orithyia-eriphyle - Tumblr blog

orithyia-eriphyle · 11 days ago

Text

Tangled (#8)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 4k

note: The chapter I wrote turned out to be too extensive, so I decided to post the first part today, so you guys have something to read while I polish the rest when I can -aka, you know what, you dirty little things-.

Previous Chapter

She arrived a bit later than usual, with a short-sleeved dress brushing her knees. Her basket swung lightly at her side as she picked her way across the familiar rocks, pausing when she spotted him.

“Hey,” she called, a little breathless.

Bucky offered a grunt in response, low and noncommittal.

He hadn’t planned to stay long. Just watch, maybe say a few words. But then the wind shifted.

His nostrils flared. Something foreign. Male. Not him.

It was faint, threaded through the fibers of her dress like smoke. His body tensed, and his pupils darkened, as a flick of something primal rose hard and fast in him.

“You were in town,” he said, more statement than question.

She nodded, crouching to set her basket down. “Yeah, this morning.”

He got a little closer, slightly narrowing his eyes. “Who did you meet?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Who did you meet?” he repeated, voice rougher now.

She tilted her head, with a curious frown pulling between her brows. “Well, Detective,” she said, dryly playful, “the old lady from the yarn shop. Then I grabbed a few groceries.”

He didn’t smile. Instead, he moved closer again, silent and imposing. The way his eyes roved her now were assessing, searching.

“Who is he?” he asked, low and firm.

“Who?”

“The man.”

She stared at him, knitting her brows tighter. “What man?”

His jaw clenched. “The male you let touch you.”

The words dropped like a stone in the water between them.

Her mouth parted in disbelief, the heat of confusion rising in her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

But he was already bristling, the scent clinging to her like a warning was difficult to ignore. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t meant anything by it. His body didn’t understand nuance, only instinct. Only the ache in his chest and the flare of something sharp and unwelcome in his gut.

"You smell like another man."

Her brows shot up at the bluntness of the comment. He was next to her now, silent and solid, with his tendrils half-curled on the rocks around her like restless shadows. Close, but not touching.

“Why would I-” she began, confused, and then her expression cleared. “Oh. Must be… when I was leaving the market, I tripped. Bags and all. Some guy caught me mid-fall.”

She watched his face carefully as she spoke. He didn’t respond, didn’t blink. His pupils were wide, black swallowing blue, and whatever emotion curled in the tight set of his mouth was unreadable.

Something in her bristled. She’d danced around this for too long, his moods, the way he drew close only to retreat again. Sometimes warm, sometimes so distant it left her aching.

And now this?

She lifted her chin, slightly narrowing her eyes. “What is it with you?”

No answer. Just that burning gaze on her.

She took a breath. “Last I checked, I don’t have to report to you about what I do with my time. Or who I meet.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Didn't even look away.

She didn’t either.

“You think it’s about control?” His mouth twitched, not quite a sneer, but something bitter and tight that didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t care who you see.”

A lie, maybe, or something he wanted to believe. “I just didn’t think you’d let someone touch you like that.” He shifted, the coil of his tendrils pulling back slightly, and his jaw was tight like it hurt to speak. “Not when I can’t even let myself.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped, furrowing her brows as she took a step closer. “Elaborate ‘touch me like that’, because stopping me from face-planting into the ground with all my groceries doesn’t exactly sound like some x-rated encounter to me.”

Her finger jabbed lightly against his chest, not hard, but enough to make a point. “And clearly you do care who I see. You wouldn’t be standing here growling questions at me if you didn’t.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out fast enough.

“And what’s that crap about you don’t let yourself touch me?” she pressed, her voice lower now, more dangerous. “What the hell does that even mean, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing,” she went on, “it’s not that you don’t want to touch me. You did. You held me, curled around me, slept on me like a goddamn cat.”

He flinched, just slightly, but she caught it.

“And then spring came, and suddenly I’m radioactive? You don’t sit close anymore, you barely look at me, and now you’re accusing me of what? Letting some stranger touch me?” She laughed once, bitterly. “I’m not yours.”

That landed. His jaw clenched, and the muscles in his arms flexed before he leaned back a fraction, like her nearness burned. But she didn’t let him retreat.

“You either want me, or you don’t,” she murmured, locking her eyes on his. “But don’t keep treating me like I’m something you’re afraid of and then act possessive the second someone else so much as breathes near me.”

He snapped. Not in anger, but with something raw, tangled in his voice. “I do want you.”

Silence.

His throat bobbed. “I want you so much it hurts. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to. Or what you’d do if I let go.”

There it was. The truth lay bare between them like a wave crashing over the shore, impossible to ignore.

“Why… wouldn’t you be allowed?” she asked softly, with her voice stripped of all bravado. No challenge, only honest curiosity.

He looked at her, and then his gaze dropped low, to the dark, muscular limbs that curled and shifted restlessly around the rock, black and deep blue against the pale stone. They moved like they had a mind of their own, like they were already reaching for her in ways he wouldn’t let them. Wouldn’t let himself.

“I… I don’t mind,” she said softly.

A beat.

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. Not when his expression cracked, just a little. Surprise filtered in his handsome features first, then something else. Hope? No. Something more desperate, more dangerous than that. Like he wanted to believe her, but didn’t dare.

He’d been fighting it. Fighting himself. Telling himself it was unnatural, that he was unnatural for wanting her like that. For needing her with a hunger he’d never allowed before.

Because for someone like him to be wanted, it would take another kind of anomaly.

Another kind of beautiful, impossible aberration.

Someone like her.

He broke.

The restraint he'd clung to like a lifeline slipped through his fingers as he leaned into her, gathering her in his arms and pressing his face into the crook of her neck. His breath hitched as he inhaled her, sharp and deep, like she was the only clean air left in the world. His teeth clicked together once, a small but involuntary sign of the effort it took to keep from losing control.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she embraced him without hesitation, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other sliding up to cradle the back of his head. Threading her fingers into his damp hair, soothing.

His breathing grew heavier, more erratic.

“I need to touch you,” he said hoarsely, almost pained. “Like… like that time.”

She understood what he meant. She didn’t need him to explain.

“Then… do it,” she murmured into his hair.

He didn’t move for a heartbeat. But the tendrils, those dark limbs already spread over the rocks around her from when he'd first confronted her, began to stir again. Slow, deliberate. They slid from the stone toward her seated form, curling lightly around her calves, her waist, her back. Careful. Testing. Wanting.

She let him.

She exhaled, slow and warm against his temple, with her hands still in his hair, and her posture open. Inviting. Her body reacted to the embrace with something soft and welcoming, and he felt it. The trust.

The acceptance.

And it undid him in ways nothing else ever had.

He let himself sense her again, truly, deeply this time. The tendrils that had curled around her body slid more firmly into place, their rows of soft suckers brushing over her skin with slow, reverent intention. Not bruising. Not even gripping. Just tasting. Reading.

Each shift in her breath, each subtle twitch of muscle or flutter of pulse fed into him like whispers of her truth. Her scent deepened with warmth. Acceptance. Arousal. Not fear.

It overwhelmed him.

He reluctantly drew back from the crook of her neck, pupils wide and chest rising in shallow breaths. He looked at her, unsure what to do with the flood of sensations and the sharp ache of want clawing at his composure.

So she decided for him.

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, soft, fleeting, almost chaste. But it lit something in him like flame to oil. His kind weren’t foreign to oral intimacy. He knew the language of mouths. Knew what it meant when lips met in surrender.

So he kissed her back.

Not softly.

His mouth claimed hers in a way that left no space for doubt. His hand found her waist, basking in her curves. The kiss deepened, and then, his tongue slid past her lips, slow and deliberate, a single fluid motion that mimicked everything his body ached to do if she let him. A promise. A preview.

He kissed her like he wanted to possess her, to imprint his longing on every part of her body. Like he couldn’t help but show her exactly what he meant when he said he needed to touch her. His tendrils pulsed faintly against her skin in reaction, still reverent but no longer shy, until she was left moaning into his mouth, wanting, needing.

And he, finally, allowed himself to want her back.

She gasped softly into his mouth, grabbing his shoulders, then sliding her fingers down the smooth plane of his damp chest. He slowed down and pulled back just enough to breathe, to look at her with half-lidded eyes. Her lips were enticingly swollen, parted in a daze, and he didn’t resist the urge to lean in again, to trace the curve of her lower lip with his tongue before gently sucking it into his mouth.

It wasn’t just a kiss, it was the kind of kiss that sent ripples down her spine and made warmth bloom low in her belly. And it wasn’t just the way he held her, tendrils tangled around every patch of exposed skin, suckers gently tasting her, reading her, cradling her.

"Well," she managed, trying to gather a few working brain cells through the haze, “that was-”

"Good?" he offered, in a low and warm voice against her pulse point before pressing a teasing nip where her neck met her shoulder.

"Hey!" she yelped, startled.

But he was already soothing the spot with his tongue, with his hands never leaving her skin.

“Sorry,” he murmured, retreating just a little, sliding his gaze away from hers. “I just…”

He exhaled slowly, and she felt the shift before he spoke again.

“You should probably go back.”

“What? Why?” she asked, breath still uneven. “We just-”

“Because,” he cut in quietly. A sigh. “You asked what was wrong with me.”

She went still.

“What’s wrong,” he continued, finally meeting her gaze, “is that it’s mating season for me. And I’m trying really hard not to just-”

“Oh,” she breathed, the single word thick with realization.

She looked at them, at the surreal embrace they were sharing, her body cradled in his tendrils, his upper half still pressed close. Her voice came quieter now, hesitant.

“And… can we?” Her cheeks burned. “I mean, is it even possible-”

“Yes.” His answer came low. “Nothing will result from what we do, but we are compatible to mate.”

“Oh.” She blinked, processing. “So we can-”

“I can be inside you. I can please you.”

“Don’t say it like that!” she nearly squeaked, burying her face in his shoulder.

He pulled back a little, brow furrowed in confusion. “You don’t want me to please you?��

“I do! I just-” she groaned softly, hiding her fluster behind a hand, “it’s embarrassing when you say it that bluntly.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze searching hers. “So… you are willing to mate with me?”

She exhaled slowly and nodded.

“Not today,” she murmured. “But… yes.”

Bucky stilled.

For a moment, he just looked at her, like he hadn’t quite heard right. Like the ground beneath them had shifted, and he was trying to find his footing. His pupils widened again, and the arms encircling her drew her just a little closer, instinctively.

“You mean that,” he said hoarsely. Not a question. A realization.

She gave a nervous smile but nodded again. “Yeah. I mean it.”

A shudder ran through his body. Not of cold, but of tension, finally beginning to ease. He bowed his head, gently pressing his forehead to hers. His hands cupped her face with surprising care, stroking the edges of her jaw with his thumbs. The tendrils around her twitched, clenching briefly before relaxing again.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I thought I’d ruin it if I told you how much I wanted you.”

She felt his breath on her lips, warm and uneven.

“I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I could.”

Her heart gave a painful thump. She cupped the side of his neck, brushing her thumb over the pulse that fluttered quickly under her touch.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said softly. “You’re just… making it hard to breathe a little.”

That pulled a low sound from him -something between a chuckle and a groan- and he leaned in, brushing his nose against her cheek.

“I won’t rush you,” he promised, though his breath betrayed him, shallow and quick where it fanned over her skin.

But even as the words left his mouth, one of his tendrils traced a slow, deliberate path along the side of her calf. A teasing slide, a test of restraint. It didn’t grip, didn’t urge, it simply lingered there, as if trying to memorize the shape of her body.

She shivered, but not from the cold.

“...But I think you should leave for today.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, the blues of his irises dark and troubled. “The urges I have right now… they’re not easy to quell. Not during mating season.”

There was no shame in his tone, only quiet frustration. Honesty. “You’d understand it better if you were one of my kind,” he added, almost apologetically. “I want to respect you.”

Her heart gave a little ache to the conflict written across his features. “I wish I could stay with you a little longer,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along the shell of his ear. “But I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

His arms closed tighter around her in response, and a low sound left his throat, something between a sigh and a groan. “Already are,” he muttered against her throat, just before his teeth grazed her skin. He nipped gently at the crook where her neck met her shoulder again, then soothed it with a slow, wet drag of his tongue.

She gasped, and heat sparked in her lower belly.

“I can smell your readiness,” he murmured, with his voice low and wrecked. “I know what I’d find if I just... gave in.”

She didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. “Oh. Y-you can?”

He nodded once, still pressed against her pulse. “Yes,” he said, “And it’s hard not to act with my instincts.”

The tendril on her calf slid upward, languidly, curling along the curve of her thigh with a gentle squeeze. It stopped just shy of anything indecent -barely intentional-before retreating, as if reluctant to leave her warmth behind.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her cheeks heated. The idea that he could smell her arousal -sense it like some undeniable beacon- was as thrilling as it was mortifying. Her body reacted to him so easily, so instinctively, but now she knew he didn’t even need to guess.

She swallowed hard, trying to clear the fog in her mind. The way his tendril slid up her thigh had made her thighs clench, made her want more, but she also needed to think. To breathe. This -whatever was happening between them- wasn’t just physical, at least not for her.

And as much as she wanted him, she needed clarity.

Was this surge of intimacy between them something real, something he chose? Or was it simply the flood of primal instincts tied to his mating season? Was she just… close and willing? Or did he want her beyond this?

She blinked at the sunlight, suddenly hyper-aware of the time. It was still midday. Bright, open, and exposed. Sure, people tended to avoid this stretch of shore, but anyone walking by could see them. See her, practically curled into his chest, his limbs lazily wrapped around her like some sensual sheath.

Her heart beat a little faster, not just from the embarrassment, but the desire to protect whatever was growing between them.

She exhaled, calming herself, and brushed her fingers along his jaw.

“I’ll go,” she said, gently, not pulling away just yet. “But... we need to talk about this. About you and me. Not now,” she added quickly, “but when you feel more… like yourself.”

Her thumb swept across the line of his cheekbone. “I need to know if this is just… instinct. Or if you’d still want me, even when your season is over.”

His gaze focused on her face, conflicted. She could see it, something sharp and heavy behind his eyes that he still hadn’t named.

“I do want you,” he said at last, his voice low and rough with restraint. “It’s not just the season. It just… makes it harder to hide.”

He didn’t say more, but the silence between them stretched, filled with all the things he wouldn’t -couldn’t- admit yet. The things he thought about himself when he was alone in the dark. That maybe he didn’t deserve closeness. That maybe everything he'd done -regardless of how or why- meant he should stay isolated.

But she made it difficult. She made him hope.

His fingers brushed hers briefly. “We’ll talk,” he murmured. “Another day.”

The tendril curled around her thigh loosened, slowly retreating like a wave drawing back into the sea. The others followed, unwinding from her body with reluctant grace, the soft suction releasing her skin with barely audible pops that made her shiver.

His gaze stayed on her for a breath longer, his jaw clenched like he was holding something back, words, urges, things she couldn’t name. Then he dropped his eyes, and his shoulders shifted subtly, drawing in as if he were pulling armor around himself again.

Without another word, he slid into the water, disappearing in a slow, sinuous motion, the tips of his limbs were the last of him to vanish into the surf. A ghost of warmth remained where he’d held her, but the absence felt colder than the breeze rolling in from the sea.

----

That night, under the hot spray of the shower, she let her head rest against the tiled wall, closing her eyes as the water slid over her skin. The day replayed itself in vivid fragments with startling clarity. So it had taken a silly accident -nearly falling on the street- for the truth to slip free. The reason behind his strange, aching distance these past weeks.

Not disinterest. Not discomfort. He’d been struggling. Holding himself back.

She exhaled, covering her face with wet hands, heat blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. The gifts he’d left her weren’t just gestures of goodwill. They were offerings.

And in land, during those colder months, when he came to her? He still was protective during their visits to town... she remembered how stiff he’d become when men looked at her too long. How he always stood just a little closer than necessary. People noticed -how not to?- some edged away under his relentless stare. It wasn’t just because he worried for her in a friendly way his kind will be. No. He hadn’t been worried. He’d been possessive. Jealous, maybe. Struggling to be better behaved, to rein it in for her sake. And failing, sometimes.

It was there. It had always been there.

He felt the pull, too.

That simple truth rattled around her chest, knocking loose every excuse she’d made for his distance. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her, it was that he did. He’d said so. Had fought himself, tangled in the same storm she had, long before this mating season muddled everything.

She had come to terms with her own desire weeks ago. The tentative glances, the way her body leaned toward him before her mind could stop it. She’d admitted -at least to herself- that what he was didn’t frighten her. That it wasn’t a barrier. If anything, it made her curiosity sharper, and her pull toward him deeper. Maybe there was something objectively wrong with her for that.

But apparently something was wrong with him too, if he felt the same.

Two peculiar -no, let’s say it- two weird beings, each a little off in the eyes of their own kind.

So what was stopping her, then?

----

She had said yes.

Freely. Calmly. Without pressure or fear. She had looked at him and chosen him. And now, Bucky’s body was in overdrive.

It took everything in him not to pounce, not to claim her the second her voice laced with acceptance, the second her body responded with that telltale warmth he could smell, taste, and feel lingering on his skin. He was trembling by the time he pulled away, trembling still hours later as he curled in the dark of his den, panting quietly against the cool stone, trying to calm the storm inside him with nothing but memory and his fucking hand.

He felt like an animal. No, less than one. Unhinged. Fractured by years of solitary mating seasons, of urges swallowed down with saltwater and grit. But this time, it wasn’t just the burn of biology, it was her. The thought of her. The weight of her thighs under his limbs. The way she’d gasped into his mouth, pressed her hands against his skin like she wanted to learn his shape too.

She’d chosen him.

And yet, all he could do was lie there, with ragged breath whispering her name into the dark while the desire and guilt churned in his gut.

Because he still didn’t know if he deserved that yes.

He had told her before he left: it wasn’t just instinct. Not for him. The truth was, he’d been drawn to her from the moment she offered him life. Since he took the form he loathed, and climbed the rocks with legs he barely trusted, just to see if the fragile creature who had shared her essence with him was still breathing.

His kind didn’t attach easily. Didn’t bond unless there was a purpose.

But he had. To her.

And now she had said yes to that thing -the one who had been used, manipulated, made a weapon under human greed- and his heart was caught between euphoria and dread.

She had the right to know.

And more importantly, he had the right to be seen for everything he was, not just the parts he managed to show her through veiled glances and cautious touches.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm

dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes

296 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 12 days ago

Text

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time.

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become.

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action.

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand.

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on.

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent.

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth.

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs.

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin.

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard.

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground.

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.”

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation.

However, between every swift kick and precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red.

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle.

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.”

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe.

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.”

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind.

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes.

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that.

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat.

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips.

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…”

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here? Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice.

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend.

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it?

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered.

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.”

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan

951 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 12 days ago

Note

could u maybe do a poly!paboracha texts w a s/o who is also a lil dummy sometimes :3 •^•

fake texts | adventures being stupid in love

pairing: poly!paboracha x pabo!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: reader is a little dummy, chan scolds them

SS count: 13

masterlist

PRE!RELATIONSHIP

ESTABLISHED!RELATIONSHIP

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05

#stray kids texts #stray kids x reader #skz fake texts #stray kids fake texts #skz x reader #stray kids #skz imagines

700 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 13 days ago

Text

Me waiting on all the new Bucky fics to come out after Thunderbolts

#bucky #fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky x reader

22 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 14 days ago

Note

HELLOOO! i really love the prolouge and i wanted to ask if you're still continuing addicted to chaos? that bucky x aot!reader fic.. if so i would love to be tagged 🙏 I've been waiting for u to post it, but no rush tho 🥰

Yes addicted to chaos is still getting its next few parts!! It’s just taken me awhile to write because they are quite long with lots of dialogue 😅

and yes I’d be happy to tag you in the next part!

1 note · View note

orithyia-eriphyle · 16 days ago

Text

an actual pic of me refreshing the latest tab and seeing someone posted a new fic

170 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 17 days ago

Text

Come Find Me | Bucky Barnes x Reader

I am back back back again! I have missed writing so much, I just don't have nearly the amount of time that I used to. But I'm in my last semester of school! So hopefully I'll be back on a consistent fanfic grind once I'm done :) PS: If you know what the title is referencing, you get a big hug from me.

Word Count: 13,439

Warnings: blood, talk of violence, reader injury

Bucky checked his texts every few minutes. Initially, he lied to himself about the reason behind it. He told himself he must’ve opened his conversation with you accidentally, or that he mistook an email notification for a text from you. Simple, innocent mistakes.

Either way, he always ended up staring at your side of the conversation, hoping for a gray ellipsis to appear.

But after a while, he could no longer deny the truth- and why would he want to? You were coming home.

You hadn’t been gone long, and your mission was projected to be a cake walk. But he couldn’t help it; he missed you. He missed you when you went on missions, when you visited your parents out of state, when you slept in your room down the hall. Missing you was part of him now, woven into the fabric of his being. It matched the material of his soul perfectly, like he was always meant to feel this way.

He fired off a quick “let me know when you land” message and waited, hoping you’d write back soon.

Usually, you texted him when you were headed back to the compound. It gave him a countdown to your return and something to look forward to. It also signaled to him that you were, in fact, coming home alive. Even if a bit banged up, you were well enough to shoot him a message. And that always eased his worries.

Today, however, was different. No text, no call.

It struck him as bizarre and sounded Bucky’s internal alarms. But he silenced them as best he could. He wasn’t going to let himself get worked up, not when you had a perfectly good reason for not messaging him.

This was your first time leading a mission with a new recruit under your wing. Bucky knew you devoted your full attention to your trainee, giving him absolutely everything you had. You took this position- as well as your pupil’s safety and success- very seriously. He knew you were probably busy helping your recruit learn a swath of new things, and who was he to interrupt?

Bucky opened the log and saw your jet had been marked as ‘incoming’ only minutes ago. A sigh of relief left his chest and eased his muscles. Sure, he would’ve rather heard that information from you, but it didn’t matter. Your jet would be here soon; he had no reason to worry.

