Down to the middle of his bones, right in the center of his soul, he’s tired. Talking to the shrink makes him tired. She doesn’t let him slide, not with anything. She makes him face the unfaceable.

He crosses the street and tries not to feel like he’s being watched. His neck prickles with unease, the wash of eyes unseen boring into him.

He is not being watched, he knows he’s not being watched. Still, it's hard to shake the feeling. And old habits die hard.

Once inside his building he takes the stairs two at a time, rubbing one hand over his newly short hair. He’s sure his hair hasn’t been so short since the 40s and he feels exposed. He only got it cut yesterday and he feels more than vulnerable. He feels split open, like a raw nerve.

He makes dinner, slowly, methodically. He scrubs the dishes and then eats.

He washes his plate and fork and puts those away too. He showers and changes and tries lying in bed for six minutes and forty-three seconds before he moves to the floor in the living room in front of the TV. He still had minimal furniture, and the place could belong to anyone. He has no personal touches to add anyway, so why try?

Dr. Raynor, his state mandated therapist, doesn’t know that he’s still sleeping on the floor although he suspects she knows anyways. She usually knows everything.

He ignores most of her advice, about grieving for his own lost life, grieving for Steve when he has only just started to reconnect with his oldest friend, moving on in the modern world and making his own connections.

Grief and hurt don’t matter to him. He doesn’t deserve the time and space to hold those things in his hands, to examine them.

Instead, he inspects his list of amends and thinks about all those he’s wronged.

Why should he be allowed to grieve and heal before he’s made up to the people whose lives he destroyed?

He shouldn’t and so he won’t and he’ll ignore the shrink’s advice on everything except the amends. The amends are what matter.

He tells himself that this is fine. A life of self isolation is fine. If loneliness and solitude are the price, then he’ll pay it.

Bucky has a routine. He sticks to it. Life is fine. It's okay.

He makes his amends and tries to keep to himself. He tries not to disturb the world anymore than he already has.

If nightmares plague him, if shadows haunt him, if his heart breaks for grief and loneliness, then it's all only what he deserves.

He falls asleep with the TV on, sound chasing away his swirling thoughts.

Present day

Bucky stares at 3B’s apartment door, shut firmly in his face.

“Do you believe in god?” He scoffs out loud, annoyed more than he should be. “What kind of fuckin’ question is that?” Whether he’s asking himself or this strange person he’s just encountered, he isn’t sure.

Did he?

How could he?

Why does the question bother him so much?

He feels shaken and can’t really decide why. Was it because she interrupted his carefully constructed routine? Was it the question? The lack of an explanation for a question that for him had come entirely out of the blue? Her prim nonchalance?

She was magnetic in a way that startled him. She had a way of staring down the barrel of his soul. He wants her to open the door, he wants to keep talking to her.

He turns, making his way slowly to his apartment, still rattled. As soon as he’s inside, he pulls the files containing information on all the residents in his building, stashed away in a double backed kitchen cabinet.

3B’s file is easy to find. She’s native to New York, attending Columbia University, living in a rent controlled apartment that she inherited from her mother. Her sister had lived there before the blip and it had stood empty until the return.

Now, she works and studies from home.

He has her phone number and previous addresses. She had lived in 3B, then in DC presumably for school, before she moved back to New York, in 3B once again.

She seems entirely harmless. Except for the fact that her history is mostly blank from the days of the blip, though she had not been among the disappeared.

He flicks through the rest of the building residents, quickly scanning over information he’s already memorized.

Has he missed something? Is she from some dark corner of his past that he’s forgotten?

3B clearly didn’t mean to speak to him anymore. She had gotten her answer, and that seemed all she needed of him.

One question, and his whole world crumbled?

And wasn’t that just so goddamned stereotypical of him?

Bucky sits down heavily on a barstool at his counter, staring at the photo attached to her file. The picture does nothing to capture that enchanting pull of her eyes. Eyes you wanted to fall into. Eyes that made you want to answer every question she asked.

Does god exist? God couldn’t exist.

Why the fuck would she ask him?

~

For the next few weeks, Bucky goes about his normal routine as much as possible. Twice he’s disrupted with amends business, a senator and a crime boss.

He makes a point not to look up at his building when he crosses the road on his way back from his mandatory therapy sessions. Bucky doesn’t want to look up and see her eyes peering back at him, seeing something that he doesn’t seem to know is there.

When he goes to the bar, on his regular nights, not breaking the routine, he keeps the seat next to him empty for as long as he can.

But she never shows.

Why should she?

She hadn’t been lying when she said she didn’t leave the building.

That is as puzzling as the question of god.

A half answer for a half answer, she had said.

Fantastic.

Bucky lasts all of four weeks before Dr. Raynor gets the encounter out of him. When he finishes telling her the tale, he hears the expected advice.

“This is what I’ve been talking about. Making connections, navigating the world in your own way. As...strange as this encounter was, clearly it affected you. Maybe this is your chance. If you won’t text Sam back, why not her? Knock on her door, or text her. I’m sure you already know her number somehow.”

Maybe just this once, he'll follow her advice.

~

It's been six weeks since she had spoken to Bucky Barnes. The night is beginning the way it always does, watching for the people on her block with routines to come home, counting them, making sure to memorize them lest they end up as dust.

For her neighbors without a regular routine, she makes sure she sees them at least twice a week.

She watches for Bucky.

He’s late, and her heart pounds. She looks forward to his comforting presence, heart stilling in her chest for a moment each day as she tracks him across the road. He never looks up.

She tries to remind herself that Bucky sometimes, though rarely, doesn’t follow his normal schedule. She tries to remind herself that a missing person does not mean a lost person. A lost person does not mean a disappeared person.

She reprimands herself with no small amount of irritation that it doesn’t matter. She does not know him.

But then he appears, hurrying slightly as though he’s late for something, a takeout bag clutched in his hand.

She sighs, watches him cross, and then seeks out Mr. Khan next, making sure that he’s there in the window of his shop closing up as normal.

He is, his small daughter sitting on the counter waiting patiently for her father to finish up.

Then something unexpected happens.

Someone knocks on her door. She lowers her binoculars and gazes at her door, tilting her head to the side in question as though staring would reveal anything to her. No one has knocked on her door since she’s moved in, aside from occasional take out deliveries and grocery drop offs.

“What are the chances?” She asks out loud, her voice barely audible, thick with disuse.

The knock comes again, a bit more tentative this time, and so she stands gingerly, blanket unravelling from her lap. Crossing the room, she checks the peephole and finds Barnes standing outside her door looking rather uncomfortable.

She opens the door.

They stare at each other, and he seems to be waiting for her to say something.

Eventually, he holds up the take out bag clasped in his fist, almost grudging about it. “I brought food.”

Her favorite Chinese restaurant’s logo is on the side of the bag. “Oh. That’s my favorite,” she says, slightly questioning.

“You think you’re the only person who knows things, 3B?”

She smiles and thinks about admitting him to her apartment. “I know that I’m not. I know almost nothing at all.”

Bucky is staring at her with such intensity that it takes her breath away. His slate blue eyes seem to stare down into the center of her soul. He seems to know her.

“I suppose you can come in, since you come bearing gifts.”

He walks past her, taking in the space, crossing to her coffee table and carefully sitting down the bag. “We can eat there, sure,” she says, following, “I always ignore the dining table.”

“I thought you lived in the window.”

“Ha,” she deadpans, sitting cross legged on the floor. “What did you bring?”

She tries to ignore the pounding of her heart, that Bucky Barnes was in her apartment, and had brought her food for seemingly no reason at all.

Bucky sits down across from her, unloads the bags, hands her chopsticks and digs in. He says nothing and so neither does she. He was the one who has randomly showed up at her home and so he can speak first.

Bucky had brought all of her favorites and she realizes he’s been watching her as closely as she watched him.

Her hands are clammy, and she tries to force down the anxiety eating a hole in her stomach. Alone, with a strange man in her apartment, a notoriously violent one at that, doesn’t bother her though it probably should. She wonders what he’s here to say to her, she had not thought she would ever see him again.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Bucky says eventually. “And I have more than a half answer this time.”

She swallows thickly, and smiles. That just means he wants her real answer.

“Oh?” The question of god, of course.

“Sure. I don’t believe in a singular, all powerful god,” he says, his eyes intense as his gaze meets hers. “I can’t. After everything I’ve seen and done, I can’t. After everything that’s happened to me and to the world.” He doesn’t elaborate on what he means so he must assume she knows his past as well as anyone could.