The moment he saw that your jet was homeward bound, he lost the ability to think about anything else. He counted the minutes, the seconds. You had to be close, right? The log wouldn’t have said ‘Incoming’ if you were still hours away.

To pass the time, he folded laundry, answered emails, reread a few chapters of The Hobbit- but he couldn’t focus. He thought of you, only you. And no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he couldn’t hang around his room any longer. He couldn’t stand it. He needed to be there when the jet landed. He needed to meet you on the steps of the aircraft and wrap you in a bear hug.

And there was no real harm in waiting near the hangar, was there? ‘If anything,’ he told himself, ‘It’s actually more convenient for her if I meet her there. That way, I can carry her bag- she’s probably tired.’

Anything to rationalize his desperate need to be near you.

He knew in his heart of hearts that you didn’t need him to carry your bag or help you off the jet. But this lie was all the convincing he needed. Without hesitation, he ditched his room and set off down the hall, your impending homecoming pulling him forward.

It was in that moment he noticed just how far the elevator was from his room. The walk seemed to stretch on and on, the hallway growing longer with each step. And how had he never noticed how slowly the elevator moved? It slid downward at a glacial pace, toying with his patience. For such an expensive, state of the art building, the elevator moved like an ancient piece of turn of the century machinery. Bucky cursed Tony’s engineering.

Everything seemed to add time, multiplying his moments without you. The universe liked toying with him, teasing him. And this was just another cruel joke.

The moment the doors opened, Bucky sprang free out into the hallway. He knocked into Clint and his group of trainees and called an apology over his shoulder without stopping. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t waste time- not when you could arrive at any moment.

His field of view narrowed into tunnel vision, only allowing for visualization of the path toward the hangar. He didn’t greet his fellow team members or allow for distraction. You were his one-track mind. That is, until something stopped him.

“Shit, sorry, man,” your trainee, Jake, laughed as he bumped into Bucky. He took a step to the side and attempted to continue down the hall, but Bucky blocked his path.

“Jake?” Bucky eyed a bloody gash on Jake’s eyebrow, “when did you guys get back?”

Jake gave a casual shrug and checked his phone, “I don’t know, five minutes ago?”

“Oh, okay…” Bucky reached for his phone, but found his screen void of notifications. If you landed five minutes ago with your trainee safe and sound, why didn’t you send him a message? It was out of character for you.

“Well, where’s your partner in crime? Or crime fighting, I guess,” Bucky tried to joke, but his tone was strained. He eyed each person who came around the corner, hoping to find your face. “Did you see which way she went?”

“Nah, she’s not here,” Jake was scrolling through Instagram, only half paying attention.

Bucky’s disappointed sigh left his chest deflated, empty. “Oh, did she say where she was going? Or when she’d be back?”

Jake pulled his focus from his phone and stared at Bucky with confusion on his face. His brows pulled together, his mouth hung slightly ajar. But finally, he made sense of Bucky’s words. “OHHH, okay, my bad- I think there was a miscommunication just now.”

Bucky sighed again- this time, with relief.

“Yeah, no, she’s not here,” Jake continued, “because she didn’t make it back.”

Bucky’s ears started ringing.

The sharp, piercing sound blocked out voices. Footsteps on the tile. Maybe Jake was trying to speak to him, but Bucky heard only the shrill sound of shock. Seconds later, his nerves fell numb. The utter absence of sensation disconnected him from his body. He was lost in a liminal atmosphere with no stability, no purchase. His entire being was shutting down, one sense at a time.

Bucky told himself to focus, to compute what he’d heard. He did his best to make sense of Jake’s words, but to no avail. His mind simply couldn’t understand the phrase “she didn’t make it back”. The words had shed their meaning entirely and sounded foreign to Bucky as they rattled around his skull. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin, and a cold sweat created a sheen across his face. He feared he might get sick.

“I- I’m sorry,” he forced himself back into his body, back to the present. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Things got pretty hairy- this was not the easy mission they said it would be,” Jake scoffed and rolled his eyes. “It’s not fair, I definitely got a way harder assignment for my first mission than all the other new agents, and I think it’s-”

Bucky’s glare could’ve sliced Jake in half, “get to the point.”

“Right, um,” Jake continued, “I told her over comms that I was leaving. I gave her plenty of time to meet me at the jet, but she didn’t answer. And she never came outside.” He shrugged, “I had to leave for my own safety.”

“So, you just-” Bucky felt himself losing his grip. “You left her there? Alone?” He didn’t realize he was shouting, didn’t realize he’d drawn attention to himself- until Agent Hill showed up.

She placed a light hand on Bucky’s tense shoulder, but instantly withdrew. He was shaking, practically vibrating under her palm. “Is there a problem here, guys? I don’t want-”

“He left her behind,” was all Bucky could manage.

Maria stared at Jake in disbelief, “you did what?”

A strange mixture of rage and heartbreak seethed behind Bucky’s eyes, “You don’t just abandon your partner-”

Jake’s attitude disgusted Bucky. He was detached, irritated. He rolled his eyes like an insolent child. “Relax, man. Jesus Christ, this isn’t the army. I didn’t promise to ‘leave no man behind’ or whatever-”

Bucky had heard enough. He lifted jake by the collar of his shirt, twisting the material in his metal fist. Jake’s head sent a sickening thud resounding through the space as Bucky forced him against the nearest wall.

“What the fuck?” Jake squirmed in Bucky’s grasp, “There are casualties in the field all the time, why am I being punished for-”

Bucky released Jake at once, sending him crashing to the floor.

His voice was quiet, hollow. “Casualties?” He swallowed hard, “Is she-”

Jake shrugged at he rubbed at the bruise forming on his neck. “I don’t know, I assume so. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

And just like that, Bucky was gone.

He took off down the hall, forcing himself forward as a soul-crushing panic swallowed him whole. No matter how many times he blinked, no matter how fervently he shook his head, he couldn’t rid his mind of the picture Jake painted for him. Each time he shut his eyes he saw you- alone. Your bloodied, broken body laying collapsed against a wall of a Hydra base. Your skin slick with blood. Your skin cold. Void of life.

He moved quickly, but not quick enough. He simply couldn’t outrun the familiar feeling closing in on him. His heavy, well-worn cloak of grief wound its way across his shoulders and twisted itself around his neck. He knew the suffocating sensation all too well. It weighed him down but couldn’t dampen his pace, nothing could; not when your life hung in the balance.

He was too well acquainted with loss by now, too familiar with mourning. There’d been a time when he wondered if he’d ever grieve again. He’d lost his family, his friends, himself- what else was there? What more could he possibly lose? But the moment he met you, he knew he’d one day mourn again. He just didn’t realize that time would come so soon.

A startling cold prickled at his skin, his lungs refused to inflate. How much time did you have left? How long would it take him to get to you? Were you even-

Hill’s voice yanked him out of his spiral, “Barnes, hey-” She made a grab at his shoulder, but her feeble attempt was no match for Bucky’s pace. “Where are you going?”

“To get her back.” Bucky’s tone was firm, resolute. He was going to bring you home or die trying.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hill nearly tripped over her own feet as she tried to keep up with Bucky’s long strides. “You heard what Jake said, it’s a dangerous location- more dangerous than we thought. I think it might be best to wait it out for a few days, let things calm down and then-”

Bucky turned suddenly, stopping Maria in her tracks. “I’m not just going to leave her there.”

Maria shrunk away from the fierceness in his eyes, “I know you’re upset, but she might not be-”

“I don’t care.” His gruff tone dissolved, making way for the fear he’d so desperately tried to hide. “Whether she’s alive or-” he couldn’t bring himself to voice the alternative.

Bucky knew what it was like to be assumed dead. He knew what it was like to be left in the field.

“She deserves to come home,” he said.

Maria couldn’t argue with him.

“Round up as many members of the med team as you can and have them meet me in the hangar. We’re leaving in ten minutes- sooner if we can.” Bucky turned and resumed his previous path, “I’ll be in the armory.”

Bucky grabbed as much weaponry as his duffel would carry without splitting at the seams and made his way to the hangar. He hoped to find ten, maybe fifteen members of the medical team waiting for him on the jet. He wasn’t sure of your condition, didn’t know how many breaths you had left. He wanted to give you the best possible chance at surviving the onslaught you endured.

But when he turned the corner into the hangar, he found only three scrub-clad bodies.

“Is this it?” Bucky boarded the jet and dropped his bag to the floor. He eyed the scant amount of medical support, their uncertain expressions. His hopes of bringing you home alive dwindled.

A nurse who’d stitched Bucky up more times than he could count gave him a nervous smile. “The med bay is swamped, the team could barely afford to let us come with you.”

Bucky didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want excuses or rationalizations. All he wanted was to bring you home with your heart still beating. And three medical professionals, he decided, was better than none.

The flight to your location only gave Bucky more time to worry. He obsessively checked his weaponry, hovered over the med team’s supplies. But no amount of double and triple checking could save him from the spiral. He traveled down the path of every possible “what if?”, leading him only to heartache. No matter where he searched, he couldn’t find a positive outcome. And though he didn’t want to acknowledge the odds, he knew yours were slim- impossible, even.

And as the jet grew closer to your location, Bucky steeled himself for what he knew he’d find: you, his best friend, his reason for living, his everything- dead. Cold. Lifeless. None of the horrors he faced in the past could compare; no pain could ever be greater. Bucky knew he’d hurt for the rest of his life.

The clouds parted as the jet began its descent. Slowly, a large stone building appeared out of the fog like a monster in the horror movies you loved so much. It stood in an otherwise empty clearing, its shadow looming over the dying grass. Smoke billowed from holes in the roof, the walls. Whatever happened here was catastrophic. Disastrous.

Bucky’s heart sat lodged in his throat as he imagined you trapped in there. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin as he stared at the looming structure. He had to get you out, even if he died trying.

Just before the jet touched down, an idea popped into Bucky’s head. It scaled the high walls he’d tried to erect to protect himself from thoughts of your demise and grabbed him by the throat. It was smart- brilliant, actually. He was shocked he could even think straight given the circumstances.

“FRIDAY,” Bucky called out, “is comm 1209 working?” He shoved his own comm in his ear and waited for a response.

“Comm 1209 is on and in range,” Friday said. “Would you like me to connect you?”

He couldn’t say yes fast enough.

A few staticky clicks and pops vibrated against Bucky’s eardrum as his comm connected to yours. But he was too scared to speak. What if you didn’t answer? What if he heard you take your dying breaths? Just the thought was enough to make him sick.

He owed it to you, though, to at least try. He’d always said he’d do anything for you, that he’d risk it all for you- and he meant it every time. If reaching out to you over comms exposed him to something horrible, something traumatic and unforgettable, at least he tried. At least he attempted to keep his promise. And after everything he’d been through, what was one more life-shattering, soul-crushing nightmare?

“H- um…” Bucky swallowed the large lump obstructing his throat. “Hello?” He waited a moment, holding his breath the entire time, and tried again. “Hello?”

He waited.

No response.

“Doll? It’s me. It’s Bucky…”

The dead silence on the other end of the line dragged on. It seemed like his words disappeared into the air, unacknowledged. Unheard. Maybe the sound of his voice was reverberating inside your ear as you lay dying. Or maybe he was talking to your corpse.

The thought made him nauseous.

“Please, sweetheart. If you’re there- if you’re able- just say one word. Say anything,” he pled. A long bout of silence followed.

He clenched and released his metal fist again and again, desperate to rid himself of the panic settling into his bones. He was stupid to think you survived, stupid to let himself be optimistic. He made it here as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t save you. He was too late.

He wanted to take one of his many weapons and turn it on himself.

But a small sound stopped him.

“Buck…”

He almost fell to his knees. At the sound of your voice, an overwhelming warmth banished the cold that infiltrated his bones. Against all odds, you were alive.

A deep sigh of relief seeped from Bucky’s lungs, “Sweetheart…”

A hurricane of emotion rattled against the storm doors inside Bucky’s mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘almosts’. How he almost lost you, how you almost died alone in a Hydra base. But he couldn’t allow it to swallow him- not yet. There was no time for a breakdown. He needed to move, he needed to get to you.

He shrugged off the grief that rested heavy on his shoulders and swallowed the impending sob that vibrated inside his throat. “I’m here- I’m gonna come get you. Just tell me where-”

A staunch refusal came from your end of the comm, “No- no…” You took a sharp, rattling breath, “no way.”

Bucky didn’t like the way you had to fight to get your words out. You were clearly struggling, doing everything in your power to stay on this side of consciousness. He wondered how much time you had left.

But still, there was a familiar strength to your voice. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the renewed hope of rescue; something was keeping you alive.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, just tell me where you are. The jet just landed. I’m gonna get you out and-”

“I said- I said no,” you breathed. “You can’t c-come in here, it’s too dangerous… we were a-ambushed.”

Even in your condition, even when Bucky was your only hope of rescue, his safety was your first thought. You’d rather die alone than put Bucky’s life at risk; the thought made his cheeks pink and filled his chest with a fuzzy warmth. But he didn’t have time to enjoy the feeling.

“If you don’t tell me where you are, I’ll just sweep the whole building,” Bucky said, using your worry against you. “That means more opportunities for me to run into Hydra operatives. More time inside the base- it’ll be way more dangerous.” He could practically see you rolling your eyes, “so it’s probably better if you just give me a direct route, don’t you think?”

Bucky smiled to himself as he envisioned you on the other end. He was certain you were arguing with yourself, cursing his rationale.

He waited for you to come at him with a sharp retort or a sarcastic quip but heard nothing. The silence on your end of the line dragged on. And on. It lasted far too long for Bucky’s comfort. Surely, you couldn’t still be thinking about his proposition? He’d given you more than enough time to make up your mind, more than enough time to come up with a response. It was time you didn’t have.

What if you’d fallen unconscious? What if, in those quiet moments, your soul vacated this earth?

Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. He disembarked the jet, resolving to search every inch of the base. But just as he reached the dark, unsettling building, you spoke.

“F-fifteenth floor. Northeast… northeast quadrant,” you sighed, defeated. “There’s a- a room at the end of this hall, I think it’s maybe an office?” Again, you took a long pause. The energy required to think, to speak, was energy you didn’t have. “Just f-follow the trail of blood.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He shuddered at the thought of your blood leaving a path down the stark white, sterile hallways of the base. But he didn’t have time to focus on anything other than getting you out; this was a rescue. He owed it to you to keep his head level. To focus on getting you out as quickly as he could.

“The power is… it’s out”, you said. “You’re gonna h-have to take-”

Bucky wanted to save you from wasting any extra energy, “The stairs. Got it.”

And while he normally didn’t mind getting a few extra steps in, he knew the time required to climb fifteen flights of stairs would push the limits of your survival.

But he pushed the ever-encroaching sense of doom to the side and put on a brave face for you. For himself. “Okay, I’m coming to get you,” he promised. “Stay awake, and don’t move.”

“As if I h-have a choice,” you laughed a breathy, hollow laugh. A long groan followed.

Your pain radiated through Bucky’s chest. He didn’t want to climb stairs or scour hallways- he just wanted to be there. To instantly materialize at your side. To bring you instantaneous comfort. He lamented the super soldier serum’s lack of teleportation abilities.

“You know what I mean, doll. Just stay awake, okay?” Bucky drew his gun and stepped inside the building. “Don’t fall asleep. Do anything you have to do- just stay awake. Can you keep talking until I get there?”

“W-what am I…” You let out a raspy exhale, “supposed to talk about?”

Bucky cleared a long hallway and found the stairwell, “Anything, just keep talking.”

Another extended silence filled the air; it nearly drove Bucky crazy. Your silences held limitless possibilities, horrifying ‘what ifs’.

“It w-wasn’t supposed to be… to be like this,” you finally said. “It wasn’t supposed to be this dangerous. This was Jake’s first mission- it wasn’t f-fair to him.” Heartache coated your every word. Even after your partner abandoned you, even after Jake forced you to suffer and bleed all alone- you still sympathized with him. Still felt sorry for him.

Bucky felt no such thing.

“I know, doll. Keep talking, okay?”

You sighed. “We s-split up for recon… that’s when they- when they came at me.” Your next few breaths were so shallow, your lungs barely inflated; the lack of oxygen left you dizzy. A thin veil of glittering spots sparkled and danced on the edges of your periphery. “It all h-happened so fast… there were so many of them. I just- I remember pain. And I hoped Jake was okay, w-wherever he was.”

Your heart was too good for this job. For people like Jake. Bucky admired your kindness, your empathy, your selfless nature. Even in the face of pain, of death- you thought about others. You often told Bucky how unfair life had been to him, lamenting his treatment at the hands of fate. Bucky found himself doing the same for you and your kind heart.

“I called out for h-him, I needed backup… I kept asking him to come help me-” A sharp cough rattled out of your throat.

Bucky cringed at the sound. It was the only sound in the building. He hadn’t heard anyone else. Hadn’t seen one Hydra operative- at least, not a live one. He came across their bodies every now and again but didn’t see a single living soul. He was sure they deserted after the explosion. Just like Jake.

The destruction, however, was everywhere. Bullet casings littered the floor. Blood stained the tile floors. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. He had to get you out of here.

“But he n-never answered. And then he told me he was leaving. He said he was- he was outside already. He gave me n-ninety seconds to meet him at the jet…” Your words were tinged with devastation, with hopelessness, with betrayal. “I tried- I did my best to make it down the stairs. But I was- I was dizzy… I was b-bleeding.” The memory stung like your fresh wounds. “I kept slipping on- on my own blood. I just c-couldn’t move fast enough. It hurt too much.”

Wrath burned inside Bucky like a raging forest fire. But his utter heartbreak doused it completely, extinguishing the rageful flames. He found himself unable to think, to breathe. It took everything in him to keep moving forward. Who could ever leave you behind like that? Who could ignore your suffering and sentence you to death without a second thought? The image of you stumbling, struggling to run for your life gutted him.

“And then- and then I heard the jet t-take off,” you sighed. “And I listened as it got farther and farther away… until it was g-gone. And I was- I was alone.”

He thought of you sitting alone in cold silence as the noise from the jet quieted. As your hope dwindled. The entire base must’ve felt like a tomb, like a massive, lonely grave meant just for you.

Bucky almost fell to his knees. Sobs throttled the inside of his chest, begging for release. Tears burned inside his lash line. Jake didn’t just leave you behind, he marooned you without care. And in his departure, he sealed your fate.

“I d-didn’t have a way to call for… for help. My phone was on the j-jet with jake.”

The sorrow that stained your words was all too familiar to Bucky. It was the same hopelessness that accompanied him every day that he was at Hydra. When he laid in the snow for hours upon hours after falling from the train. He never wished that kind of despondency, that kind of misery on anyone. And knowing that you, the person who deserved it the least, experienced it for even a moment shattered him.

“I realized I… I didn’t h-have any options,” you breathed.

A collapsed column blocked Bucky’s path as he tried to make his way from the sixth floor to the seventh. The concrete was too high, too precarious to scale. If he tried to climb it and got hurt, it would only serve to diminish your chances of survival. And he wasn’t willing to risk that. With a huff, Bucky exited the northwest stairwell in search of another route. This was a waste of time- time you didn’t have.

He painstakingly checked every hall until he finally found another stairwell. His breathing came a little easier as he rocketed his way up the stairs, growing ever closer to you.

“So, I found this- this room. It’s quiet. It’s out of the w-way. I needed somewhere to hide. S-somewhere to…” A small crack of emotion cut through your voice, “somewhere to die.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Jake got to return home safe and sound while you struggled to stay alive. It wasn’t fair that you had to seek out your own deathbed. Bucky wanted to scream, to break things, to spill every last drop of Jake’s blood. But he was a soldier, and this was a rescue mission.

“This seemed like as g-good a place as any,” you choked on a weak laugh. “Beats dying in the middle of a h-hallway, I guess.”

Bucky’s automatic response was to swear that you’d make it out. To promise that you weren’t going to die. But he bit his tongue. He couldn’t make those kinds of assurances. He’d do anything to bring you comfort but swearing that you’d return home alive seemed almost cruel.

He pushed himself to move faster. He couldn’t let you die alone, especially not in this godforsaken place. As he sprinted up the last flight of stairs and ripped open the door to the fifteenth floor, he struggled to orient himself. You were in the northeast quadrant, but where was he? He searched for anything to indicate his location- but found no signage. No directory.

Everything inside of him rattled with dread, with anxiety. Any moment now, you were going to die. You were going to take your last breath. All alone. A thick, suffocating wave of panic crashed over Bucky as he realized- you were going to die disappointed. You were going to leave this world knowing that he hadn’t gotten to you in time.

It was then that he noticed a faded arrow painted on the wall, with “NEQ” painted below it in block letters. Northeast quadrant. He was closer than he thought.

“I’m gonna be there in just a second, doll,” he said as he followed the arrows. “I think I’m right around the corner.”

This was just his way of making you feel better, you were sure of it. The hallways were long and winding. Each floor was a maze of its own. Even with your vague instructions, it could take him a while to find you. Still, Bucky’s words brought you comfort in the way that only he could.

“I know, I t-trust…” A metallic taste filled your mouth. A warm ooze trickled down your chin and dripped onto your chest. The warm, fuzzy feeling brought on by Bucky’s assurances faded. Of course, you knew you were in bad shape. But as blood leaked from your mouth, you wondered if these were your last moments.

Instantly, you searched for the words to say goodbye to Bucky. Time was slipping through your fingers, life draining from your body with each passing second. But before you drifted off into a never-ending sleep, you had to tell Bucky what he meant to you. You’d use all your strength, your last few breaths- whatever it took. He just had to know.

But how does one say goodbye to a soulmate? You didn’t have the energy or capacity to make a grandiose speech. And the blood filling your mouth impeded your ability to speak. You wanted to tell bucky everything- how he comforted you, cared for you, made your life worth living. How your life revolved around him as though he were your personal sun. But nothing quite encapsulated the things you felt for him. Every word in the English language, every sonnet fell short. And the lack of oxygen getting to your brain sabotaged your phrasing.