“Well I can understand that.” She says, setting down her chopsticks, mulling over his words. “But that’s a very personal way of looking at it. Maybe god doesn’t care what happens to us, maybe god is all knowing and all powerful and all seeing, but also an agent of chaos. No one ever said god must care for his creations. No one ever said god must be inherently good.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Do you have an answer for everything?” He suddenly snarks. “I just bared my soul to you, and you have an answer for that?”

She actually laughs.

A real, deep laugh, startled right from the center of her gut. Its delight in its purest form.

She can’t remember the last time she laughed.

“Sorry,” she says, not really sorry at all. He’s not how she expected him to be at all, especially not when he walked around constantly scowling at everything.

“I’m wrestling with the existence of god, any god, as a philosophic ponderance, and you immediately have a counterpoint.” He wears an awkward half-grin although his frustration seems real.

“Bucky Barnes vs god,” she muses. “Did I really unsettle you that much?” She clears her throat and resettles herself more comfortably on the floor, “I really didn’t mean so much by it. I got it in my head that I should ask you, that you’d have some greater perspective that I hadn’t thought of myself. I get caught up in the minutiae of debatable topics sometimes.”

It made the loneliness easier. It was easier to converse with oneself if one had an inexhaustible conversation topic.

“It's unsettling for strangers to question you about the origins of the universe,” Bucky says. “Especially when you’re just trying to enjoy a beer.”

“Not everything is about you, Barnes,” she retorts.

Something changes then, though she isn’t sure what. He’s staring at her again, as seems to be his habit. She tilts her head, forehead creasing, staring right back.

It's hard to tell, because she’s been so long without them, but she thinks perhaps they’re becoming friends.

This is how lonely people became friends. This is how formerly brainwashed superassassins made friends. Mutual counter surveillance and debate over a dinner of Chinese food.

She smiles again.

“This conversation feels more like getting beaten up by god,” he says into a carton of rice.

“It's the same thing,” she laughs. “A one on one with god is just you always being wrong.”

Bucky only sighs, inhaling another dumpling. “Maybe you’re god since you’re the one making me suffer divine confusion.”

“Perhaps,” she says, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice.

They eat in silence for a moment, and then Bucky says, “Your turn.”

“Hm?” She was hoping he had forgotten.

“I thought about god, for much longer than I wanted to. I did my time in pondering. Now it's your turn. Why don’t you leave the building?”

A beat passes before she recovers and says with complete honesty, “I have everything I need here. I was alone during the blip and now I don’t know how to not be alone. I look outside and every time, I see that day. I should have been here, in 3B, and I wasn’t.”

The silence that descends is thick and she wonders if she’s said too much. She stares down at her lap and picks at a loose thread in her blanket, trying not to dig her fingers into her skin.

“That was very honest of you,” he says eventually, picking at the chicken. “I believe you, 3B.”

“That’s very kind of you, Barnes, I very much appreciate your support of my trauma induced coping mechanisms,” she snips back.

He snorts, “Join the club, sweetheart.”

Her heart flutters and she smiles. “Would you like a Coke?” she asks, standing and tossing him the remote, not giving him a choice but to stay put.

~

An unknown number texts her at 2:07 AM, 3 hours after Bucky Barnes departed her apartment.

In case you need anything - B

[notwith0utyou]

Assuming that Bucky *did* go under when Ayo spoke the words.. like what was their plan for that? How were they planning to bring him back?

Maybe it hinges on what they expected to happen...Ayo says “I won’t let you hurt anyone.” I’m not sure whether that’s an indication of what the evidence suggests will definitely happen (ie she will need to physically constrain him to stop him from hurting others bc he will become violent as soon as he turns), or of what the evidence suggests could happen in a future he can’t control (ie Ayo will have to protect him from being taken advantage of by others), or just an irrational fear Bucky has.

This brings up more questions than answers:

If the winter soldier was activated and then no one gave him orders, what would he do? Does the winter soldier have a baseline violence drawn out by the words—something that fundamentally changes his desires beyond making him suggestible to simple commands? Does the state the words take him into cause him such confusion that he might manifest that confusion through violence? Does he have programming or memories that are activated with the words that push him to do certain things while in that state, like seek out hydra or his past masters, something that tells him who he’s supposed to be taking orders from?