“Buck, I think it’s… I think it’s almost t-time,” you rasped.

But just as you opened your blood-stained mouth to proclaim every feeling you ever had for him, the door flew open. Alarm coursed through your veins at the threat. Surely, a Hydra agent had stumbled upon your hiding place and was here to finish you off. The severe blood loss was no match for your training, thought. And, on instinct, you pulled your gun on the tall, dark silhouette standing in the doorway.

“Woah, hey!” Bucky raised his hands in surrender. “It’s me, it’s just me.”

At the sound of his voice, your arm fell limp. Your gun clattered to the floor. Your head lolled back against the wall. It had taken everything in you to try and protect yourself one last time. And now that your energy reserves were nearly depleted, you allowed your eyes to close.

“S-sorry…” A barely-there smile pulled at your lips. “My… my bad, Buck.”

“No, don’t be sorry, doll.”

Bucky knelt in front of you, taking in your broken, bloodied body. He’d seen carnage before, witnessed more death than anyone should. But this, you- it was different. It hurt in places he didn’t know he had. But he didn’t let it show. Knowing you, you’d spend your last few moments comforting him, trying to make him feel better. And so, he forced a warm smile and tabled his breakdown for the moment.

“I’m actually impressed. I mean, you might be hurt, but you were ready to take me out just now,” he forced a chuckle. “That’s my girl.” His cool metallic hand brushed against your blood-stained cheek.

And in that moment, something within you changed. Your eyes shot open. You blinked a few times before forcing your eyes shut once again. You gave your head a few good shakes. Surely, this wasn’t real- it couldn’t be.

You opened your eyes wide once again, taking him in. “Bucky?”

With one shaking hand, you reached for him in the most pathetic attempt he’d ever seen. You were weak, dangerously so; it scared him to his core. But you were alive.

He leaned in, meeting you in the middle, and let you stroke at his stubble for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he kissed your palm. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“You’re…” you other hand reached for him, but made it only a centimeter or two before falling into your lap. Bucky opted to take it in his. “You’re here?”

He nodded, “I could never leave you behind, sweetheart.”

He may have continued speaking after that, but you didn’t quite hear him. The emotion you’d tried so hard to swallow came bursting forward, crushing your every attempt at remaining levelheaded. Your fingers smoothed over Bucky’s cheek again and again. His name fell from your lips in what resembled a prayer. Tears rolled down your cheeks and mixed with the blood crusting over your skin.

A soft, warm wave of peace rolled in, covering you like a well-loved quilt. The pain disappeared; the sorrow evaporated. All that remained was Bucky. This was the warm spring that followed a dark, bitter winter. The first rays of sun after a vicious storm. The first taste of home after a long time away. You let the familiar warmth of Bucky’s presence drown out the rest of the world until only you two remained.

“Sweetheart, did you hear me?” With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Bucky called you back to the present. “I need to look at your wound, okay?”

A sharp rush of pain nearly blinded you as you lifted your shirt, exposing the bloody mess. But even as Bucky appraised the gunshot wound that turned your abdomen into horror scene, you couldn’t find it in you to worry. Your hands lazily found his shoulder, his chest, his face; you just wanted to touch him. To know, without a doubt, that he was there. That he was real.

“Hey, we… we need to t-talk,” you whispered as Bucky did his best to quickly bandage your wound for transport. “I n-need to talk- to talk to you…”

Bucky nodded, “sure thing, doll. Absolutely. We can talk about whatever you want. But right now…” he returned your shirt to its rightful position and met your gaze. “Right now, I need to get you out to the jet, okay? We can talk later.”

He guided your arms around his neck, lifted you into his arms, and moved as fast as he could through the winding hallways. His quick gait set your nerves alight with pain. Every bump, every jostle had you gasping for breath. And though it was a necessary evil, the guilt still sat in Bucky’s stomach like a rock. His repeated ‘I’m sorrys’ were nearly constant, doubling with your every grimace and groan. But he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t let the time slip away; you didn’t have much left.

Between pained sounds and twisted expressions of discomfort, you said the same thing on a loop. Again and again and again, you pled with him, using energy you didn’t have.

“We need to… to t-talk.”

“I h-have to tell you.”

“Can I talk to y-you about- about something?”

And though Bucky would’ve loved nothing more than to have a long heart to heart with you as you two often did, you weren’t strong enough. He couldn’t let you waste your finite energy on a conversation with him. And so, he responded to each of your requests with an ask of his own, begging you to save your strength. He promised that the two of you could talk tomorrow, that there was plenty of time for a conversation later.

But ‘plenty of time’ almost seemed like an empty promise. And ‘tomorrow’ felt like a lie. Would you have a ‘later’? He didn’t know. But he didn’t want you wasting your oxygen, not when he feared it might be your last breath.

Boarding the jet with you alive in his arms almost felt like a win to Bucky. Almost. Sure, he’d gotten you out with your heart still beating, but your condition worsened by the second. And the grave looks the med team wore as Bucky gently rested you on the treatment table dug a deep pit in his stomach.

They sprang into action, placing IVs and delivering medications. Scissors glided through your shirt and exposed your broken body to the med team. Bucky knew they’d seen their share of gnarly injuries over the years, but he swore that they recoiled at the sight of your wounds.

With a shake of his head, Bucky refocused. He had to get you out of there- to get you home. He headed for the controls and planned to set the jet in motion. But he made it only a step toward the cockpit before a hand caught his.

“S-stay…” you whispered. “Please.”

His heart shattered. “I’m not leaving you, doll, I promise. I just have to get us in the air, okay?” With great care, he placed a kiss to your hand and set it at your side. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Bucky’s body operated on muscle memory alone as he initiated take off. His mind was occupied, completely and totally, by the sound of your weak voice begging him not to leave. The sound played on a loop inside his brain, cutting him deeper each time. You’d already been abandoned once today; he was certain you feared it would happen again.

With a deep breath and a quick reset, Bucky did what he had to do. He needed to be on his A-game for you, needed to be his very best. Only a few hours ago, you’d trusted someone with your life, and they failed you. Bucky wasn’t about to do the same. He worked carefully to chart the fastest route back to the compound, opting to forego FRIDAY’s proposed path. It kept him from your side longer than he would’ve liked, but less time in the air seemed like the best option. The sooner he could get you to the med bay, with its massive, brilliant medical staff and unlimited resources, the better.

Just as he finalized the flight plan and asked FRIDAY to notify the med bay of your impending arrival, an unsettling sound pulled his focus. It was an ominous beeping, alarming your care team of a sudden, life-threatening change.

Gloved hands moved at lightning speed; voices yelled medical jargon back and forth. And you laid there on the table. No heartbeat. No respirations. Deathly still.

Bucky stood on the periphery, too horrified to get any closer.

He thought it best, of course, to stay out the med team’s way. But knew deep down it was an excuse. He was simply too terrified to lose you. If he got closer, if he saw you struggling to stay alive, all of this would suddenly become real. And he couldn’t handle that.

“Barnes!” A nurse screamed at him, “did you hear me?”

Bucky forced himself back to the present. “No… I, um-”

“She has no pulse- get over here, we need you to do compressions!”

Bucky’s desperate need to help you, to save you, overpowered his fear. And in an instant, he was at your side. He loomed over you, his hands locked together, preparing to help resuscitate you. But once again, his fear reared its ugly head. You were already so badly injured, so weak. And he was far too strong. What if he made your condition worse? What if he-

“Come on!” The nurse yelled at him, “start compressions- now!”

He did as he was told. He pressed into your body with a measured pressure, careful not to crush your chest. But his cautious compressions didn’t cut it. The nurses instructed him to push harder. To “actually compress” your chest- and Bucky followed instructions.

But as he did so, a sickly snapping sound exploded from your body. Bucky recoiled instantly; his face contorted in horror.

“What are you doing? Keep going!”

“I can’t- I think I broke her ribs,” Bucky shouted at the doctor. “What do I do?”

“Keep going!” The nurse yelled, “It happens- just keep going.”

Bucky broke out into a cold sweat. His stomach turned at the thought of hurting you, of causing you even more pain; you’d been through enough as it was. But he did as he was told. With each round of compressions, he swore he created new fractures. He felt every splinter, every crack as he put pressure on your chest.

He wanted to sever every last nerve-ending in his hand; anything to rid him of the sickening sensation creeping through his palm. But if doing this saved you, it was worth the nightmares.

He watched as the two nurses provided your supplemental breaths and tended to your endlessly bleeding wound. The doctor called ‘clear’ every so often, shocking you with a defibrillator in an attempt to restore your heartbeat.

Round after round of compressions, breathing, and shocks passed by without signs of improvement. You remained lifeless, unresponsive. A syringe of epinephrine delivered straight to your chest did nothing. And Bucky felt what little hope he had slipping through the cracks in your ribs. He couldn��t believe he was about to lose you; couldn’t believe he’d have to watch you die. Hot tears blurred his vision and streaked down his cheeks. His legs went numb. At any second, he knew his knees would give out, knew he’d crumble to the floor under the crushing weight of grief.

The doctor deemed the next shock your last, and Bucky almost doubled over.

“Come on, doll, just-” He swallowed a sob, “just stay. Stay. Do it for me, I’m begging you. Please?”

The doctor called one last “clear” and delivered your final shock, only to be met with the rhythmic beeping of your heart monitor.

“Sinus rhythm restored,” announced the nurse to Bucky’s left. She appraised the waves on your EKG and gave a nod. “She’s stable.”

After what felt like an eternity, Bucky took a breath. He stretched his tense fingers and did his best to relax the rock-hard knots forming in his shoulders. A new crop of hope bloomed cautiously inside his chest, but he couldn’t allow it to blossom and flourish just yet. You weren’t out of the woods; there was a very real possibility that your heart might stop again. And he wasn’t sure how many times the doctor could revive you before throwing in the towel.

Less than a minute after Bucky’s cautious optimism sprouted anew, a soul crushing sight dashed it completely. A sharp gasp filled his lungs, a shudder rocked his frame. Shades of deep, dark blue bloomed under the skin of your chest. Black and purple splotches stained your sternum. Some spots were already starting to swell. He extended a hand in your direction but recoiled in an instant, fearing he’d hurt you yet again.

“Happens all the time,” one of the nurses said with a shrug. “Believe me, broken ribs are the least of her worries.”

Somehow, her words didn’t make him feel any better. He ached to hold your hand, to sweep a gentle caress across your cheek. But he didn’t dare touch you after what he did. Every glimpse of your bruised, swollen chest sent bile rushing into his throat.

The three dedicated members of the med team worked tirelessly for the rest of the flight. They did everything in their power to keep your condition steady, to maintain the life they worked so hard to save. It brought Bucky comfort to see them staying so close, ready to jump into action if need be.

Bucky, like the med team, hovered. He couldn’t bring himself to leave your side. You seemed too fragile, your condition too tenuous. He counted your every breath, took stock of every beat of your heart on the monitor. Stepping away for even a second felt wrong. He needed to be there if you crashed again, if the doctor needed extra hands. He needed to be there to help.

And if you woke up, he wanted to be the first face you saw.

But you didn’t wake. A groan here, a muscle twitch there- that was all you could spare. And though Bucky wanted nothing more than to see you open your eyes, he thanked the universe for keeping you unconscious. He knew tsunamis of pain rippled in the wings, waiting to overtake you the second you woke.

Bucky held his breath as the jet landed. Every jarring bump, every vibration, forced his heart into his throat. He feared that even the slightest impact would send you into cardiac arrest. He flicked his eyes from the rising and falling of your chest to the rhythmic flashing of your heart monitor and back again. Nothing changed, no alarms sounded. And when the jet finally stilled, Bucky breathed a deep sigh of relief. He just needed to get you to the med bay for treatment, and this whole nightmare would be over.

He didn’t like being optimistic. It felt like a set-up, like false hope. If he told himself you’d survive and you didn’t, the fall would be that much harder, that much more devastating.

But being realistic wasn’t any better. Telling himself that you were too far gone, that you weren’t going to make it, felt wrong. To him, it seemed like he was cursing you. Like willing your death into existence. Like begging the universe to end your life.

And so, he opted for a neutral mantra. “She’s home,” he told himself. “She’s home. She’s home. She’s home.”

The distance to the medbay felt longer than usual. The hallways seemed to stretch on forever, the double doors to the triage center seemed to grow farther and farther away. Bucky followed your gurney closely, only allowing a few inches of space between the two of you. He couldn’t be separated from you again. He wouldn’t. He needed to be with you every second, watching over you.

A dark cloud of impending doom loomed over his psyche. It whispered to him, telling him that if he left your side, if he let you out of his sight, you’d die. You’d be gone forever. And it would be his fault. He knew it was nonsense, that this was just his anxiety operating on overdrive. But he couldn’t shake the fear. And risking it wasn’t an option.

“No visitors past this point,” a security guard placed an arm in front of Bucky as he tried to enter the triage unit.

Bucky tried to go around the man, watching as the medical staff carried you farther out of reach. “I’m not a visitor, I’m an agent-”

“No agents past this point, then,” the guard rolled his eyes. “Only patients and medical staff. You can have a seat over there.”

A small table sat against the wall, flanked by two chairs. It was a sad, makeshift excuse for a waiting room that operated as a device to keep people from hanging around. But bucky couldn’t be discouraged. He took a seat in one of the chairs, determined to wait there as long as he had to. He knew he’d missed a number of important phone calls by now, and probably several meetings. But he didn’t care; all that mattered was you.

Dread circled Bucky like a buzzard as he waited. It was taking too long- why was it taking so long? How much time did the medical staff need? You were stable when the jet landed, the nurse said so. Why were there no updates? All Bucky needed was a nod, a bit of information. But he remained in the dark, wondering if you died on the operating table.

Maria found Bucky slumped in a chair with a zombie-like air about him. He was expressionless, his gaze hollow. His palms traced the same track up and down his thighs in a never-ending cycle. One look and she knew: something was very wrong.

“Hey,” she called softly, hoping not to startle him.

But Bucky didn’t respond- he didn’t even react. He just sat there, his unblinking stare burning a hole in the tile. An uneasiness enveloped Maria. She’d never seen Bucky so empty, so despondent. As she stared at him, she found herself fearing the worst. ‘Maybe he just received terrible news’ she thought. ‘Maybe he’s grieving’.

“Hey,” she tried again, nudging her foot against his.

He came back to life with a start. A sharp inhale filled his chest, his eyes blinked wildly. But his palms never stopped moving in their endless cycle against his tactical pants. And he never actually looked at her.

“Hi…” he breathed.

Hill took the seat opposite him. She conjured the gentlest, warmest tone she could find, “is everything okay?”

Bucky balled his hands into tight fists and stretched them out again. Maria noticed blood- your blood- crusting under his fingernails and staining his skin. But before she could get a good look, he grabbed the arms of the chair. His palms rubbed fervently against the plastic handles for a moment until they moved to his face. He ran his hands along his jaw, his spiky stubble poking into his skin.

“Barnes, what happened? Are you-”

Finally, his head snapped in her direction, “I can still feel it…”

“Feel what?”

Bucky’s head fell into his hands. He pressed his palms against his eyes and dragged them down his face. Maria watched him fall apart in slow motion. He seemed to be unraveling, one cell at a time. And when he finally spoke, shame made his words almost unintelligible.

“She crashed on the jet…”

“Oh...” Maria did her best to keep a calm, even tone. Her concern for you vibrated in her chest, but she didn’t dare let it free- not when Bucky was moments away from a meltdown. “Is she-”

“The med team needed help. There weren’t enough of them- they needed me to do chest compressions,” Bucky said, his voice low. “And I broke- I crushed her ribs.”

A sharp shudder rocked his entire body. Just thinking of that moment, when his too-strong hands destroyed your chest, was enough to make him sick. To scar him for life. To haunt him. Of all the horrible things he’d done in over the years, this was the worst. He gave his hands a quick shake, hoping to rid his nerve endings of the sensation.

“I felt her bones snapping under my hands,” Bucky’s words dripped with shame. “And I can still… I still feel it.”

“Okay,” Maria said gently. “Well, if she-”

“She was already in such bad shape,” Bucky swiped a tear from his cheek. “And I… I hurt her. I made it so much worse.”

His head fell into his hands once again and did not reemerge.

“Hey, look at me,” Maria gave his arm a gentle touch.

Bucky only shook his head.

“Come on, Barnes, just look at me for a second.”

Again, he refused.

Maria abandoned her chair and sat instead on the small table. She never got this close to Bucky. Usually, she preferred to give him his space. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type- unless you were around. But he was lost in a shame spiral, adrift with no hope of return. And he needed rescuing. She placed her hands on his and gently removed them from his face.

“You saved her life,” Maria said. “Twice. You rescued her from the base, and when the med team needed help, you came through.”

“But I-”

“Did it work?” Maria asked, her tine almost stern. “Did the chest compressions work?”

Bucky nodded.

Maria gave him a shrug, “That’s all that matters. She can recover from a few broken ribs, but if you hadn’t been there-”

Bucky averted his gaze as his eyes filled with tears.

“Hey,” Maria grabbed his face, bringing his focus back to her. “If you hadn’t been there, she’d be dead.”

Maria’s words fought hard against the demeaning voice that lived inside Bucky’s head. It screamed at him, telling him that he shouldn’t believe her, that he was a monster, that he almost killed you. Usually, Bucky allowed his inner demons to run free. He listened to them without pause, believing anything and everything they told him, no matter how vile. But Maria was steadfast and unshakable in her sentiments; she truly believed what she was saying. And by some miracle, Bucky did, too.

“Thanks…” He granted her a hollow smile and a small nod.

Hill sat in silence with him for a few hours. She didn’t try to make small talk or ask what was going on inside his head. She simply existed near him, sharing the space so that he didn’t have to be alone. She ignored important texts and sent every call to voicemail. She knew it was exactly what you’d do for him, if you were able. And she did her best to fill your shoes.

Abruptly, Bucky’s head snapped in her direction. His pulse thrummed against his skin as a new wave of anxiety crashed over him. “She kept saying…” he sighed. “She kept saying we needed to talk. She wanted to talk to me about something.”

Maria cocked her head to the side, “About what?”

He shrugged. “I told her we could talk later because there would be plenty of time,” Bucky’s words grew shaky. He found himself near tears for what felt like the millionth time that day. Guilt sucker punched him. “What if… what if there isn’t more time for us? What if that was all we were ever going to get? What if-”

“You’ll get more time,” Maria said with certainty. “The universe has a way of evening things out. You were robbed of time once; it won’t happen again. Plus, you’re deserved some fucking karmic retribution- you’re owed this.”

Bucky wondered how she could be that sure of something so ethereal. But she was steady, solid as a rock. She didn’t waver in her words or add caveats at the end. She, somehow, knew it to be true. And Bucky couldn’t help but believe her.

But when Fury called her for the eighth time, she knew quiet time was over.

“I have to go, okay? Fury can’t do anything without me, he’s hopeless.” She stood from her seat and rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Call if you need anything.”

Bucky thanked her a million times over and, for the first time, gave Maria a hug. She would never know how much her reassurances helped him. She’d pulled him from the ledge and gave him what he desperately needed: perspective.

In the hours that followed, he let her words play on a constant loop inside his mind. “If you hadn’t been there, she’d be dead,” he heard her say. “You’ll get more time.” The sickening feeling of your bones snapping under his strength never faded, and the fear of losing you still had him in a chokehold, but Maria’s words quieted his mind.

In the sad, empty waiting room, time seemed to mutate. Some of the hours dragged, others whizzed by. Bucky wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Was it ten hours? Or twenty? He didn’t really care. He’d wait lifetimes for you.

He saw the security guards change shifts once, twice. It was the only thing alerting him to the passage of time, as part of him believed it was standing still. On the third shift change, they told him to go home.

“They’ll call you if there’s an update”, said one of the guards. “It’d probably be a good idea for you to go get some sleep, or something.”

Bucky knew he looked like hell. Your blood left crimson streaks across his face and neck. And the dark circles he usually wore under his eyes were a deep shade of plum. But he couldn’t leave, he couldn’t sleep. Not when your life hung in the balance. Not when you needed him.

A few more hours passed with no news, and Bucky found himself teetering on the edge of insanity. An angry, desperate voice bellowed inside his head. It told him to bust through the doors and find you, no matter what it took- even if it meant hurting people in the process. The gun secured to his hip and the knife strapped to his ankle became eerily attractive. His hands itched to reach for the weapons, to hold someone at gun point until they allowed him to see you. But he couldn’t to give in to the fear, to the violence. It took him years of therapy and long talks with you to stop seeing himself as a monster- and he refused to destroy the progress you helped him make.

A doctor stepped out of the double doors and looked in Bucky’s direction, “Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky was on his feet before he knew what hit him. This was it. After what felt like an eternity of not knowing whether you lived or died, he was about to have an answer. Sweat dampened his palm, his brow as he stood in front of your doctor.

He didn’t know he was even capable of this kind of fear, this kind of agony. And though he was an impossibly strong physical specimen, Bucky knew he’d never be able to lift the weight of the grief that followed your loss. He knew that, if you died, he’d spend the rest of his life dragging himself from place to place, unable to stand, unable to push back against the overwhelming, oppressive force of losing you.

Your doctor spoke quickly and professionally about your condition, but the words turned to mush the second they reached Bucky’s brain. The combination of medical jargon and pure panic made their meanings imperceptible. But one phrase managed to cut through the fog of Bucky’s anxiety and exhaustion: “you can see her now.”

And just like that, Bucky took off. His fatigued body did its best to carry him through the halls, stumbling every now and then on the smooth tile of the hospital floors. But he didn’t dare slow down. He had to get to you.

By the time he reached the door to your room, he found himself shaking- almost shivering- with anxiety. He knew you were alive, of course. Knew that the doctors had been successful in saving your life. But something in him doubted their handiwork. Something in him swore that if he didn’t get to you in the next half second, you’d flatline. Again.

He could practically feel his brain rattling around inside his skull, his teeth chattered against one another. And the sharp tremors in his hands made it nearly impossible to get a grip on the door handle. Panic and frustration coursed through him as the he tried again and again to gain entry to your room with no luck. A strangled sob forced its way out of his chest and caught the attention of a nurse- one of the nurses who helped keep you alive on the jet.