Bc for that matter, do the words just put him in a blank slate mental state of regression that makes him susceptible to control by all others,, Or is it that only the person that said the words has some magical power over him? and would that mean that on some level he was afraid that Ayo would order him to hurt others?

Or was he just afraid of that feeling? Afraid of not knowing, of having already lost the fight against some nebulous future master because he’s not equipped to fight or prepare or make his own decisions in that state?

Regardless,

The only common denominator in the instances of Bucky being snapped out of it that we’ve seen is *Steve* so it makes extreme sense for Steve to have been there for the test.

But is Steve just the catalyst for a process that would happen eventually anyway and not the sole cause? Would Bucky be able to regain his memories and whatever else gives him his personhood as Bucky given enough time without another reboot? I think that’s likely based on how often they seem to have needed to work on him in tws. He was clearly used to the ECT they administered and he was clearly extremely familiar with the words we saw for the first time in cacw. But I find it unlikely the plan was just to... chain him up until he remembered who he was.

Perhaps they were thinking he had enough of a bond with Ayo that Ayo could trigger his memory the way we’ve seen only Steve do.

Or perhaps they were just planning to drop a helicopter on him and hope the head trauma would shake it loose, as I suppose it’s possible it was simply the head trauma and not Steve’s presence at all that drew Bucky out in cacw.

Or. Are there words to end it? Did Shuri reprogram him with words to shut him down the way she did the arm?

[notwith0utyou]

Assuming that Bucky *did* go under when Ayo spoke the words.. like what was their plan for that? How were they planning to bring him back?

Maybe it hinges on what they expected to happen...Ayo says “I won’t let you hurt anyone.” I’m not sure whether that’s an indication of what the evidence suggests will definitely happen (ie she will need to physically constrain him to stop him from hurting others bc he will become violent as soon as he turns), or of what the evidence suggests could happen in a future he can’t control (ie Ayo will have to protect him from being taken advantage of by others), or just an irrational fear Bucky has.

This brings up more questions than answers:

If the winter soldier was activated and then no one gave him orders, what would he do? Does the winter soldier have a baseline violence drawn out by the words—something that fundamentally changes his desires beyond making him suggestible to simple commands? Does the state the words take him into cause him such confusion that he might manifest that confusion through violence? Does he have programming or memories that are activated with the words that push him to do certain things while in that state, like seek out hydra or his past masters, something that tells him who he’s supposed to be taking orders from?

Bc for that matter, do the words just put him in a blank slate mental state of regression that makes him susceptible to control by all others,, Or is it that only the person that said the words has some magical power over him? and would that mean that on some level he was afraid that Ayo would order him to hurt others?

Or was he just afraid of that feeling? Afraid of not knowing, of having already lost the fight against some nebulous future master because he’s not equipped to fight or prepare or make his own decisions in that state?

Regardless,

The only common denominator in the instances of Bucky being snapped out of it that we’ve seen is *Steve* so it makes extreme sense for Steve to have been there for the test.

But is Steve just the catalyst for a process that would happen eventually anyway and not the sole cause? Would Bucky be able to regain his memories and whatever else gives him his personhood as Bucky given enough time without another reboot? I think that’s likely based on how often they seem to have needed to work on him in tws. He was clearly used to the ECT they administered and he was clearly extremely familiar with the words we saw for the first time in cacw. But I find it unlikely the plan was just to... chain him up until he remembered who he was.

Perhaps they were thinking he had enough of a bond with Ayo that Ayo could trigger his memory the way we’ve seen only Steve do.

Or perhaps they were just planning to drop a helicopter on him and hope the head trauma would shake it loose, as I suppose it’s possible it was simply the head trauma and not Steve’s presence at all that drew Bucky out in cacw.

Or. Are there words to end it? Did Shuri reprogram him with words to shut him down the way she did the arm?

[notwith0utyou]

I’m not a killer anymore.

THE JOURNEY FROM THE WINTER SOLDIER BACK TO BUCKY BARNES

[notwith0utyou]

Zemo orchestrated the entire fight scene in Madripoor - and here's my proof.

I’ve found a clue that I think could be MAJOR to Zemo’s arc in TFATWS.