“Hey…” Her eyes drifted to Bucky’s shaking hands. “Need some help?” Before Bucky could answer, she’d abandoned the medication she was prepping, discarded her gloves, and made her way to his side.

“Here, let me.” Her soft, sympathetic tone was almost too kind; Bucky’s eyes blurred with tears. She turned the door handle and gestured for Bucky to go inside.

His “thank you” was for more than just the door.

Bucky took a few steps inside and drew in a sharp breath; he’d never seen you in such severe condition. Over the many hours that Bucky waited for you outside, all of your bruises grew darker, more menacing. They stained your throat, your face, your arms. He didn’t even want to think about the ones on your chest- the ones he caused. Dried blood crusted in your hair and formed a path down the side of your face. It sat caked under your fingernails and rested in the creases of your palms. Thankfully, your gunshot wound was covered by gauze and concealed by your gown. But knowing it was there was enough to make Bucky sick. He, of course, witnessed and inflicted, his fair share of carnage over the years. But he knew your wound would haunt him for years to come- simply because it was yours.

All he wanted was to be near you. To sit at your bedside and hold your hand. But he didn’t dare to get any closer. Electrodes attached a dozen wires to your chest. IVs sat lodged in the crooks of your elbows, in the backs of your hands. Machines and monitors kept track of your vitals. And who was he to disturb this fragile, vital ecosystem? What if he accidentally pulled out one of your IVs? What if he detached a wire by mistake? He’d already hurt you once today, he wasn’t about to do it again.

He, instead, opted to stand at attention. A few feet away. For your safety. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even say your name. He simply stared at you, counting your every breath.

An hour- or maybe two- passed by with him like this. Nurses checked on you, doctors poked their heads in. And every time, they told him he was permitted to sit by your bedside. But he just shook his head. Sure, slipping his hand into yours, being close to you- it would provide him with incomprehensible comfort. But he couldn’t, not when you were so severely injured.

After the third hour, Bucky feared his sanity was slipping. A wicked voice lodged deep in his psyche suddenly awakened. It whispered to him, taunted him. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he was asleep in the waiting room. Maybe you didn’t survive. Maybe…

And he would’ve believed it, had you not snapped him out of the vicious spiral.

“Buck?” He feared he’d never hear you voice again, but there it was. Hoarse and weak- but yours.

Bucky flew to your side. He cradled your face gingerly in his hands, completely consumed by the need to touch you, to feel you, to know that you were real. His palms laid flush against your cheeks, his thumbs sweeping over your skin. And in an instant, the sickly sensation of your snapping bones vanished.

A hurricane of tangled thoughts and emotions crashed over him. He had so much to he wanted to say, so much he wanted to confess to you. But the words refused to arrange themselves properly. Suddenly, Bucky wished he’d used his ample time in the waiting room to better organize his thoughts. He wished he’d sought out a pen and a scrap of paper and used them to plan and articulate his sentiment. But even if he’d found the supplies he needed, he wouldn’t have been able to jot a single thing down. Not with his shaking, unsteady hands.

Anxious words and broken sobs got stuck in his throat and formed a garbled, unintelligible mess as they left his mouth. But it was the best he could do. He stared at you, waiting for your response.

“I, um…” you looked at him for a long moment. The haze of head trauma, blood loss, and pain killers made you foggy. You did your best to trace your steps back through Bucky’s words, certain that your condition was the cause of your confusion. But after a significant pause, you came up empty. “Sorry, I- what?”

Bucky slid one of his hands into yours and gave a soft laugh. “Sorry. I tried to say-” He sat quiet for a moment. What had he tried to say, exactly? He wasn’t sure. With a small shake of his head, he re-rerouted. “Um, it doesn’t matter. Here, how’s this:” He cleared his throat and spoke with the sharpest pronunciation possible. “How are you feeling?”

Your laugh- Bucky’s favorite laugh- bubbled up to the surface. But regret swallowed you whole as pain shot through your head, your chest, your side. The hurt radiated through your entire being. It rendered you breathless, and left your face twisted in an agonized grimace.

Bucky didn’t like how long it took you to recover from the small chuckle you shot his way. A pang of worry shot through him. “Don’t exert yourself, okay?” He swept a thumb across your cheek, “you don’t wanna tear your stitches or...” He cleared his throat, “aggravate any, um, broken bones.” Bones that he broke.

“No, I’m…” you squeezed your eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again. The pain slowly receded. “I’m good, I’m okay. I just- breathing is hard. I forgot how shitty it feels to have broken ribs.”

Bucky nodded. His teeth sunk into the smooth flesh of his cheek. A metallic taste coated his mouth. He didn’t want to tell you the truth. Didn’t want you to know that he was the cause of your severe pain. But you deserved to know, didn’t you? With a deep sigh, he opened his mouth, intent on telling you what really happened. But you cut him off.

“Thank you, Buck. For coming to get me. I really thought I was…” Hot tears stung your eyes and blurred your vision. “I thought that was it for me, you know? And I just want you to know how-” you sniffed, “how grateful I am.”

Bucky left your side for only a second, retrieving a box of tissues from the counter across the room. He was back in no time and swept a tissue across your cheek to catch your tears.

“I know we always say that we have each other’s backs but you… you meant it,” you said. A small smile pulled at your lips, “thank you for meaning it.”

Bucky nodded. He did his best to keep his breathing steady, to stop himself from falling apart at the seams. He knew exactly what it felt like to be left behind, to wait for your last moments- alone.

“I wasn’t gonna leave you there, doll. I couldn’t.”

You gave a small nod. “Yeah, I- I wish my partner had felt the same way…” The hurt in your voice was unmistakable. It sliced though Bucky’s chest. “I didn’t think he would ever do something like that. I mean, I thought we were friends.”

The mere thought of Jake brought a familiar rage to the forefront of Bucky’s mind. He didn’t understand how anyone could be so callous, so uncaring- so indifferent to the well-being of others. The part of him that swore off unnecessary violence remained quiet as the rest of him imagined Jake’s demise. He wanted your disloyal partner to suffer. To squirm and squeal and regret that he ever left you behind. But that could wait- you were the priority.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect him to be that kind of person,” Bucky sighed, “he seemed like a stand-up guy.”

Silence filled the room as you thought over Jake’s desertion. His abandonment hurt. It stung in places you didn’t expect. You’d taken Jake under your wing and did everything in your power to be the best leader possible. All you wanted was to help him. To set him up for success.

And after working alongside Bucky for so long, you’d forgotten that disloyalty to one’s partner was even an option.

“He probably panicked,” you tried to rationalize. “And then once he realized what he’d done, maybe he…”

There was no rationalizing this.

An ugly realization slithered into your mind. “After he left, I think he probably hoped I’d just die… that way I wouldn’t be able to give my side of the story.” The weight of Jake’s actions hit you like a train. Rivulets of warm tears rolled down your cheeks, only to be swept away by Bucky’s gentle hand. With a small shake of your head, you did your best to banish the feelings of abandonment and betrayal. Wallowing would only make you more miserable. And you didn’t need emotional pain on top of the physical agony that already plagued you.

“Well, joke’s on him,” you shrugged, “cause I’m still alive.” Pain radiated through your chest, bringing a grimace to your face. “Kind of.”

Bucky didn’t understand how you could just dismiss the bad feelings. Couldn’t understand your propensity for levity. Your partner left you for dead without a second thought- and yet, you found a way to joke about it. It was something he’d always admired about you, something he wished he was capable of.

You gave a strained laugh, “I can’t wait to see the look on Jake’s face when he finds out that I didn’t die.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what prompted him to say it. It left his mouth without his brain’s authorization.

“But you did.”

He wished to take the words back, but it was too late. They hung in the air, just out of his reach.

“I…” you struggled to grasp Bucky’s words. “I what?”

This was not the time- or the place, or the way- to tell you the truth. But he didn’t have a choice. His clumsy words made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.

“You, um…” Bucky didn’t want to think about what happened, let alone say it out loud. But he owed it to you to be honest. Especially after Jake had lied to you about being a trustworthy partner. Bucky scratched at the stubble on his face, ran a hand through his hair. Anything to delay the inevitable. But he couldn’t put it off for long. “Your heart stopped- you died. On the jet.”

Only one word fell from your lips, “Oh…”

“And while I’m at it, I might as well tell you that…” Bucky took a deep inhale. He was in too deep now. And keeping this from you any longer felt like lying. “That your ribs are broken because of me.”

A quizzical look crossed your face, “what do you mean?”

“I mean… the med team was short staffed on the jet. There were only three of them. And when you crashed, it was- it was an all hands on deck situation.” He flashed back to the moment when the alarms sounded. When your EKG flatlined. A shudder ran through him. “They needed me to do chest compressions. And I- I didn’t want to hurt you, but the nurse said I wasn’t pushing hard enough to actually help you. And when I pushed harder- I broke your ribs.”

Bucky searched your face for something- anything. Anger. Fear. Betrayal. But he found nothing. Your expression was as neutral as they come. He feared that something lingered just below the surface. That once you fully processed his words, you’d erupt into a perfect storm of disgust and disappointment.

He told himself to wait silently until you made up your mind. But the outburst exploded from his lips before he could stop it. “I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You know I’d never want to hurt you, I would never do anything to hurt you. But I… they told me I had to push harder. Or it wasn’t going to work. And I just wanted it to work, I wanted you to be okay, and-”

It took almost all of your strength to raise your hand and place a finger to Bucky’s lips. He fell silent.

“Buck, it’s okay.”

He tried to form a rebuttal, but you cut him off.

“You didn’t have to rescue me, but you did. No questions asked, no hesitation. You saved my life by getting me out of there. And you saved me again by helping the med team.” Your hand drifted from Bucky’s face and landed in his palm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bucky didn’t say anything else. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your palm. His eyes fell downward. You could almost see the shame eating him alive from the inside.

“Hey,” you intertwined your fingers with his. “I can handle a few broken ribs.”

“No, I- I know you can. I just…” A sad smiled flickered across his lips. “I feel terrible. You went through a lot. And I just don’t like knowing I made it worse.”

A long silence filled the room. You’d seen this side of Bucky more times than you could count. And you knew him well enough to know what followed. He was going to feel bad- terrible, actually- about this for a while. There was no accelerating the process or absolving him of his guilt. No amount of reassurances could save him from it. He just had to sit with it. One day, the weight would diminish. But it was going to take time. And that was okay.

You gave his hand a squeeze. “I thought your voice was a hallucination, you know.”

Bucky lifted his head.

“And when you came into the room, I actually thought that was a hallucination, too.” A smile stretched across your face, “I mean, I thought I was losing my mind.”

Bucky gave a half-hearted chuckle. He didn’t want to think about you in that room by yourself. About you struggling to tell what was real.

“But then you touched me…” You raised your hand and brushed it across your cheek, mimicking him. “And that’s when I realized that you were real- that you were there.” You fell quiet for a moment, lost in the memory of Bucky’s rescue. “It was like, in that moment, I wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t scared of the pain. I wasn’t scared of dying. I was just scared that…”

“What?”

“You have to promise not to laugh,” you told him with an authoritative tone. “Cause I know it’s corny, or cheesy, or whatever.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky drew an X over his heart. “I’m not gonna laugh at you.”

You stared at him with narrowed eyes, sizing up his promise. But, of course, you knew Bucky would never tease or ridicule you about something like this.

“Okay, fine, I um… I was scared that I’d never see you again. If I died, I mean.”

Bucky’s lungs emptied. He couldn’t remember how to breathe, how to speak. A sudden ache ripped through his heart as it splintered and shattered into a million pieces. To know that you thought of him in what you believed were your last moments somehow ripped him apart and put him back together all at once.

Your voice cracked. Tears filled your eyes. “I was afraid that we’d already run out of time. I was afraid that we weren’t going to get any more.” A few soft sobs escaped from your throat, followed by a pained groan. But you pushed passed the throbbing in your chest. “But I was so relieved. Because I got to see you one last time. It was the most intense sense of peace I’ve ever experienced.”

Bucky struggled to hold on to his composure. He felt himself crumbling, weakening under the weight of your words.

“But then I realized- I realized I’d never get to tell you. And you kept saying we could talk later, but I didn’t know if there would be a ‘later’. And when I blacked out, I was so full of…” You shook your head ever so slightly, sending a few tears dripping onto your cheeks. “I had so much regret. Because I needed you to know.”

“To know what?” Bucky leaned in close, searching your face for any inkling, any clue. “Doll, it’s ‘later’. Tell me- whatever it is. You can tell me now, it’s-”

Your lips met his in a soft kiss. In it, everything you’d ever felt for him came rushing forward. Admiration. Longing. Lust. Obsession. Adoration. Love.

A sting of pain jolted through you as your split lip brushed his, but you didn’t care. His hands found your face, your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. It was always supposed to be this way.

When the two of you finally separated, Bucky simply stared at you. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he knew how.

“I love you, Buck. I’ve loved you- for so long.” A huff left your chest, “So. Long.”

Still, Bucky remained silent. Nerves began crawling through you like vines, twisting their way through every fiber of your being. But you owed it to yourself, and to Bucky, to tell him the truth.

“And I just… I know how you see yourself. And I know you don’t think you’re even worthy of my friendship, let alone love. But I was so anxious, cause I thought you’d never know the truth. I thought I’d die without getting to tell you. And you’d live the rest of your life thinking that you’re not worthy, that no one could ever love you. But I- I love you. I just needed you to know.”

The silence made your ears ring. Bucky’s face still wore a mask of bewilderment. And you feared you’d ruined everything.

“You don’t have to say it back, though,” you said. “I’m not gonna stop being your friend if this is an unrequited thing.”

Finally, Bucky came back to life. He rolled his eyes and let a scoff escape his lips. He leaned in close, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours. “Unrequited? I broke every SWORD rule and policy. Abducted medical staff. Stole a jet. And went on an unauthorized mission. All to get you back. I didn’t even know if you were alive, I just- I had to bring you home.”

He closed the small gap that remained between your face and his and granted you warm, gentle kiss that tasted like home. “I did all that- and you thought there was even a chance that I didn’t love you back?” Bucky gave a playful roll of his eyes, “you don’t know me at all, sweetheart.”

You returned his eye roll. "Well, you're a really great friend to me. And you always have been. So, I didn’t take a rescue as a proclamation of love,” you gave a strained chuckle. “I just thought-”

“I’ve loved you for…” Bucky thought back over the course of your friendship. The day you first met, the first time you helped him through a panic attack, the time he made you the ugliest cake in the world for your birthday. He saw his life in two parts: before he met you and after he met you. And he so preferred the after.

“I don’t even know how long,” he shrugged. It was almost automatic. His feelings for you didn’t need a slow, gradual build up. They descended upon him all at once, like the world’s most beautiful avalanche. “It’s been a long time- an embarrassing amount of time, probably,” he laughed.

“Oh, so we’re both cowards then,” you shot him a wink. “Too afraid to tell the other how we feel.”

Bucky nodded, “It seems that way…”

“But you weren’t too scared to steal a jet and run into possible gun fire?” you quipped.

“Nope. Didn’t even think about it,” he said matter-of-factly. “I just wanted to find you.”

You’d never experienced a love- a commitment- like that. It sent a rush of warmth into your cheeks and somehow eased the pain plaguing your body. You knew in your heart you would’ve done the same for Bucky without a second thought. But knowing that he was so fiercely determined to bring you home felt almost unbelievable. You had the proof, though, right there in front of you. This man, who you loved, loved you too. And loved you enough to risk his life for you. It wasn’t something you’d ever ask him to do, and you knew you’d never have to. He’d do it without hesitation. Without reservation. He’d walk through fire for you if it meant bringing you home.

--------------------------------------------------------

@beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @evangeliamerryll @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @barnesselo @juvellian @samanthacookieone @frombkjar @blackbirdsinatrenchcoat

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barns x reader

3K notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 17 days ago

Text

Thank you for the mention!

- BUCKY BARNES FIC RECS 4 -

i’m so obsessed with catws!bucky you have no idea | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. torture and ptsd. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

part one | part two | part three | main masterlist | latest list: matt murdock pt 2

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

the blade and the crown • knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

↳ by @fandoms-writings (smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, secret relationship)

avoidance | chaos | strangers | power • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ultralightpoe (angst, hurt/comfort, tw: ptsd)

illicit affairs • biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @auroralwriting (enemies to lovers, age gap, angst, gangs)

between a dream | part two | part three • tws!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bcksbarnes (angst, comfort, fluff)

before i could say it • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @fawniswriting (angst, fluff, insecure!bucky)

lessons in lovemaking • bucky barnes x blackwidow!reader

↳ by @artficlly (smut, touch starved!bucky, fluff, angst, bickering, tw: trauma, sa)

foundations • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @vunblr (dad!bucky, fluff, a little angsty, smut)

not in that way • bucky barnes x fwb!gn!reader

↳ by @jaggedamethyst (smut, mutual pining, miscommunication, angst, fluff)

say don’t go • college!hockey!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @the-winter-spider (angst, mean!bucky, pining, smut)

wake up | part two | part three • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (very angsty)

the falcon, the winter soldier and static • bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @theconstantsidekick

quiet down | stay quiet • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @adrinktostopyourthirst (smut)

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

be(tter) in reality with me • bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

↳ by @t-lostinworlds (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff)

dear lover • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @johnkrrasinski (very fluffy, slight angst)

my girl • domestic!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucket-barnes (very fluffy)

the cure • bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @bucky-bucket-barnes (very angsty, hurt/comfort, slowburn, fluff)

fast track • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @sidmakestuff (angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, insecure!bucky, little explicit)

the rain is always gonna come if you’re standing with me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, tw: harassment)

for as long as you need me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @whatthetumblfck (fluff, hurt/comfort)

worthy • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @duuhrayliegh (fluff)

softened by time • bucky barnes x gn!reader

↳ by @heyitsme1040 (domestic fluff)

his girl • bucky barnes x enchanced!reader

↳ by @roguerogerss (fluff)

enemies • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ro-is-struggling (angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to friends, tw: trauma)

the same thing • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @appocalipse (angst with happy ending)

rest had seemed the sweetest thing • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @violentdelightsandviolentends (sooo fluffy)

i know you • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @oneofstarkskids (angst, fluff)

road trip • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @munsster (fluff, a little angst)

come find me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, hurt/comfort)

mercy kill • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (very angsty)

unspoken • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @maevedoodle (comfort, nightmares, fluff)

sweet like plums • cw!bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @mandoalorian (smut)

summer breeze • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @orithyia-eriphyle (very fluffy, hurt/comfort)

safe space • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @helaintoloki (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, tw: ptsd, trauma, torture)

echos • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @brokenbarnes (very angsty but fluffy end, hurt/comfort)

trouble • bucky barnes x fem!reader /

↳ by @marvelwitchergilmore (enemies to lovers, fluff, fake dating)

a place to land • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @cheekybarnes (angst, comfort, tw: sexual violence, ptsd)

lost for words • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @daxisyzz (fluff)

his girls • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @artficlly (very fluffy, secret dating)

lovesick • bucky barnes x maximoff!reader

↳ by @ang3ltine (fluff, little angsty, tw: torture)

sparing you • beefy!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @sergeantbarnessdoll (fluff, slight angst)

love bruises • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @multiversediaries (very soft, fluffy, domestic!buck, a little smutty)

hole in the earth• bucky barnes x mutant!fem!reader

↳ by @em1i2a3 (smut, angst, age gap, hurt/comfort, tw: panic attacks)

only you, doll • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @billionairebratenergy (fluff, kind of possessive!bucky)

home with you • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (oh so fluffy, lots of pining)

creamy or crunchy • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (so so so fluffy, protective!bucky)

mission mishap • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @mugglebornmarvelite (hurt/comfort, fluff)

bruised shadows • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @happy74827 (slight angst, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine)

what you do to him • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @xxthelovelyopossumiixx (domestic, smut)

scars to your beautiful • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @buckybarnesandmarvel (insecure!bucky, comfort)

blurred lines • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @ellemj (smut, angst, enemies to lovers, jealous,possessive!bucky, one bed trope)

2K notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 23 days ago

Text

Meant To Be

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When you find yourself transported to the future, you begin to question if you were always meant to be here.

Disclaimer: Kinda open ended, platonic!Steve x reader, fluff, angst, Reader comes from the 40s, MJ scaring people, oblivious idiots, swearing, mentions of violence. Not Proof Read.

You groaned as you hit the solid ground. “Oh, I am gonna kill Howard.”

Coughing a little before rolling onto your front to try and stand, you took a look around you.

“Where the fuck-”

As you brushed some dust from your skirt, a loud blaring alarm sounded overhead. You were quick to cover your ears before trying to find an exit. What was the wager that Howard had set something on fire again?

But before you could call out, the floor beneath you fell open and you went sliding down. A scream let itself out from your lungs, only stopping just before you landed and rolled onto a pristine white floor.

“Jarvis, who is she?”

Once again, you groaned. You held your head, keeping your eyes closed. “For god’s sake, Howard. You know who I am. Don’t pull that bullshit with - ow - me.”

As you stood on your feet, you looked around you again. The whole room was white. Where the hell were you?

“Jarvis?”

You recognised the name, but not the voice that said his name.

Slowly turning around, you started to realise where you were. It wasn’t like any you were used to but you were, in fact, in a cell.

“I can’t seem to find an ID for her from this century.”

“This century?”

You looked through the glass. “Where’s Howard?”

The man looked right at you. “I ask the questions here.”

“Considering I’ve just landed who the fuck knows where, I’d say I’m the one who should be asking questions. How much did he pay you? Thirty, forty bucks?”

“Forty bucks?”

The man seemed disgusted.

“What? Keep Y/n distracted so he can run around town again? Just so you know, if I don’t kick his ass, Peggy will.”

“Stark! What the hell is going on?”

Tony watched as you lit up a little at the voice coming down the hall.

“Steve?!” You called out.

Tony had already been confused when he got an alert from Jarvis that someone had broken into the facility. Then he was confused even more when you asked for Howard. But now? Now he was more confused than ever.

“Steve!? Oh, thank god. Tell this moron to let me out. Howard’s probably ten seconds away from setting the whole building on fire. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Tony turned to his side and took a long look at Steve. He looked…pale. Shocked, to say the least. Like someone had just stuck a knife into his heart and he was watching himself bleed out.

“Y/n?”

“You know her?” Tony asked quietly.

You laughed. “What? Did Howard pay you, too? Just so you know, once I’ve kicked his ass, I’m gonna have Peggy kick yours.”

Steve turned towards Tony with a slightly heated gaze. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. She just showed up here. Who is she?”

Reading the room, you took a few steps forward. Something told you that this wasn’t just a prank. “Steve, what’s going on?”

“Y/n?”

“Yes?”

Steve felt the breath leave his lungs. “What…What year is it?”

You chuckled. This game again?

“1944.”

Steve couldn’t breathe.

“Sir, though I’m not quite sure how it’s possible. I do believe this is Agent Y/n Y/l/n. Born in 1921, she went missing the summer before Sargent Barnes fell from the train.”

That sentence made you panic a little. “Okay, Jarvis! Howard, I get it. You can call it off now!”

“Call what off?”

Steve ignored Tony for a few moments. “Y/n, I think you’re gonna wanna sit down.”

“Steve, what’s going on?”

“Tony, open the doors.”

He didn’t think twice and the glass door slid away and behind the panel, letting Steve inside.

“Steve?”

He didn’t say anything. He just hugged you. Tight. Like he’d waited years to do so. So, you hugged him back. “Steve, you’re scaring me now. What’s going on? Where’s Howard? I swear to god if this is some-”

Steve leaned back and shook his head. “No, this isn’t…it’s not a joke.”

You stepped back a little and took in the two men in front of you. Although he wasn’t Howard, he did have a funny resemblance to him. And Steve…the last time you saw him…he’d been wearing his uniform. Not a blue button down and a pair of jeans.

“You should probably come with us.”

Less than ten minutes later you were sitting in Tony’s lab. Some kind of floating projector showed different images and other things. All the while, you could feel Steve’s eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being in the underground bunker. Howard’s testing some new chemical weapons. It’s meant to melt weaponry from the inside. Steve, what happened? Jarvis…s’voice…he said Bucky fell. Did we lose?”

Steve shook his head, taking your hand in his. “No. The war…we won the war. But…Hydra…they captured Bucky. We all thought…I thought he was dead. I thought you were dead.”

You couldn’t do anything else but laugh, though it wasn’t happy. “Steve, I was with you less than twenty minutes ago. And Howard-”

“Howard’s dead.”

“Tony.” Steve scolded.

“What?”

You looked back at Steve, then at Tony.

“Y/n, this is Tony. Howard’s son.”

You heard yourself gasp a little. But before you could understand what the hell was going on, the doors across the lab swung open.

“Mr Stark! I’ve finally figured it out! If I just change the chemical- oh. Hello.”

You looked over at the young boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.

“Y/n, this is Peter. Peter, this is-”

“Holy shit, you’re Y/n Y/l/n.”

Both Tony and Steve looked at Peter. “You know her?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, MJ goes on about her all the time. MJ’s my girlfriend, by the way and she thinks you're, like, super cool. But- hey. Wait a minute. How can you be here?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

“Mr Stark?”

Tony sighed. “Best we can figure is that my old man went wrong and somehow…”

“Invented time travel?” Peter finished.

Tony nodded, as did you.

“Sounds like Howard.”

“Maybe you should call Scott?”

“Why Scott?”

Peter shrugged. “I was gonna suggest Hank but I didn’t think you two are still talking since the burrito fiasco in the cafe the other week.”

Steve just looked at Tony and it took a few minutes but the Stark kid threw his head back before grumbling and pulling out his phone. “Fine.”

“He’s just like his dad,” Steve heard you whisper as you watched him walk away.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, bringing your attention back to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Terrified. Angry. A little more dizzy.”

Steve just held your hand tighter.

“Steve, I need you to tell me everything that happened because right now I have too many questions and…I don’t even know where to begin.”

Steve nodded understandably. You’d been missing for longer than he’d been in the ice. You’d become a part of some of the ghost stories with the walls of Shield. You’d become a small block of text in the Smithsonian since nobody knew anything else.

Your name was one of the first that he searched for when he got out of the ice. If he can be left sleeping in the ice for seventy years, gods can wield magic hammers and aliens can fall from the sky, then surely you could still be alive somewhere, right?

But there had still been no trace of you.

Until today when a loud rad alarm started to sound throughout the kitchen to alert whoever was left in the compound that someone had broken in.

So, starting from the beginning, Steve told you as much as he could in the short time you had together. With Peter filling in a few gaps.

Steve told you about when you went missing. How Howard has a black eye for three weeks since Peggy had hit him hard when she realised what he’d been making and didn’t think to use any safety precautions. One thing Howard knew for certain was that you weren’t dead. How he knew that, the others couldn’t figure. But it was easier to accept than thinking Howard Stark had just murdered one of his closest friends.

Steve told you about when Bucky fell and when he went into the ice. He told you about the end of the war and him and Peggy.

Peter told you about Tony and the little snippets he knew from what he’d been told. Peter accidently let slip that Bucky had been the one to murder Howard and his wife, Maria.

Steve explained about the Winter Soldier programme and waking up in the ice. He told you about New York and The Avengers. Peter mentioned how he, too, was a Superhero. Steve explained about Natasha, Sam and Bucky. Peter mentioned bringing Bucky and Steve up to date with Star Wars and other movie franchises.

Then Steve explained, briefly, about Wakanda and what Bucky had been through.

Tears slipped from your eyes and Steve helped you wipe them away. “So…he’s…he’s alive?”

Steve nodded with a smile. “He’s alive.”

You felt yourself breathing again. Steve had only told you the key things about what happened to Bucky. You couldn’t begin to imagine the pain he went through, or the pain Steve went through realising he’d lost Peggy.

Last you knew, Peggy and Steve were crushing hard on each other. You and Bucky had a bet running for how long it would take for Steve to finally ask her on a date.

“Okay, he’s on his way. He doesn’t believe me, but I don't even believe it.” Tony announced as he walked back inside, pocketing his phone.

“What happens now? What am I meant to do?”

Steve looked at Tony who just shrugged. “You stay here with us until we can get some kind of answer, I guess.”

You tilted your head at Steve. “I’m meant to be in the 40s. What the hell am I supposed to do whilst I’m here? Better yet, what the hell am I meant to do when I can go home? What, am I just not meant to tell you anything? Or Bucky for that matter? Oh, my god! Can I even get home?”

Steve placed his hands on your shoulders and led you back to your seat. “Okay, just sit down. Just breathe.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Blueberry?” Tony suddenly shoved a silver packet into your face. “They can help calm the nervous system.”

Tony didn’t say anything else. But he did unfurl your hand and place a packet in your palm.

“Can I even get home?”

“Uhh…”

“It’s not a question of whether or not you can get home. It’s do you go home?”

Everyone, including yourself, jumped. All except for Peter.

“Jesus Christ,” you swore to yourself, holding onto your chest.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Tony turned towards the curly haired girl standing beside Peter.

“Peter texted me.”

Tony just stared at the girl. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Steve sighed. “She’s training with Nat and Laura, remember?”

That seemed to answer something.

“See, that’s how you give me information.”

“Oh,” Peter jumped back into the conversation. “Agent Y/l/n?”

“Please, call me Y/n.”

“This is MJ, my girlfriend.”

You smiled at her and she gave you a small smile back. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Half an hour later, three people walked inside who were introduced to you as “Ant-Man, but not the original Ant-Man-.”, “Hope”, “She’s the Wasp.”, and “Hank Pym.”

“I believe you might be able to…help.”

Hank nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What ‘we’ can do?”

“Why ‘we’?”

“It’s my lab, Pym.”

“And it’s my research, Stark.”

“I found her first.”

“But you called me, remember?”

The argument continued on for a few more minutes until finally you stood up.

“Hey!”

That shut them up.

“I am not some lab rat that you’re gonna be poking needles into! I understand that I’m over seventy years out of my time, but I’m not some experiment. I’m human, alright?!”

Hope nudged MJ. “I like her.”

Hank and Tony seemed to come to a silent agreement. “Okay, how about we start with the basics?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Over the next few hours, you had your heart rate monitored, your blood pressure taken, your memory tested. You filled out multiple different medical forms. You told them everything you could about where and when you were born, what you did in the last week of your life in the 40s and was fed so many blueberries you were pretty sure your skin would turn the same colour.

“MJ?”

As the boys messed with things on the other side of the lab, you took a seat beside the girl.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you smiled. “I was hoping I might be able to talk to you.”

MJ nodded. “What about?”

“Earlier, when you said it’s more about do I get back…Peter mentioned you might know a few things about me, after I went missing.”

MJ nodded slowly. “I…might.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone anything. Whatever you know will stay between you and me.”

MJ nodded. “Okay.”

“Just…tell me everything?”

And she did.

About the rumours, about the ghost stories. That’s all they were, but there was always a hint of truth in stories. Some people still looked for you, others believed you hadn’t ever existed at all. There was a lot of research done after your disappearance. What had caused it, where you could have gone.

“Does this research still exist?”

“You’d have to ask Mr Stark about that one. Mostly it was his dad’s stuff. I only know because Agent Romanoff was helping me find references for a college paper.”

You smiled. “Thank you, MJ.”

That was when Jarvis, who wasn’t Javis, spoke. “Uh, Captain Rogers, sir. Sergeant Barnes and Captain Wilson have returned.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

You looked over at Steve.

“I’ll go and get him.”

You just nodded and watched as Steve jogged down the hall, out of the doors and towards the stairs.

“Did you date?”

You turned back to MJ. “What?”

“You and Barnes? There were always rumours. And I’ve seen the footage.”

“Footage?”

“They still show clips in the Smithsonian. You know, like Steve keeping a picture of Peggy in his compass. I’ve seen some of you and Barnes.”

You could only nod, letting her know you’d heard what she said.

Truth be told, you and Bucky hadn’t been dating. You were just friends. He’d save you a dance at every Hall. He was the one, besides Peggy, who you’d been closest to. On the days where all his confidence and charm would leave his body – mostly when he was geeking out at the technology fairs – you’d stick by his side and help him out.

Some women he’d try and talk to, so you’d give him a push. But others…he was nice to them, but he just wanted some time alone. The war was a lot and with his own call-up looming, he just wanted some time. So, making sure he didn’t constantly bump into people, you’d both pretend you were on a date. It kept some girls away, and you and him had a great time.

And despite your growing crush over the last few months…no, you weren’t dating.

Your head kicked back into gear. “No. No, we weren’t dating. Just friends.”

MJ just gave you a look. You knew that look. Because it was the same look Peggy had given you three days ago when she cornered you in the girls bathroom after you excused yourself when one of the blonde agents waltzed her way over to talk to Bucky.

Before your conversation could continue further, however, there were multiple sets of boots pounding on the floor. The noise was growing closer and closer.

You stood up from your chair, standing directly in view of the glass doorway, your skirt swishing a little around your knees.

And through the glass, you saw Bucky come to a halt.

He just stared at you.

He was in dark blue tactical gear, a man stood behind him with a jet pack attached to his back and Steve remained beside him.

Bucky stood alone just staring at you.

Then he started walking.

Opening the door, your name fell from his lips before he ran towards you and you ran to him.

Crashing in the middle, Bucky’s arms held your tightly almost crushing your bones.

“Y/n,”

“James,” you felt yourself smile.

“You’re alive?”

“Apparently.”

He just held you tighter. “I didn’t believe him. He told me…you were here and…you’re really here.”

Bucky felt himself laugh a little. He was stunned. To him, he hadn’t spoken to you in over seventy years, but he knew, to you, you and him had spoken that morning.

He never forgot you.

He never let himself forget you.

You meant too much to him.

“I don’t have a clue what’s going on, but boy am I glad to see you.”

Bucky laughed again before leaning back to look at you. Instinctively, he held your face. Both of you had tears in your eyes but that didn’t matter.

“God, you’re alive.”

Bucky hugged you again.

“If you two love birds have finished, might we get back to work?” Hank called out.

Scott nudged him and Hope slapped him across the head. Meanwhile, you remained fixed in Bucky’s arms.

Hours and hours and hours of work later, you were sitting on your own since Bucky had left to go and get you something to eat.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sam came and sat beside you.

“Something tells me I don’t make it back home.”

“Maybe you’re not meant to.”

You just looked at Sam. And he took a breath before talking again.

“First time I asked Bucky about his life before,” Sam started. “The first person he mentioned was you. You were close to him. And he was close to you. He told me losing you was one of the worst pains he ever suffered through. And when Steve mentioned your name today, I saw someone come back to life inside of him. A person even I haven’t seen in Bucky since that day when he first talked about you.”

You didn’t exactly know where Sam was going with his speech, so you just let him continue.

“Maybe, for whatever reasons will help you rationalise this, you were meant to be here instead. With these two, but most importantly…” Sam just pointed to Bucky across the room who was handing out different lunch meals to everyone as Peter carried the tray.

“Nothing is as I remember it.”

“Maybe you’re not as you remember.”

You just looked at Sam, puzzled.

“Those two science nerds will probably have some big, elaborate explanation but, maybe you didn’t time travel. Maybe you just got stranded in time. Pushed through each year in order to get to this one. And, whenever you dropped-”

“Literally.”

“Into here…it was because you needed to. Because it was meant to be.”

You rolled your eyes a little and laughed. “Okay.”

Sam just chuckled and nudged you.

Bucky eventually made his way over to you, just in time to hear Sam ask; “And if you’ve got any tips on how to tap into Mr White Wolf, I’ll take ‘em.”

Sam tapped Bucky on the arm as he passed him by, heading towards the food Steve was opening up at one of the tables.

“It’s not ration food, but it’s the closest I could find to something familiar.”

You smiled accepting the meal as Bucky sat beside you and ate his own with you.

Looking around you, you took everyone in. The super soldiers, the humans, the ego filled scientists and the kids. And the longer you looked, the more it started to look familiar.

Maybe a different room, maybe a different year.

But it was still the same.

Then Sam’s words echoed in your head.

“Meant to be.”

A month later, you were still in the future. People were still looking for answers but the longer time pushed on, the more you began to realise maybe Sam was right. Maybe this was where you were meant to be.

1K notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 26 days ago

Text

Chapter 1 - The Sins

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, soulmates, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending, Winter Soldier is here for this one.

Summary/Warnings: The Soldier is injured, and you make some very stupid choices. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: This one's been bouncing around in my brain for a while. I hope you enjoy the story!

Word Count: 5.1k

Read on A03! - Chapter 2

Compromised.

The Asset’s Health has been compromised. There was a rifle—CZ 550, ammunition .338 Lapua Magnum—and it pierced his upper right arm. Close to the deltoid. Damage assessed, non-lethal.

Will not need attention. Asset will proceed as ordered with the mission.

The mission has been completed. The targets are dead. Collateral five people, one house. No tracks left.

With the mission completed, the Asset will return to his handler.

The Asset is compromised, and cannot return to his handler. The handler is across the ocean—Atlantic, over 100,000 kilometers—and should not be contacted unless the mission fails.

The mission was a success.

The Asset will return to his handler.

The Asset is compromised. He cannot return to his handler.

The handler should not be contacted.

In a back alley of a city, the Solider leans against the dirtied brick wall, clutching at his head.

It hurts. Everything hurts. Electricity is shocking and pounding at his head, and it hurts. His shoulder is throbbing, and when he touches it, his fingers come away red.

That is his blood.

The Solider did not know he could bleed. He knew of pain, but this is different. This cannot be eased by compliance. He has been wounded.

He is not supposed to be wounded.

Ever.

The Asset will not be phased by pain.

But it hurts.

In the event that the Asset is compromised, he will return to his handler.

The Soldier cannot return to his handler. He can barely even stand up, and the wound is small, but also deep. He thinks, when he peels away his suit to assess the wound again, that he can see some bone sticking out of it.

The Asset is compromised.

He is well aware of that. His head fucking hurts.

In the event of weakness, the Asset will return to his handler for assessment of the programming.

He cannot return to his handler. His handler is across the ocean, and the Soldier has somehow ended up on the pavement of this alley, and God, his head really, really hurts-

Should the Asset isolated from his handler, he will find somewhere safe.

That was new.

The Soldier has never felt that order before. It is as if the thought breaching through layers, peeling up from the bottom of his head, pushing from where it may have been buried.

The Asset will remain where it is safe until he is no longer compromised, or he is retrieved by his handler.

Safe. Where it is safe.

The Soldier just has to find where it is safe.

Locations approved for safety are any Hydra layers or labs. The Asset will not be seen with S.H.E.I.L.D agents under any circumstances, or engage with unapproved Hydra agents. He will remain docile unless given direct orders to do otherwise.

There are no more Hydra labs in the Soldier’s immediate path. He just destroyed the last one.

Target, two men who have strayed from Hydra’s mission-

Everything hurts. He finished the mission, but he is compromised, and he can’t go to his handler, but he cannot go anywhere safe, nowhere is safe, everything hurts-

Should the Asset be isolated from his handler, he will find somewhere safe.

No where is safe. The Solider presses on the wound, and more pain shoots up his arm.

The Asset is compromised.

The Solider is going to beat his head against the wall.

The Asset should not cause himself any harm that may compromise his health.

The Asset is compromised.

In the event of weakness, the Asset will return to his handler for assessment of the programming.

Should the Asset isolated from his handler, he will find somewhere safe.

Locations approved for safety are-

The Soldier roars, and it echoes. Sends animals scurrying away, makes the whole night silent for only a second. It hurts, it fucking hurts, and he cannot comply, he has to comply, if he does not, the sky will fall, and all this pain would increase and nowhere is-

If the Asset is experience distress at his actions, he will return to his-

Something cracked. The bricks of the wall, as the Solider has slammed his good fist—the better one, that couldn’t be broken—into the wall.

The Asset should not cause himself any harm that may compromise his health.

The Asset is compromised.

The Soldier slumps back down to the concrete. He is pretty certain this loop has occurred before—he can never be sure of anything, but there are vague images of people in white coats poking at his brain and muttering about how they’d messed up the code—and it will likely just end with Hydra finding him, isolating the breach, and locking him back in a chair.

The Asset is compromised.

He is fucked. The Asset, the Solider, whatever, he’s fucked. He’s hurt, and stranded, and nowhere is-

Should the Asset isolated from his handler, he will find somewhere safe.

Locations approved for safety are-

All the Hydra warehouses and layers were destroyed-

No.

The Soldier frowns. That’s new. It’s coming from even deeper than the safety order, and it feel like his brain was being shredded and burned, but it was—and always is—easier to just comply.

There is one safe location in the Asset’s area. The safest location. Go to the safest location, and they will take care of you.

People don’t take care of the Solider, that’s not what he’s-

Go to the safest location.

But nowhere is safe, and-

Sirens start to blare from the road, the night growing blue and red and flashing and fuck-

The Soldier covers his ears—hissing as something tore in his shoulder from the movement—and the new order grows louder.

The safest location. Go. Now.

He doesn’t have directions. The Solider was usually provided with directions.

But right now, he doesn’t need them.

He just pushed up off the ground, stumbles down the alley, and knows exactly where he was going on instinct.

The safest location.

—————

Whoever came up with college needs to be shot. Whoever came up with internships needs to be tarred and feathered and drawn and quartered and-

Huh.

You were paying attention in that history class.

It had still been a waste of your time, but most things felt like they were. You’re tired, and hungry, and there are little blisters and callous all over your hands from work—not work, if it was work you would be paid—and you really just want to sleep for a million years, but you have to get home first.

You just have to get home.

It had started to storm, while you were inside. Sudden and without warning, heavy and cold, where you couldn’t tell if it was storming, or if the sky was falling down in tiny, biting, frozen fragments. There were safety alerts about harsh conditions when you finished up, and a smarter person would’ve heeded them. Would’ve locked down in the warm building with the vending machines and excellent plumbing, instead of getting in their beaten down car to drive home.

Through the storm, on the iced roads and in the pitch black.

But you’re not a smarter person. All your smart has been spent on stretching budgets and working until your feet were swollen, and you just want to go home. To sleep in a bed that’s a little lumpy, but yours. Eat food that isn’t pre-approved for the lab. Throw some more darts at the photo of your history professor, the one you’d pinned on the back of your door.

You’re so close. Ten minutes. All you can see out the window is blurs of white, disappearing into the darkness and shimmering for split seconds in your high beams. They’re barely enough to see anything but a foot in front of you, and God, you hope there’s no one ahead of you, because if you’re blinding someone and they decided to pull over and yell at you, you’re going to burst into tears-

It happens too quick. You’re not going fast, but you’re going fast enough, and for a second you think you’re seeing things.

He’s like a ghost. A large, broad figure coming into your view—meaning he was close to your car, close enough for your headlights to let you see him—before vanishing. Into nothing.

You haven’t slept in almost forty hours. You’re probably just finally losing your mind.

But you look in your rearview mirror anyway. Just to check.

And there’s an overhead streetlight, casting a faint glow in the night and illuminating the night just enough to let you see shadows, and-

He’s there.

Off to the side of the road.

The figure is standing so still he could be a shadow himself, the streetlight giving him an odd halo, and you can feel him. Feel his eyes deeper in your skin than they should be, feel something very, very deep in your chest starting to stir, feel an odd, magnetic type of force that’s boiling in your blood and shooting up your spine, telling you to go back. Turn around. Nothing in the world is more important than turning around and returning to his side, because you are tired and hungry and thirsty, but this is a newer, rawer need. It’s deeper. More primal. You’ve seen him and if you don’t see him again you may wither away and you need him. More than air, you need to turn around.