Let’s get right into it. Just after Zemo breaks out of prison and unites with Sam and Bucky, we’re taken to a large warehouse in which is kept Zemo’s many cars. He opens a couple, retrieving hidden paraphernalia - one such item I think is a very important clue.

In the boot of the first car, there is a lingering shot of a gold pistol.

(Time stamp: 10:00)

Interesting - but what about this “major clue”?

We already know that Zemo “orchestrated the fight scene” to a certain extent - he was the reason why Bucky was fighting in the first place, forced to act as the Winter Soldier under the circumstances.

However, what I’m suggesting is that it was an entirely constructed event, completely controlled and set up by Zemo. We know that he has ulterior motives - and is certainly not finished with Bucky - so I think this is entirely possible. Now for that clue.

During the chaos, we see reactions of the people surrounding Bucky and his victims. Taking out cameras, calling for back-up, and... pulling out guns. Golden guns.

There is a very quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shot of someone doing just that.

(Time stamp: 20:40)

I know what you might be thinking: “They could both have gold guns, it’s not a big deal. You’re overthinking it.”

But in fact, both guns look entirely identical. Completely gold, except for the grip (covered in the second shot), which is padded with brown leather. A distinctive ridge detailing on the side.

Plus, why would they take the time for these shots if they weren’t connected?? And I mean come on - how many people have a gold gun, especially if you’re not a rich Baron like Zemo?

Also: we never see Zemo with that gun again - we only ever see him use the pistol he finds in Nagel's lab. Think about it - why would they introduce a fancy, statement weapon, for the bearer to never use it in his most dramatic shot?

(Time stamp: 37:08)

My take is that Zemo paid those men to interact in the fight - and his pistol would have been perfect persuasion for one of them.

Another very quick shot aids to this theory - at one point, Zemo literally pushes someone into the fight.

(Time stamp: 20:27)

Picture it - you’ve been sent by the famous, wealthy villain Baron Zemo to the Brass Monkey in Madripoor. You’ve been told there will be a fight in which you are to interact, for a large payment in return. Sounds like a great opportunity.

But you never realised you’d be facing the Winter Soldier himself.

Nervously hanging back, *the* Zemo shoves you into the murderous assassin’s circle.

To me, these factors completely confirm my theory that Zemo orchestrated the fight to land Bucky in trouble. He gets people to film it; this paints Bucky in horrible light, getting him into trouble with the already-in-for-him John Walker and the government. Simultaneously, Zemo is sowing mistrust in Sam, saying “it didn’t take much for him to fall back into form,” manipulating Bucky’s best friend into believing that he will always be the Winter Soldier. Like many others, I believe that Zemo is trying to eradicate Bucky.

"Supersoldiers - gods amongst men - cannot be allowed to exist."

"I ended the Winter Soldier programme once before. I have no intention to leave my work unfinished."

"I knew I could not kill them - more powerful men than me have tried. But... if I could get them to kill each other..."

It seems Zemo is taking the same approach as in Civil War - not getting his own hands dirty, but letting his targets tear themselves apart. He's methodical, secretive, intelligent, and manipulative - with seven years to formulate a plan.

And with cameras, shoves, and golden pistols... it seems he is succeeding, so far.

[notwith0utyou]

Me: thoroughly entertained by Daniel Bruhl's depiction of zemo and his charm

Also me: capable of recognizing the inherent threat he poses to Bucky's mental health and aware that all their interactions are tinged with an icky foreboding because zemo is obviously sticking around to carry out a long game that obviously includes manipulating and breaking Bucky down so everytime they're on screen together makes me really anxious because no one in the show seems as concerned or aware that zemo has sized up Bucky's fragility and totally has him in his sights and I-

[notwith0utyou]

SAM WILSON APPRECIATION WEEK ♡ Day 1 - favorite quotes

[notwith0utyou]

Sam Wilson vs Undercover work

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) | The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (2021)

[notwith0utyou]

Please give Bucky his goats back

[notwith0utyou]

Still not over how wrecked Bucky looks here; like he’s almost on the verge of tears. He literally looks so miserable please Marvel let somebody hug him

[notwith0utyou]

The fact that even Zemo knows that he has to call Bucky James, but fake Captain America doesn’t is astounding like please learn to read a room