You’re not a smarter person, but you’re not an idiot. You’ve haven’t survived this long on your own by helping strange, large men standing in the middle of the road during storms. You’ve heard horror stories and had some of your own, and it is way too long a day already to end with you being hurt-

You won’t get hurt. He can’t hurt you.

He’s a ghost in a storm. You’re pretty sure, in the brief flash you got of him, that there was something red coating his body.

He won’t hurt you. He’s safe.

You need to turn around, before it’s too late.

This is fucking insane.

You’re not a fool. And you just want to go-

That’s home. Home is behind you.

“God- Fuck.” You’ve stopping the car. You’re not sure when you did that, but the engine is idle, and it’s only you and the low sound of the radio as you bow your head to the wheel.

It would be impossibly stupid to turn around.

But that feeling in your gut is loud. Demanding. Running through your blood and turning into a song or hymn, calling you like a war drum to turn around.

And it’s warm.

The whole night is so very cold, but this feeling is making you warm, and home is behind you

You’re driving again, before your brain can catch up.

Making a careful three-point turn, and turning back.

Fuck.

If you die tonight, you’re going to be really pissed off.

He will not let you die.

The man doesn’t move, when you pull off to the side of the road. Doesn’t even flinch, or back away to ensure that he doesn’t get hit. He just stares. Watching you silently, as you fumble for your jacket and gloves.

You glance down for half a moment. Just to unplug your phone. And maybe you should just dial 911 now, and wait in your car until they pick him up-

You should not let anyone else touch him. He’s here for you.

That’s not as reassuring as the song in your blood seems to think it is. And this is just a feeling, based in no fact, just a gravity like, immovable desire to go to him, and you went to him, so staying in the car is fine. You should just check that he’s not in immediate need of medical attention—although there is something pounding on your skull, and it’s telling you help him, all the world will crumble to ash if you don’t help him—and then stay in the-

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He’s right at the window. Staring at you.

And the whole night is so dark and gray, but this man’s eyes are really blue. Searing, mind-numbing blue, and you suddenly remember being a kid, and seeing the ocean for the first time, and wandering into the water even though you couldn’t swim.

You hadn’t drowned, then. The riptide had tried to pull you out, but you’d watched a PBS documentary the night before, and it had said not to panic.

That the worst thing you could ever do was be afraid. That you needed to float, and wait for help.

This man is the ocean. And the riptide.

And the Coast Guard, that had found you, put you on a boat, and wrapped you in a blanket.

He’s home, that song in your blood whines. You’re home.

You really must be losing your fucking mind.

Because, holding the man’s gaze, you open the door.

He takes a step back, avoiding the door slamming into his gut, but returns in a second. Simply standing tall and rigid as you take him in, not speaking or offering any sort of introduction, but not lunging for you and strangling you into the dirt, either.

“Hi.” You whisper, and he only blinks. “I, um, are you…”

He’s staring right into you. Deep into you, sparking that song into a choir, but he’s not speaking.

He seems to be… waiting. Puffing out his chest slightly and tracking your every movement, close but not close enough to touch you.

Almost putting himself on display, for you to asses.

He’s tall, but most broad. Muscular. Longer hair that looks a little ratty, like he’s managed to grow it almost to his shoulders, but nobody’s bothered to mention conditioner or a brush to him. That’s certainly blood staining his face, but it looks smudged—as if he’s wiped it off a few times, or its been washed away in the storm—and there seems to be a tear in his dark clothing, near his shoulder.

Something keeps tugging you closer, telling you to touch the gash in the fabric to check the damage even though this man is not your patient, and you haven’t made a single oath-

You don’t need an oath. Not for him.

That’s not helpful. You’d help him because he was a person, and you might be trapped in his proximity, but he’s covered in blood and not saying a single word and holding-

A gun.

That’s a gun, in his hand. His shining, silver hand, and-

It’s metal.

This man has a metal hand. Arm. The whole arm is shining in the low light, and he’s holding a gun.

All thoughts are leading to the same conclusion. Whoever he is, he’s not just a person.

No. He’s yours.

The song really needs to shut up, or you’re going to hit a new peak of stupid. This man is yours—he’s not, logically, but rationality went out the window when you turned the car around—and you think he’s in pain. All his weight is on one side of his body, and the longer the look the more certain you are that a dark stain is bleeding into the fabric on his shoulder, and you could help him, but he still hasn’t even spoken.

He’s just been looking down at you with a blank expression. What you think is a blank expression.

You can’t really tell.

Half his face is covered in a mask.

And something in you hates that. You want to see him. All of him.

He’s yours.

“I, can you,” you point to your own face. “Please?”

He gives a sharp nod, and the mask comes off.

He’s attractive. Really attractive. Lightning seems to shoot through your whole body at the sight of him, because it’s like staring in the sun with no need to ever look away.

And he’s all yours-

The song needs to calm the hell down. Bigger problems.

“Do you need help?”

The man just stares.

“I- I know I’m a stranger, but your shoulder-“ You nod to the tear. “If you need help, I know how to do stitches.”

Still nothing.

“My kit is at my house, but it’s not far from here, and- As long as you promise not to shoot me-“

The man cuts you off with rough, smooth words that you don’t understand. It sounds Eastern European. Slavic.

Fuck.

You let out a slow breath, and it turns to mist in the cold. The snow is sinking into your clothing, freezing it and sticking to your skin, and you aren’t cold inside your body, but your fingers are starting to go numb, and-

The man starts to herd you, and for some reason, you don’t run or scream or fight. You just let him walk you backwards until you’re pressed to the car, and then he pulls you forward.

Right into his chest.

You still can’t scream. You’re not paralyzed with fear, and all the nerves in your body are a little alight from shock, but everything else is impossibly peaceful. Alarms that should be setting off humming with the song, and your body is relaxing in his hold, and what the fuck is happening-

Suddenly, you’re behind the driver’s seat, and the door is closing behind you. The light flashes off the man’s metal arm as he stomps around the hood, and before you can figure out if you should get back out or call for help or call for him—you don’t even know his name—or just hit him with your fucking car-

Don’t hit him with your car, you can’t, he’s the world and nothing will ever be okay again if you hit him with-

The man opens the passenger’s door, slides into the seat with a grunt, and now you’re sure he’s hurt. It’s twisting in your stomach, and he’s pulling back to collar of his shirt to check something, but you don’t need to see it to know.

He’s hurt.

You can fix it.

“I, um,” you clear your throat, tapping your fingers on the wheel, and the man looks at you with a slight frown. “I’m going to drive us to my house, okay?”

He doesn’t respond.

You don’t know what you expected.

But it’s still unnerving. The whole ride is almost dead quiet, and when you turn on the radio—anything to drown out the song in your blood, that doesn’t seem to understand that you can’t just fix him by touching him—the man’s frown deepens.

“Do you, the song-“ You need to get a grip. “If you don’t like this song, I can change it. If you want.”

You chance another glance at him, and he gives a short shake of his head.

It’s the most you get out of him. Movements. When you park and ask if he needs help getting inside, he ignores you and stomps to your door, waiting until you’re out of the car to herd you inside. When you ask him to sit, he does, and when you tell him you need to see where he’s hurt, his whole shirt comes off.

You blink at him, and swallow.

You’d just meant he should pull down his collar, or roll up his sleeve.

But now-

He’s muscular, but you hadn’t really expected anything else. What’s making you freeze is the scars. Pale in his skin and running like tiny rivers around where the metal arm has been fused into his body. It takes up most of his shoulder, and when you reach out to touch one of the plates, he doesn’t even blink.

It’s starting to twist the song into something furious. Something happened to him, and you can feel it when you trace over one of the raised marks. Something hurt him, and it’s stinging on your fingertips.

They’re faded. Still visible, still obvious, but faded enough that you know they’ve been there for a while.

Some very twisted, wrathful part of you wants to pick up the gun he’d dropped on your table, and figure out how to make whoever did this to him regret it.

It’s far from your craziest thought of the night. But you still don’t even know how to use a gun, and you have no clue who he is, or if the people who hurt him are still alive.

Maybe that’s their blood, on his cheek and dried on his clothing.

The thought doesn’t disgust you half as much as it probably should.

It’s been a weird night.

“Is the-“ You swallow, brushing his hair away from his right shoulder. It’s a small gash, but not a graze. “Were you shot?”

He nods.

“Did you get the bullet out?” He seems like he’d be able to do that.

And he nods again.

“Alright, do I, can I give you stitches?”

The man blinks, a deep line furrowing in his brow, but he nods again, and you let out a long breath.

That’s relief, clearing in your head. You weren’t sure what you would’ve done if he said no.

Probably drown in the sound of his voice, if this pattern of him just existing and you being ready to offer him your life in from your hands continues.

“I have to clean it, first. To prevent infection.”

He doesn’t respond. The man only tracks you around your tiny kitchen as you grab your kit, some paper towels—you just cleaned the floor—and, at the last second, a rag for him to bite down on.

You try to hold it out to him, but he just stares at you.

“It’s going to hurt.” You mumble. “And I can give you some Advil, after, but right now, this,” you shake the rag in your hand. “Is the best I can do.”

He blinks, and you sigh.

“Can you please open your mouth?”

His jaw drops open in half a second, and you frown—that movement was incredibly mechanical, like you’d hit a button and a mechanism had clicked him into action—before carefully placing the rag between his teeth.

“It’s clean.” You tell him, although you don’t think he’ll care all that much. “I just ran it through the wash.“

The man blinks again, tracking you as you drop down at his side, and get to work. It’s a quick job, with the bullet gone. Rubbing alcohol as disinfectant, quick stitches, gauze, and a bandage for safety, then he’s done.

Not a single grunt or sound of pain leaves him, though. You’d think he was mute, if he hadn’t spoken in that Slavic language. And you be resigned to him maybe not knowing English, if he hadn’t been listening to you, all night. Doing as you asked him to, nodding and shaking his head, quite obviously understanding what you were saying.

But never fucking speaking.

And now, as you wipe the blood from his face with the rag, he’s still just staring at you. The silence is starting to suffocate you, and the longer it stretches the louder the song gets. Tell you to hold him, know him, protect him from whoever caused those scars, and get closer. As close as possible.

You’re already touching his face and stood between his legs. He’s already branding himself into you memory, just by looking at you. You’re not sure what else is possibly expected.

But you can’t sit in this silence.

“How’d you get shot?”

Nothing.

“I, um, I’ve never been shot.” You offer, and god, you sound dumb. “I’ve never broken a bone, either. I’d say I’m lucky, but I feel like it’s just in exchange for, you know. Other things.”

He blinks.

“Like I’ve been to the hospital a lot. For other reasons, like, um, internal bleeding.” There’s no possible reason to tell him this. You can’t stop. “One time I got a concussion. And another time, I- Um- Well, there were the psych wards. And the spinal tap, and the stomach pump, and the time I thought my ribs were broken, but it was really just that internal bleeding again-“

Your rambling dies in your throat, as the man’s metal hand moves to hold your hip. It’s an impossibly delicate touch. And the metal should be cold, but you’re still so warm. It’s like a fever, buzzing over your skin and lighting you up from the inside out, and the man is still just watching you.

He’s watching you. It’s wrapping around you like a shield. Like a blanket on a boat.

“I think you can understand me.” You whisper, and it’s not really a question, but the man nods. “Can you please say something?”

He frowns, and opens his mouth, but closes it just as fast. Shaking his head, his grip tightening slightly, and this is the riptide. It’s crashing into him instead of you, and he’s fighting it, and that’s not how you survive.

“What’s your name?”

It’s your lifeline. Your offer for him to give you anything, anything at all, and stop fighting.

He takes it. And you were right.

You’re going to drown in his voice.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and nod. It makes sense. He didn’t have any ID, he was shot but won’t say how, and you have no idea how long he was out in that storm before you found him.

You should tell him to go. Or call the cops. It’s almost three in the morning, and the exhaustion is crashing back into you so fucking fast as the song only grows louder, telling you that you’re safe. He’s safe, and he’s here, so you’re safe and if okay to rest.

Rest sounds nice. You’re starting to get a little blurry-eyed, and the only thing that keeps shocking you awake is the drifting through of sending him away. He’s a stranger. With a gun. But you can’t send him away, because he’s safe, and he’s yours, and that same deep, primal thing that made you turn around on the road is making your say-

“I- Um, you can stay here, for the night. If you want. And we can figure out who you are in the morning.”

The man nods, and something in his eyes relaxes.

He’s not fighting anymore.

When you tell him to shower then change into cleaner clothing—from the back of your closet, smelling like absolutely nothing at all—he does. When you give him water, he drinks it, and when you say you’re going to go shower, you open the door after to find him standing silently in the hall.

He scans over your body, wrapped only in a towel, with a small frown. Then he nods, you clear whatever test he was giving you, and that’s it.

You change in your room, and he waits outside the door, and when you open it he remains perfectly still, holding your gaze with something turning behind his gaze that you don’t understand.

He looks nice, wearing normal, clean clothing. The shirt is a bit small, and it’s clinging to his body in a way you can’t bring yourself to complain about.

You want to brush his hair. It’s still damp, and starting to look at little tangled, and that song in your blood really wants you to brush his hair. It’s crossing an odd, dangerous line, but you don’t really care anymore.

And you when you ask him, he just looks incredibly confused, so you guide him to sit on the carpet on your room, and get to work.

He doesn’t fight you, or push you away. You start talking just to drown out the sound of your heart in your ears and the song telling you get closer, and he listens. You know he’s listening, because he grunts at all the right parts in your stories, and sits a little taller when you tell him about your creepy history professor, and moves his hand to hold your calf when you tell him about your ex, who’s shirt that belonged to, and who gave you a few or those trips to the hospital.

He can feel this too. He’s holding you, listening, and touching you because—you think—he can feel this too.

When you finish with his hair, his head tips back to watch you. His lips are pink. And full. And he really is so handsome, and this is the ocean. Calling you. As big as you want it to be, if you’re brave enough. Dangerous, but not enough for you to care.

You clear your throat, trying to cling to one last bit of sanity. “Are you hungry?”

He frowns again, but nods.

“Do you like ice cream?”

He pauses. For a long, heavy second that look of something grinding in his brain returns, and before you can cast another lifeline, the look clears.

“I do.” He murmurs, as if he’s unsure of his own words. “Strawberry. Or cookie dough.”

You swallow. “I have mint chip.”

“Okay.”

Eating is silent too, but it’s not the tight silence. It’s easier. And when you see him eyeing the chocolate syrup and push it forward with raised brows, he takes it.

With shaking hands and small smile that has gotten you drunk on nothing at all.

When you guide him to your bed he lies down, but doesn’t close his eyes until you drop at his side.

He’s a stranger. In your bed. With a metal arm, who’d been covered in blood only an hour ago, and whose gun is still sitting in your kitchen.

But you glance over at him—watching you, always watching you—and you’ve never felt safer in your life.

This time, he breaks the silence. His words softer, but still clear.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

He raises his brows, and fuck it. He’s already in your bed, and he’s asking, and every fiber of your body wants nothing more than to tell him. For him to know you, hold you, protect you from storms and come closer.

You tell him your name, and he repeats it back with a small nod.

“That’s beautiful.”

You flush, the song beginning to glow, and your eyes dart up to the ceiling. “Thanks.”

When you fall asleep, it’s fast. Easy. Warm all the way into your bone, and that shield he’s casting around your body sinking deeper, and deeper, all the way into your bones. There are points when you’re half-lucid, and you could swear he was holding you. Wrapped around your body and keeping you carefully to his chest, and it fits.

He fits.

Whoever this man is, whatever he is, he fits because he’s yours. In a strange, pure way, he’s yours.

But when you wake up in the morning, he’s gone.

And you wouldn’t be sure he was real at all, if it weren’t for that song in your blood, wailing and sobbing that he’s gone.

Calling him, although you know he won’t answer, to return.

End Note: This one's gonna be angsty AND fluffy. Right in the sweet spot. Enjoy the series!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (If you'd like to be added, please fill out this form!)

@globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr @Youdontknowe @panicking-outside-the-disco

@Ambiguous-avery @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka

@megara0224 @funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @foolinthera1n @sheneedsjesus

@bonkydarnes @whimsicalcherry @charliethemanticore @cats-chaotic-mind @forzalando

@roseblue373 @angrydragon90 @biodegradable-glitter-fest @idontwannabehere78 @miss-marmalade

@mgchaser @starrylanex @cookiemonstermusic258 @juliperezsilveira @kamisobsessed

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barns x reader

164 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 28 days ago

Text

Point of Impact | Avengers/Bucky Barnes x Reader Part 1

Summary: In your world, the Avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. Then a lab experiment goes wrong, and you wake up mid-Civil War with no way out and no script to follow.

Parts: TBD!

MCU Timeline Placement: Captain America: Civil War

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, injury, car crash, dislocated joint, restraints, captivity, guns, near-death experience, altered reality, reality confusion, PTSD themes, identity crisis

Word Count: 9.3k

Author’s Note: this fic was supposed to be a one-shot but then it got completely out of hand, as all good things do. writing this was an absolute blast—especially the ask that kicked it off, which you can read here. this will likely be a short series (4 or 5 parts, depending on how feral my brain gets), so buckle in!

────────────────────────

The hum of fluorescent lights had long since faded into the background, a quiet tinnitus buzzing at the base of your skull. It was late. The kind of late where your blood felt carbonated, where exhaustion and caffeine intertwined into something restless, twitchy.

You should have gone home. But then again, you said that every night.

Your desk was a graveyard of open notebooks and loose graph paper, their edges curled from too many rewrites. Highlighters with their caps missing, an untouched protein bar you told yourself you'd eat, and three coffee cups in varying states of abandonment. One of them had developed a skin. You didn’t look at it too hard.

Somewhere beneath the chaos, half-buried under equations scrawled in red ink, was an old, dog-eared copy of The Infinity Gauntlet—creased spine, pages slightly warped from an incident involving coffee and regret. A Winter Soldier Funko Pop had stared at you from its perch beside your monitor, its tiny plastic eyes silently judging your life choices. Next to it, your phone sat face-down, charging off a tangled cord, notifications silenced. The last thing on your screen? An IMAX showtime reminder for a re-release of Iron Man, because apparently, Marvel thought your nostalgia was a bottomless bank account.

They weren’t wrong.

You scrubbed a hand over your face, rolling your neck until something cracked. Somewhere across the lab, the core stabilizer thrummed steadily, a soft, pulsing glow through the reinforced glass casing. A heartbeat. Your heartbeat, at that point—your entire career balanced on whether or not this thing stopped throwing out equations that shouldn’t exist.

There had been a joke there, somewhere. A quip about building a time-space anomaly in a cave with a box of scraps. Except you didn’t have a cave. Or scraps. Just a rapidly diminishing research grant and a phenomenon that shouldn't have been possible.

You stared at the screen.

The numbers were off again. The variables you'd accounted for weren’t the ones showing up in the results. Instead, there was something else. A repeating pattern buried in the noise, a thread woven through the data. Not an error. A response.

The math checked out. The theory was solid. The funding, however, was a slow-dripping IV, and if you didn’t show results soon, the higher-ups would cut the cord.

Somewhere down the hall, the motion sensor lights flicked on, and you froze. You held your breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You’d overstayed your welcome again—cleaning crew, maybe. If it was security, you’d have to explain why your badge was still scanning in at 3:17 AM, three hours past clearance. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

You waited. Counted to ten. The light didn’t move. No footsteps. Just the hum of the servers behind you and the deep, low thrumming of the machine.

You glanced back at the core stabilizer, its sleek glass interface pulsing with a soft blue glow. It wasn’t particularly large, no bigger than an industrial microwave, but it was the most advanced piece of tech you’d ever had the misfortune of debugging. The grant proposal had used a lot of buzzwords—quantum resonance mapping, tachyon synchronization, gravitational memory recall—but at its core, the thing was meant to test the fabric of reality.

Or, more specifically, to find echoes of it.

Which, conceptually, was fine. What you hadn’t accounted for was an anomaly.

Your stomach twisted. You should have emailed someone. Flagged it for review, requested an extension, drafted something that didn’t make you sound like a lunatic.

Instead, your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Because if you'd learned anything from reading comics and watching movies your entire life, it was that reckless decisions were a prerequisite for progress.

Before you could think better of it, you clicked run sequence.

The hum deepened.

Your stomach lurched.

The monitor flickered, static crawling at the edges of the screen. It was fine. You’d tested similar scenarios before. The calculations held. They should have held.

A sound like distant thunder cracked through the lab. Your ears popped.

The stabilizer flared bright, too bright, the glow spilling past the glass casing, stretching, refracting—

And then—

Nothing.

No sound. No light. No weight in your bones, no breath in your lungs, no memory of what your last thought even was.

Just the impossible sensation of falling.

────────────────────────

Cold air slapped your skin. The kind of cold that sucked the breath from your lungs, sharp and immediate. Your knees hit pavement, biting through fabric, and you barely managed to brace yourself with your hands as the world tilted violently.

You tried to suck in air, but it was wrong. Thick, damp, laced with exhaust fumes and something acrid—burning rubber, fried meat, the faintest tinge of cigarette smoke curling in the distance. The fluorescent hum of the lab was gone, replaced by the ambient, ever-moving murmur of a city. Engines idling, boots scuffing against pavement, a dog barking somewhere too far away to matter.

You forced yourself upright, one palm flat against the rough brick of an alley as you took in your surroundings. Where the fuck—

Slowly, your vision sharpened, the world around you arranging itself into something comprehensible: cobblestone streets, narrow alleys, rows of laundry strung between buildings. The architecture was old, weathered, a mix of utilitarianism and something older. A street vendor to your left gestured animatedly, selling ripe fruit from a cart.

A flash of color caught your eye. A blue sign, white letters. Strada...? No, that couldn’t have been right. Strada Lipscani.

Your brain stuttered. Your Romanian was rusty at best, but it wasn’t a language you were familiar enough with to translate immediately. Another sign—Bulevardul Regina Elisabeta—cinched it.

Which made no sense, because the last time you checked, your lab hadn’t been in fucking Romania.

Your first instinct was your phone. Check your GPS, call someone, figure out what the hell had happened. But when your hand patted down your pocket, all you found was the press of fabric against skin.

A sharp inhale, lungs catching, fingers digging into your pockets like maybe you’d just missed it, like maybe the sheer force of needing it would make it materialize. But all you came up with was lint and the distant sense of something very, very wrong.

This is a dream. A stress-induced, sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by too many hours staring at quantum resonance equations—or maybe karmic retribution for spending an embarrassing amount of time on Duolingo trying to learn Romanian. Not for any practical reason, of course. Just a hyperfixation fueled by too many press interviews with a certain actor and the vague, ridiculous notion that someday, somehow, it might come in handy.

Except your hands hurt too much for this to be a dream. The sounds, the scents, the distant heat of a passing car as it brushed too close to the curb, all of it was too sharp, too tactile.

You stumbled forward, weaving between pedestrians, your mind cycling through possibilities. The city moved around you, indifferent. People laughed in passing, someone playing guitar bled out into the street, a car rumbled over cobblestone. A man sold roasted nuts from a cart, another leaned against a post, reading a newspaper.

You didn’t look where you were going. You crashed into someone. Hard.

The impact jolted through your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs, and you staggered back, hands automatically coming up as an apology formed on your lips.

But the words died there.

You froze, and it wasn’t that the man you’d ran into looked at you—because he didn’t. Just a brief flicker of pale eyes beneath the low brim of his baseball cap atop shoulder-length brown hair, muscle twitching in his jaw before he murmured a low, clipped, “Scuze.”

It was what he was wearing that caught you. Red Henley overtop a gray undershirt. Worn leather jacket with a brown hood. A plastic bag in his hand, filled with something dark, ripe, and purple.

Something splintered inside your chest. You’d have recognized that anywhere.

You stood there, stunned, heart lurching into your throat as your brain scrambled to make sense of what you were seeing. But by the time the recognition slammed into you like a freight train, he was already moving.

It made sense, for half a second. Sebastian Stan. It had to be, walking around Romania, because—because maybe he was filming something. Maybe there was a set nearby. Maybe you’d just walked onto some hyper-realistic flashback scene without realizing—

Except there were no cameras. No crew. No extras milling around waiting for their cue.

Nothing.

And when he crossed the street, the man you’d clocked earlier at the newsstand reading the newspaper froze—eyes going wide before he bolted, abandoning the paper in his haste.

Your mouth went dry. Your legs felt leaden. You didn’t move, watching as Bucky fucking Barnes crossed the street, as he bent to pick up the discarded paper, unfolding it with careful hands.

Your Bucky Barnes. Or—not yours, but the Bucky Barnes. The character whose dog-tag chain had been wrapped around your neck in one form or another since you’d received them as a birthday gift more than a decade ago. The man whose face you’d seen over and over in comics, movies, framed in a sniper’s scope. The man whose face you’d memorized in every iteration, pre-serum softness, Howling Commandos grit, Winter Soldier precision, and everything afterwards.

You couldn’t see his expression as his eyes grazed over the newspaper, but you didn’t need to. He disappeared into the alley before you could even blink.

Your mind catalogued faster than it could rationalize. Your stomach twisted. A match struck in the dark. You knew this. You knew this scene.

You’d seen it.

You’d…watched it.

The thought rose like bile, too big to swallow down. You blinked hard, dragging your gaze across the street, like maybe you’d find something to ground yourself, something to pull you out of whatever the fuck this was—

Your hands shook as you pushed forward, weaving between pedestrians. You reached for the discarded newspaper stack, fingers curling over the crinkled page.

The words on the newspaper blurred. Your breath shuddered in your chest, and for a moment—just a sliver of time—you let yourself believe it was a mistake. A cruel joke, a coincidence so outlandish it had to be some kind of fever dream. But the bold, black letters of the headline didn’t change, no matter how many times you blinked.

WINTER SOLDIER CĂUTAT PENTRU BOMBARDAMENTUL ONU VIENA

Your stomach knotted, something cold and sharp twisting deep in your gut, cutting off your breath like a fist closing around your insides. The paper trembled in your grip, whether from the wind or your hands, you couldn’t tell. The grainy photo of Bucky Barnes beneath the words was unmistakable.

You knew it was a fake. A deliberate framing.

Your fingernails dug into the skin of your arm. A quick, brutal pinch. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to snap you out of whatever this was. But nothing shifted. Nothing flickered or distorted.

It held.

And for the first time, truly, something broke inside your head.

You shouldn’t have been able to feel this much at once. The shock, the fear, the absurdity of being dropped into the events of a Marvel movie you’d seen a dozen times before—but underneath it, beneath all the chaos, something deeper clawed its way up your throat.

You knew exactly what came next.

But none of that mattered.

Because the article wasn’t on a screen. It wasn’t a prop on a movie set. It wasn’t plastered across the pages of a new comic release. It wasn’t something you were watching happen to someone fictional.

Your breath came too fast, your pulse hammering in your throat, body locked somewhere between fight and flight with no clear direction to go. You tried to ground yourself, to focus on something tangible—the rough paper in your grip, the scent of exhaust thick in the damp air, the uneven press of cobblestones beneath your feet. None of it helped. If anything, it made it worse.

Made it real.

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the newspaper.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Because if it was, then you were here. And if you were here, then that meant—

Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat. You wanted to stop moving, wanted to fold in on yourself, dig your nails into your arms, squeeze your eyes shut until you woke up in a desk chair beneath flickering fluorescents, a coffee ring bleeding into the pages of an old research log. You wanted the familiarity of exhaustion you understood, of problems that could be solved with a whiteboard and a good night’s sleep—not whatever this was.

Your chest heaved. The world felt too sharp, too loud, too much.

But then, through the noise, something cut through the static. A flicker of movement. The edge of a worn jacket vanishing into an alley.

You knew exactly what happened next.

Not just today, not just the chase through Bucharest, not just the moment Steve Rogers threw away everything for a man who didn’t believe he deserved it. You knew what this set into motion—the fracture lines it carved into something already fragile, the war that divided the Avengers until it was too late to repair.

And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered. Maybe it wasn’t your fight. Maybe you should let it happen.

But there was a difference between watching something unfold from the safety of a theater seat and standing in the middle of it, feeling the weight of knowledge pressing sharp against your ribs.

It was almost laughable, the irony of it. You’d seen enough alternate universe stories to know how this should go. You’d watched the What If…? series, devoured stories of butterfly effects and deviations, of singular choices with ripple effects that stretched further than anyone ever predicted. You’d seen what happened when one person, one moment, changed the course of something meant to be unchangeable.

You didn’t have answers. You didn’t have a plan. You didn’t even know what the hell you thought you were doing.

But you did know this: if you walked away now, you would never forgive yourself.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You knew where Bucky was going. The dimly lit apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the sink that dripped, the old notebooks filled with names that never felt like they belonged to him.

It should have been impossible, but then again, so should all of this.

You moved quickly, heart hammering, ducking through narrow side streets, past shuttered shopfronts and the occasional stray cat. Bucharest was a maze, but you found the building by muscle memory—not your own, but the memory of someone who had watched this sequence play out more times than they’d cared to admit.

The door was old, the kind that probably stuck in the winter, the kind with a lock that wasn’t as complicated as it should’ve been.

You didn’t think. Thinking would’ve meant hesitating. Thinking would’ve meant realizing this was insane.

Instead, you dug into your pocket, fingers shaking as you pried out a hairpin. A movie cliché, but one that worked if you knew what you were doing.

You’d never actually tried it, of course. Never had a reason to—until now.

The lock was old, stiff, but not complicated. Your fingers fumbled as you worked the pin into place, breathing uneven. You were running on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the motions.

The pin trembled between your fingers. You forced a steady breath, angled it into the lock, turned, felt for the catch. The weight of time pressed down on you. Bucky was coming. The strike team was coming. You had seconds, maybe minutes, before everything detonated around you.

The lock clicked.

You inhaled sharply and pushed the door open.

The apartment was dim, the light muted through the thin curtains. The scent of old wood, damp stone, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air. It was sparse, barely lived in—a ghost of a life. The weight of that nearly buckled your knees.

It was real. You were here. Inside the apartment you’d seen in freeze frames and film stills, dissected in grainy behind-the-scenes footage, watched fall apart in real time.

But the thing that stole the breath from your lungs—the thing that made your chest seize up entirely—was the man standing in the kitchen.

Steve Rogers.

But not the Steve Rogers you knew. Not entirely just Chris Evans, not the painted panels of a comic book. Not the crisp, polished perfection of a film screen, cut and edited for mass consumption. No carefully lit angles, no makeup smoothing out the edges. He almost looked wrong. Not in the uncanny way of a deepfake or a wax figure, not like a bad impersonator at a con—but wrong because he was…real.

And because he was in full combat gear.

Your stomach turned to stone.

The navy suit, the white star over his chest, the armored plates reinforced over fabric that was worn and scuffed from actual battle, not a costuming department. The dark utility belt strapped securely around his waist, the reinforced boots braced solidly against the kitchen tile. The helmet, molded for function rather than aesthetics, made the cut of his features sharper, more severe.

And in his hand—the shield.

A solid weight, gripped at his side, battle-worn but unmistakable. Vibranium. Not plastic. Not a replica. Not something you could buy online with a collector’s certificate.

He looked like he’d been carved out of something harder than flesh. The years were pressed into him, exhaustion settling into the corners of his eyes, the tight line of his mouth. His beard was gone—this was pre-Nomad, post-SHIELD, mid-battle Steve Rogers. He was taller than you’d expected, and nothing softened the weight in his gaze as he turned, as his eyes landed on you, a leather-bound notebook in his hands.

A moment of silence. A split-second.

“Who are you?”

Your pulse lurched. Your brain fractured under the weight of too much information. You knew that in less than a minute, men with guns would storm this building, and it would end in fists, bullets, and a rooftop escape that led only to capture. But the static in your head was suffocating. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out, because what the hell were you supposed to tell Captain America?

You grasped for words, but they tumbled out half-formed, rushed, scattered.

“I—okay, first of all—I’m not—” Your voice caught, breathless, too high. You swallowed hard, dragging a hand through your hair. “I know this looks weird, bad. We don’t have time for introductions.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. No confusion, no alarm, just a subtle shift—a tightening of his shoulders, the barest furrow of his brow.

Your nerves spiked, words tumbling faster. “You also don’t have time to care about that right now because you need to get Bucky out of here. Right now. Like, right now right now, he’s going to be here any second, special forces are coming, and they are not planning on taking him alive, and—”

He took a step forward, cutting you off. "How do you know that name?"

Your stomach twisted. You couldn’t say because I spent years watching his trauma unfold like a serialized tragedy, because I could recite his entire history like it’s the back of a trading card.

You shook your head, swallowing hard. Stay on track. Your chest heaved, trying to suck in enough air, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “They think he did it. The bombing. Vienna. They’re not going to ask questions, they’re not going to let him explain, they’re—”

Steve moved so fast you didn’t see it coming.

The next thing you knew, your back was against the wall.

The pressure of his forearm was solid against your collarbone, not enough to crush, but enough to make your throat tight, enough to remind you that Steve Rogers could fold you in half if he wanted to.

Your hands shot up, instinctive. “Wait—”

His voice was steel-cut. “You broke into this apartment, you know my best friend’s name, and you’re telling me exactly what I already know. Start talking.”

Your whole body locked up.

This was Captain America. Not the golden boy, not the PR-polished hero—this was the soldier. The war relic carved out of sharper things, the man who did not take risks on unknown variables.

And right now, you were the biggest unknown in the room.

“I can’t explain—”

“Try.”

You swallowed hard, lungs struggling against the weight of his arm. The adrenaline was a sharp, electric thing in your veins, making your head swim, making your hands sweat.

The truth was unthinkable.

“You don’t have time to interrogate me,” you forced out, every word clipped, desperate. “I know you don’t trust me. I wouldn’t either. But trust me on this—there’s snipers on the roof across the street. At least a dozen agents closing in on this building. They’re not coming to negotiate. If you don’t get Bucky out now, he’s as good as gone.”

A beat.

A split second where something shifted in Steve’s face. Not trust. Not yet. But something—the briefest flash of doubt, of reconsideration, of a soldier recalibrating.

Your nails dug into your palms. Not enough. You needed him to believe you. You needed to say something that only he would understand.

You drew in a shaky breath, steadying yourself, and then—

“You’re right about him.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move.

Your voice lowered, urgent but certain, hitting somewhere beneath the armor of logic and instinct. “You’ve spent the last two years trying to convince yourself—hell, everyone—that he’s still in there. That he’s not just a weapon. That everything they did to him didn’t erase who he was.”

The words landed. You saw it. The flicker of something behind his eyes, the shift in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your shoulder.

You pushed further, gripping onto it like a lifeline, forcing the words out faster.

“I know you believe it.” Your voice shook, just barely, but you held steady. “So believe me when I tell you—you’re right. He is still in there. He’s fighting like hell to stay in there. And you don’t have time to second-guess anything right now.”

Something cracked.

Not enough to shatter, but enough for a hairline fracture to form in the wall between you.

Steve exhaled sharply and released you.

It happened fast, like even he hadn’t realized he was going to let go until it was already done. The weight against your collarbone vanished, and you stumbled forward, hands bracing against the counter as you tried to breathe past the static in your skull.

You didn’t get a chance to recover as you opened your mouth to speak again.

Steve’s hand lifted, a silent command. You shut up immediately, teeth gritting together. Something in his posture shifted, steel sliding into place behind his eyes. His expression was unreadable, but you shut up anyway.

A quiet sound echoed behind you. The hairs at the back of your neck rose.

You turned and Bucky Barnes was standing behind you.

He was silent, barely even shifting his weight. If he hadn’t been so much, you might’ve missed him completely. He blended into the dimness of the apartment, the bulk of his frame wrapped in shadow, his presence as sharp and dangerous as a knife unsheathed.

He didn’t look like a character.

And he was staring at you like he’d already decided whether or not you were a threat.

“Do you know me?” Steve’s voice broke the silence, steady, controlled.

Bucky’s jaw twitched. “You’re Steve.” His voice was quiet. “I read about you in a museum.”

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew how this played out. Every word.

“Do you know them?” Steve gestured to you.

Bucky didn’t look away from you. His gaze flicked over you once, cataloging, calculating. “I don’t… I don’t know them.”

Ice slid down your spine. His voice was rougher than you’d expected. Low, flat. Not like the movies, not softened by sound design.

Steve exhaled, jaw flexing. He looked at Bucky, then back to you. “You’re going to tell me exactly how you knew where to find him.” His voice was even, but there was an edge to it now, flint striking steel. “Because right now, I don’t know if you’re helping him or setting us up.”

Your pulse spiked.

Oh. Right.

Because you weren’t the first person to say Bucky’s name and expect Steve to flinch. You’d seen it happen already—or, not already, but earlier. Rumlow in Lagos, throwing out your pal, your buddy, your Bucky just to watch the momentary hitch in Steve’s reaction, the half-second where he lost focus.

You knew Steve wasn’t stupid. He had every reason to think you might be playing the same game.

“For fuck’s sake,” you said, not quite snapping, but the frustration cut through. “I just broke into his apartment, Steve. If I was trying to kill him, don’t you think I would’ve led the strike team through the front door?”

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. The patience of a man trained to withstand interrogation.

“You knew where to find him. You knew they were coming. How?”

The weight of his words settled into your chest like a vice, pressing, squeezing, waiting for you to crack. Steve Rogers didn’t move forward without knowing exactly what he was stepping into. He was waiting for the tell, the slip, the proof that you were just another knife pointed at Bucky’s back.

“You think I don’t belong here? That I have no right to stand in this room?” Your voice tightened, a raw edge creeping in. “You’re right. I don’t. But neither does he.”

Steve’s fingers shifted on the shield, just barely. A flicker. A fraction of hesitation.

“Every time someone comes after him, every time he claws his way out of the wreckage of whatever life he’s trying to build, there’s another reason to put him back in the ground.” You swallowed, pushing past the knot in your throat. “You know that. You’ve always known that. And you know that if you don’t get him out of here now, he may not get another chance to try again.”

You fell silent, and it wasn’t Steve’s gaze that pressed into you like a weight you couldn’t shake. It was Bucky’s.

You chanced a glance at him, and the breath in your chest locked up.

He was watching you, head tilted just slightly, brows drawn together, his mouth a firm, unreadable line. But it was the way he was looking at you—the kind of sharp, assessing stare that burned through flesh and bone and deeper, searching for something it should recognize. Like he was trying to place you, like he thought he should know your face but didn’t.

Something inside you clenched so painfully you nearly flinched.

He didn’t know you. Of course, he didn’t know you. But the fact that he was looking at you like he should, like he was grasping at something just out of reach, was enough to make your ribs feel too tight around your lungs.

“I know you’re nervous,” Steve said, turning back to Bucky, voice even, careful. “And you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.”

The moment slipped through your fingers, unraveling faster than you could hold onto it. You’d had one goal—get them out, change the narrative. No speeches, no drawn-out revelations, no time for a neatly scripted exchange of words that were important in the grand scheme of things but shouldn’t have been happening right now.

And yet, here it was. Playing out exactly as you remembered it.

The pacing, the pauses, the lines spoken in that too-familiar cadence, like a scene still trying to force itself into existence even as you stood right in the middle of it.

You swore under your breath.

Steve’s hand flexed. “Well, the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive.”

Oh, my God. You knew this moment. You knew this moment so well it burned behind your eyes.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, unfazed. “That’s smart. Good strategy.”

That was the moment you snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” The words ripped out of you, sharp and incredulous.

Both men turned sharply, eyes cutting to you like they’d just remembered you were still there.

Your chest was heaving, hands shaking. You pressed them to your temples, trying to shove the static out of your brain, trying to force some kind of logic into this increasingly impossible moment.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed. “Okay, I know this is a big, long-awaited, feelings-heavy moment for the two of you, but we do not have time for this. I’m sorry. They are already in the building. Do you hear me? You have seconds. Seconds. You need to move. Now.”

Steve’s face tightened, his focus narrowing on you in a way that sent a chill down your spine. He stepped closer. “Who do you work for?”

You threw your hands in the air, exasperated. “What part of I broke into this apartment in a blind panic to tell you to get the hell out of here makes you think I’m working for someone?”

Steve was still too still, too calculating. The gears turning behind his eyes made it clear he was filing you under unknown, potentially dangerous, and you didn’t blame him. But you didn’t have time for him to work through the logistics of your existence when you knew exactly how this played out.

“I swear on my life, I don’t work for anyone. But they do. And they are coming through that door in—”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, and his posture shifted—barely, but you saw it. His hand moved up to his earpiece, listening to who you knew was Sam Wilson on the other side. The weight settled into his stance, the bracing before impact. The strike team was already here.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, then flicked a glance to you, then to Steve. “You gonna get ‘em out of here?”

Steve sighed. “Sam—” His fingers brushed against the earpiece, already shifting into command mode. “There’s a civilian caught up in this—get them out but keep them close.”

Your stomach flipped. “I just told you I’m trying to help—”

“You also broke in,” Steve shot back.

“With a hairpin!” you hissed, exasperated. “Not exactly Hydra-level espionage, Rogers.”

It was automatic, a knee-jerk response, but your brain was already somewhere else—tracking, cataloging, counting down.

Boots shifted outside. A battering ram braced against the frame.

He didn’t react. Didn’t waver. His eyes cut back to Bucky. “This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides, tension winding through him like a live wire.

“It always ends in a fight,” he murmured.

Your pulse spiked. You glanced toward the window, your instincts screaming at you to move, to duck, to—

Steve took a step closer. “You pulled me from the river. Why?”

No, no, no, not now—

Bucky stared at him. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know.”

The officers outside shifted. The battering ram pulled back, ready to swing.

You didn’t think. You moved. Your body twisted, diving for the nearest cover, hands coming up—

The window shattered. Glass exploded inward.

Bucky moved first. Faster than thought—he kicked it straight to Steve.

Steve caught it—throwing it to the floor, his shield coming up over the top of it just as it detonated in a smothered, gut-punch of an explosion.

The blast still sent you reeling. Your ears rang, smoke stung your eyes, but your body moved before your brain did. Instinct, adrenaline, survival.

A second grenade came through the window. Bucky moved like lightning, catching it with his left hand and hurling it back through the broken pane.

You barely registered the ringing in your ears before you were moving, instinct overriding logic, adrenaline making the world a smear of motion. The apartment was disintegrating around you—Bucky was already on the offensive, a blur of movement as he threw himself into the fight with special forces, and Steve was right behind him. The walls shuddered with impact, the groan of old wood and crumbling plaster swallowing the rapid-fire exchange of blows.

You moved, ducking instinctively, pressing yourself against the wall as another round of gunfire shredded through the space where you’d been standing a second ago.

Okay. Okay. This was fine. No, it wasn’t. This was insane.

A hand grabbed your upper arm, and before you could process it, your feet left the ground.

Any words you could’ve said choked off as you were literally hurled toward the window. For a brief, weightless moment, all you saw was open air, the distant street below. Wind screamed past your ears, tearing at your clothes, dragging the breath from your lungs.

A force slammed into you midair, yanking you sideways, momentum shattering, ribs aching as something solid wrapped around your waist and hauled you out of freefall. The moment barely registered as you were yanked back into motion, hauled through open air—stunned, weightless for half a second before—

You dropped.

The pavement hit hard, your knees cracking against the ground, palms skidding over rough concrete. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, but you barely had time to register it before cold metal snapped around your wrist.

You jolted, twisting instinctively but the grip holding you was unyielding.

Sam Wilson stood over you, shoulders squared, expression unreadable behind the combat goggles perched on his nose. The faint glint of streetlights caught on his sleek, tactical suit—black and red, reinforced plating over his chest, wings still half-extended behind him.

He didn’t say anything as he dragged you up by your arm, his grip effortless, like he’d already made up his mind about what kind of problem you were. With a swift, practiced motion, he clipped the other cuff to a nearby gutter pipe.

“You are staying right here,” he said, calm, firm, final. Like he didn’t have time for second chances.

You yanked at the cuffs immediately, metal biting into your skin. “Are you kidding me?”

Sam was already turning away, focused, unwavering, shifting into action without hesitation.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, dismissive, ye not unkind, but uncompromising. “And you’re lucky I don’t just leave you on the roof. I’ll be back.”

“No—” You snarled, rattling the cuffs against the pipe, knowing full well that if he left, you were stuck. Indefinitely. “You can’t just—Hey! HEY!”

But he was already gone, rocketing back into the sky, disappearing between buildings before you could even catch your breath.

The cuffs dug into your wrist, the metal biting hard enough that you knew it’d leave a mark. You yanked against them once, twice—uselessly—before slumping back against the pipe, sucking in a breath that did absolutely nothing to steady you.

Your stomach lurched, your pulse skittering out of control as you squeezed your eyes shut, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. A sob lodged itself somewhere between your ribs, but you forced it down because what good would it do?

The alley was too quiet now. Sam was gone, rocketing back into a battle you weren’t part of. The fight was moving without you, without your interference, without your warning. That should’ve been a relief.

It wasn’t.

You exhaled sharply, grinding your teeth, forcing your breath steady. Every nerve in your body was still firing, your skin too tight, your chest too full of something you couldn’t name. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not that you expected them to trust you outright, but some naïve part of you had thought—had hoped—they’d listen.

But why would they?

You were an unknown variable. A loose thread. A civilian with no credentials, no reason to be here, no explanation that wouldn’t sound insane the second it left your mouth. You wouldn’t believe you either.

Your jaw locked.

You felt something press against your throat, something that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with frustration so deep it made your hands shake.

You’d spent years watching these characters navigate war, betrayal, impossible choices. You knew how their stories had unraveled, how trust had been weaponized against them, how they’d learned to keep people at arm’s length or lose them altogether. You understood why Steve had looked at you like that.

But that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

You didn’t know if the universe was fucking with you, if some broken law of physics had flung you into an actual parallel reality, or if you were just losing your mind. But this world, this timeline, this exact moment—

A bitter laugh caught in your chest before it could break loose. Of course it was the events of Civil War. Of course it was Bucky. Of course it was him at the center of this. The man who had survived more than anyone should, who had been used and discarded, framed and hunted, who had spent a lifetime being trapped in places he never asked to be.

You’d never latched onto the heroes who were easy to love. It was always the broken things, the ones who weren’t given a choice, the ones who kept going anyway. Bucky Barnes had never just been a soldier, never just a weapon—he was a question of identity, of autonomy, of what’s left when everything else is stripped away.

Maybe that was why he mattered to you. What made being here so difficult. Because if he could claw his way back from the wreckage, if he could still be something beyond what they made him—

Then maybe survival wasn’t just endurance. Maybe it was proof that no one could take everything from you.

You’d spent your whole life thinking of these people—these characters—in abstractions. Not because they weren’t real to you, but because they weren’t supposed to be touchable. You knew them through dialogue, through stories passed between mediums, through glimpses into lives that weren’t yours to know. But none of it accounted for the weight of standing in front of them, of being seen and dismissed in the same breath.

When you knew exactly what would come of these events.

You knew it not because you’d lived it, not because you’d fought in the wars, felt the weight of loss like a phantom limb. Not because you’d stood in the wreckage of the world, watching half of it turn to dust and come back five years later.

But because you’d watched. Because you were there in the theater, in the dark, watching it unfold on a screen. Because you sat on the floor of your childhood bedroom, comic books spread open in your lap, flipping through pages until the ink smudged against your fingertips. Because you knew these stories, these people, these moments before they even happened.

And that made it so much worse.

Because it was never supposed to be real.

Your lungs seized. You could’ve sat there in that alley, let time march forward, let events play out exactly as they were supposed to—because they were. Because this was how it happened.

Because this was how it was always supposed to happen.

You exhaled sharply, staring at your hands like they might have answers.

They didn’t.

Your body ached, every nerve raw, the fading adrenaline leaving behind something shaky and hollow. You felt too human in a world that wasn’t supposed to be yours. No training, no powers, no roadmap to survival. Just exhaustion, uncertainty, and the suffocating awareness that you had no idea what the hell you were doing.

You pressed your knuckles into your thigh, forcing yourself to focus, to breathe past the static. The cuffs dug into your skin, the metal biting cold and unrelenting, a physical reminder that you were trapped in something you didn’t understand.

And then there was the other thing. The bigger thing.

You still had no fucking idea how to get home.

The thought slammed into you like a fist to the gut. You had no plan. No contingency. No exit strategy. You hadn’t exactly accounted for being dropped into the middle of a high-speed manhunt inside a movie you used to watch while eating shitty takeout after a bad workday.

You couldn’t stay here, that much you knew.

Your pulse pounded as you flexed your fingers, rolling your thumb against the cuff.

You knew how to do this. At least, theoretically.

You’d seen it before. A dozen times in movies, in survival training clips, in throwaway scenes played for drama. Dislocate your thumb, slip out of the cuffs. Simple.

Except you’d never actually done it.

Your stomach twisted. It sounded awful.

You glanced up at the sky, sucking in a sharp breath, trying to shove down the doubt, the hesitation, the growing fear that you might be making a mistake bigger than the last.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed your thumb hard against the metal, shifting it at a brutal angle.

The pain was immediate. White-hot, blinding, tearing through your wrist like a live wire. Your vision blurred at the edges, static crawling up the back of your skull. A scream caught somewhere in your throat, trapped behind clenched teeth as you forced your shaking fingers through the too-tight gap in the cuffs—

Your hand was free.

A relieved, pained gasp ripped out of your throat as you cradled your wrist, forehead pressing against the metal pipe while you tried to breathe through the nausea. The dull throb of your pulse hammered beneath your skin, every twitch of your fingers sending another sharp, electric burst of pain through your nerves.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. You didn’t let yourself stop.

You staggered up straight, barely catching yourself, barely steadying the tremor in your limbs. The pavement tilted, the edges of your vision threatened to swim, but you shoved it down, grit your teeth, and moved, pushing into the street before you could think too hard about what you were doing.

Enough time had passed—they had to be in the middle of it now.

The underpass. The highway. Bucky on foot, dodging traffic, a breath ahead of the chaos. Steve in pursuit. But he wasn’t the only one.

Your stomach twisted as you pictured it—the blur of movement, the sound of tires screeching, gunfire snapping through the air, the weight of something inevitable pressing down. Because you knew how this fight unfolded, how it unspooled across every frame you’d seen, every clip you’d picked apart.

You knew who was hunting them.

And T’Challa was fast.

The thought alone sent a shiver up your spine. The Black Panther had never been the loudest, never the most openly terrifying—but that made him worse. He didn’t have to posture, didn’t have to announce his presence. He just moved—relentless, unstoppable, brutal in a way that wasn’t cruel, only efficient.

He was someone you admired. Someone you respected, someone whose quiet strength had always been so striking to watch.

But watching wasn’t the same as being in it.

A flicker of panic seared through you, sharp and gut-deep. What the hell were you doing? What the hell did you think you were going to accomplish? You weren’t Steve. You weren’t Sam. You weren’t Bucky—you weren’t even close.

But you couldn’t just stand there.

You pushed forward, half-stumbling, feet unsteady but moving, always moving.

You needed a car.

You started yanking on handles as you passed, fingers shaking, breath sharp. “Come on, come on—this always works in movies—”

One—locked.

Another—locked.

Another—opened.

You stumbled inside, barely shutting the door before your hands were reaching for the visor, fumbling, frantic, hoping—

You flipped it open. Keys dropped into your lap.

“Oh, hell yes.”

The words barely left your mouth before you jammed them into the ignition, twisting hard. The engine rumbled awake, a deep, guttural growl beneath your hands. The steering wheel was slick with condensation, the air inside the car thick with the scent of old leather and something faintly earthy.

The tires shrieked against damp pavement as you slammed your foot against the gas, the sudden jolt forcing your back into the seat. The speedometer jumped—40, 60, 80, 100 km/h—the unfamiliar metric system barely registering as the cityscape blurred into a smear of headlights and cold steel.

You still didn’t have a plan. You should not have been doing this.

Every rational part of your brain was screaming at you—pull over, stop. This was not your fight. You were not built for this. Not trained. Not equipped.

Yet, your hands were steady on the wheel, even as pain flared hot and sharp from your injured thumb. Your body knew what it was doing, even if your brain was still catching up.

The roads in Bucharest were different—narrower, winding, built on old foundations and unpredictable angles. You barely processed dodging a cluster of construction barriers, the blur of orange safety tape whipping past your window as you squeezed through a too-tight gap between a parked van and a set of metal scaffolding. Something scraped against your side mirror, the jarring screech of metal on metal jolted up your spine, but you kept going.

A curve ahead—too sharp, too sudden. You cranked the wheel hard to the right, tires skidding, momentum pulling at your ribs as the car lurched dangerously close to the curb before you course-corrected and recovered.

Your breathing was sharp and uneven, but your foot stayed firm on the gas.

The underpass unfolded ahead, and everything shifted. The chaos, the motion, all of it locked into a singular moment, burned into memory long before you ever stepped foot in this world.

A black 4x4 barreled forward, weaving through lanes of civilian traffic. Steve behind the wheel. And Black Panther clinging to the back of the vehicle.

Beyond them, Bucky was a blur of motion—bounding over cars, moving with an almost inhuman grace. Black Panther was closing in like a shadow, matching him step for step.

And you—what the hell were you supposed to do?

Your car rocketed forward, tires skidding against the pavement as you swerved onto the ramp. The moment you hit the underpass, the whole world narrowed—tunnel vision locking onto the figures ahead, reality folding in around the sheer impossibility of what you were doing.

A blue flash in your peripheral vision. A special forces armored vehicle was gaining speed, about to cut Steve off.

You reacted without thinking. Your foot slammed against the gas, and you jerked the wheel hard to the right.

The car veered, sliding directly in front of the armored vehicle, forcing it to swerve. Tires screeched. A sharp clang as it clipped your bumper, forcing you sideways, but you kept control, kept moving, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst through your ribs.

“What the fuck am I doing?” you panted, grip locking on the wheel, your pulse roaring in your ears as the armored vehicle snarled beside you, trying to shove past. The car jerked beneath your hands, but you didn’t let it throw you. You forced yourself to breathe, to focus, to—

Ahead, Bucky moved.

Not just moved—he defied everything you’d ever understood about physics, momentum, human capability.

Your brain struggled to keep up as he reached out mid-sprint, fingers curling around the handlebars of a speeding motorcycle. His body turned, pivoted, and in a single, impossibly smooth motion, he flipped the entire damn thing under himself—tires whipping through the air, the weight of the bike rotating as if gravity were nothing more than a suggestion.

And for a moment, just a sliver of a second, you forgot to drive.

The realization slammed into you at the exact same time your peripheral vision caught the sudden flash of brake lights ahead.

“Shit!”

You wrenched the wheel hard, swerving halfway into the next lane, the edge of your fender scraping against the side of the car you almost rammed into. The sound—metal on metal, sharp and shrieking—made you flinch, your whole frame jarring with the impact.

The steering wheel bucked under your hands, the tires stuttering against the damp asphalt. You fought it, gripping hard, forcing the car to straighten before it could spin you out completely. The world was chaos, headlights blurring past in streaks of white and red, the distant wail of sirens swallowed by the roaring engines, by the sheer, reckless speed of everything happening all at once.

You should’ve stopped.

But you didn’t.

A reckless, desperate thought slammed into you, violent in its clarity. Black Panther was still on Steve’s 4x4, claws hooked deep into the metal, a living weapon slowing him down, threatening to take him out. If you could just—

Your heartbeat lurched.

Another swerve. The car fishtailed, the weight of the moment pressing down on your shoulders.

Another second of hesitation. The part of your brain that still clung to logic, to sanity, told you this was a bad idea, a terrible idea, the worst thing you could possibly do—

You floored it.

The next thirty seconds dissolved into pure, unfiltered chaos.

Your car slammed into the 4x4, hard enough to jolt it sideways. The force rattled your entire frame, your seatbelt biting deep into your collarbone as the dashboard shuddered under your grip.

Black Panther shifted. You saw the momentary misstep—the hitch in his movement as he compensated, as his body recalibrated. Steve reacted instantly—veering, dragging the 4x4 toward the tunnel wall, trying to shake him loose.

Black Panther realized it too fast. Too damn fast. His head snapped toward you.

Your breath locked in your throat.

Because he wasn’t just looking at you—he saw you.

Even behind the sleek contours of his mask, you felt the weight of his gaze settle over you like a vice, the sheer, piercing awareness of a warrior assessing a new variable in real time. In the space of a heartbeat, you knew, you had just been categorized as a threat.

“Fuck—”

He moved.

Not toward Steve. Toward you.

One second, he was on the back of the 4x4—the next, he was airborne, twisting mid-motion, claws extended, arms outstretched.

The moment he landed, your hood crumpled beneath him, the weight of his impact sending a tremor through the entire frame of the car.

Metal screamed. You screamed. The windshield spiderwebbed violently, fractures racing outward beneath his feet.

You jerked the wheel hard, a sharp, desperate attempt to shake him loose—but it was already too late. He was already moving, leaping forward, one hand smashing through the windshield—

Your seatbelt locked. Your vision went white. Everything flipped.

The car spun, metal groaning, glass exploding outward—

Everything went black for half a second.

Airbags. Smoke. The world sideways.

Your body was crushed against the seatbelt, breath strangled in your throat, the world narrowing to nothing but the pulse of pain reverberating through your skull. Smoke thickened the air, curling into your lungs, and your ears rang with the kind of sharp, unbearable frequency that made the edges of your vision pulse. You blinked hard, fighting against the haze, against the suffocating weight of the wreckage pressing down around you.

Something moved outside.

A shadow, dark and impossibly still.

Your pulse stumbled.

T’Challa.

Standing just beyond the wreckage, perfectly composed, breathing unlabored, watching. His mask glinted under the fractured tunnel lights, the sharp angles of his suit unmoved by the destruction left in his wake.

And just beyond him—

Steve. Bucky. Sam. A wave of incoming task force agents—heavy boots pounding pavement, weapons drawn, orders crackling in sharp bursts of Romanian over their radios.

No, no, no—

Your fingers fumbled at the door handle, slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershock of adrenaline. It didn’t budge. The frame was warped, twisted in at the sides. The air felt thinner, tighter, your pulse rattling between your ribs.

You barely had time to brace before the door ripped open.

A gloved hand latched onto your jacket, yanking you forward, pulling you from the wreck like you were weightless.

The tunnel tilted, ground rushing up too fast—

A boot slammed into the center of your back, shoving you down before you could even think about resisting. The force sent you sprawling, the pavement unforgiving against your ribs, your cheek scraping against the damp, uneven asphalt. Your vision swam for a moment, the impact rattling through your skull, but the weight pressing down on you kept you pinned.

Above you, a voice barked orders, sharp and clipped.

“Nu se mișcă! Ține-i jos!” Don’t move! Keep them down!

Someone else muttered something in response, but your brain barely processed it over the static in your skull, the blood rushing through your ears.

Boots pounded the ground around you. Weapons raised. Flashlights swept over the wreckage of your car, over the figures pinned and restrained in the tunnel.

Your wrists were wrenched behind you even tighter, cuffs digging deep into the tender skin there. You hissed, gritting your teeth, every nerve ending raw, every muscle locked down in the helpless kind of rage that made your breath shake in your chest.

“Ce naiba caută aici? Nu era în raport!” What the hell is this one doing here? She wasn’t in the report!

“Numărul mașinii este înregistrat. Încătușați-i și luați-i.” The car’s plates were flagged. Cuff them and take them.

You twisted your head as much as you could, your body still trapped under the weight of the soldier pinning you down. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, your gaze snagged on the others.

Bucky—already forced to his knees, his face blank, unreadable, but his body coiled tight like a live wire. They weren’t taking any chances with him—at least four officers surrounded him, rifles aimed, fingers flexing near triggers.

Steve—still standing, but barely. His shield was gone, his arms twisted behind him, but his posture remained unyielding, eyes sharp and watching. He didn’t fight. Didn’t struggle. Just waited.

T’Challa— already removed his mask, his face carved in stone, jaw locked tight, the tension rippling through his shoulders even as he stood composed. The only evidence of his rage was in his breathing, controlled, but heavy, barely reined in.

A sharp thud. Metal on pavement.

Your head jerked toward the source, and—

War Machine landed, armored plates shifting as he straightened.

The tunnel lights cast a slick shine over the gunmetal gray plating of his suit, the red glow of his HUD flickering as he surveyed the scene with cold efficiency. Bulkier than Stark’s designs, built for war—for function over aesthetic. The sleek faceplate gave him no expression, no emotion—just the cold, impassive stare of an executioner.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t even acknowledge your existence.

His helmet retracted with a faint whir, revealing the hard set of James Rhodes’ mouth, the sharp furrow in his brow.

He barely glanced at Steve before tilting his head toward T’Challa. “Your Highness.”

“Legați-i pe toți. Luați-i.” Cuff them all. Take them.

Your mouth parted, the beginning of something—an argument, a plea, a demand—but the words didn’t come. The second you were wrenched upright, the world tilted violently. Your vision lagged, a half-second too slow, the whole scene dragging like a poorly buffered video.

Something wet slid down your temple, warm, sticky. The edge of your vision pulsed dark, an inkblot bleeding outward. You blinked hard, but the momentary clarity only made it worse. Sharp bursts of light, the glint of metal, the shape of Steve and Bucky forced to their knees, Sam restrained a few feet away.

Someone was still shouting, barked orders in Romanian clashing with the low murmur of an earpiece transmission. A hand tightened around your arm, a shove toward an armored van. Your body fought to keep up, but the ground swayed treacherously beneath you.

Your knees buckled.

You didn’t hit the pavement.

The last thing you registered was the smear of red against your sleeve as your vision folded in on itself, everything swallowed by static.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you

184 notes · View notes

orithyia-eriphyle · 29 days ago

Text

summer breeze - b. barnes x reader

Summary: The one where Bucky is still adjusting to his newfound freedom, and you are his light at the end of the tunnel.

Warnings: Swearing, non-sexual nudity, injuries, and blood.

Reader has sun/solar-based abilities.

6.1k words

Bucky Barnes was a man of few words. He said only what was necessary and hardly spoke unless spoken to. Steve seemed to be the only person who could ever get Bucky to talk freely. Sam was a close second, although he teased Bucky more than once until the soldier was grumbling expletives under his breath with a clenched fist.

However, Bucky was a creature of habit.

He woke at dawn every day to go on a run with Sam and Steve, not before drinking a hot cup of black coffee. After his jog, he would train in the gym for two hours and then leave for a shower. He would then make himself a simple lunch and catch up on work. Lastly, Bucky ended his night by reading a book of his choice to help ease his mind.

When Bucky began to deviate from said routine about two months ago, it did not go unnoticed.

It started not too long after Bucky had moved into the tower. Bucky had been placed on the same floor as you, his bedroom right across the hall from yours.

You would wake as he was coming back from the gym, usually catching him on the way back to his ensuite bathroom for a shower. You would greet him with the same sugary sweet smile and voice that almost tempted the super soldier to crack from his usual brooding and smile back.

But he never did. At least, not until recently.

You knew that Bucky had nightmares. You could hear him at night. The screams of pain, terror, guilt. You name it.

Every time his nightmares woke you up, the only thing you wanted to do was help. However, Steve and Tony advised against it. They reminded you that Bucky was still unstable, and it was best to let him ride out his nightmares alone, no matter how terrible they may sound.

You hated it.

Some nights, you would stay up staring at the dark ceiling in your room, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks at the sound of his yells. It would never last longer than a few minutes. But those few minutes were enough for you to feel your heart break for him.

After roughly a month of only seeing Bucky in passing, he surprised you.

You and Natasha had been on a week-long mission across seas and were scheduled to return home that night. You had practically stumbled off the Quinjet, your bones and muscles aching with exhaustion. You walked past the medbay despite Natasha’s protest to at least get checked on. Instead, opt for a hot shower and your warm bed.

What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky sitting at your shared kitchen counter, a hot plate of spaghetti set on the bar across from him.

As soon as the elevator doors dinged open, his gaze shot to you. You tried to ignore the way it roamed over your body, as if assessing for any injury, as you approached the kitchen.

Seeing Bucky in the kitchen wasn’t an unusual sight for you. However, it was well past midnight, meaning it was well past Bucky’s unspoken bedtime.

“What’s this?” You ask quietly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful silence that enveloped the two of you.

Bucky glanced at the food, then back to you. His face never changing. “It’s for you.” He spoke, his voice coming out gruff as if it hadn’t been used in a while. Which it probably hadn’t.

You quirked a brow at him but took a seat in front of the plate. This was an unusual display from him, and the last thing you wanted to do was embarrass or scare him off.

You swirled the noodles around your fork and took a bite, savoring the taste as it melted against your tongue.

“You don’t eat after missions.”

Your eyes shot to Bucky at the sound of his voice. However, he was looking at the counter and not at you.

“It doesn’t really cross my mind.” You reply, returning to your meal.

“You need to eat.” He responded firmly. The clipped way in which he spoke made you not want to argue.

“I might be more inclined to eat after a mission if I came home to home-cooked meals every time.” You attempted to joke with him. He didn’t even smirk.

He pointed at your plate, “Eat.” He said before stalking off back towards his room.

Your gaze followed his broad shoulders. “Thank you!” You remembered to shout down the hall, not missing the way his footsteps halted for hardly a millisecond. You smiled down at your food, glad to see that he cared in his own, quiet way.

The next mission you came back from, there was a hot plate of food already waiting for you on the counter.

You shoot awake in your bed at the sound of a scream followed by loud bangs. You knew who it was. Bucky’s nightmares were bad, but he had yet to get violent.

You sat in your bed and stared at your bedroom door as if willing yourself to see through the walls separating the two of you.

Every instinct in your body screamed to help him. Help him not suffer anymore. But the voices of Steve and Tony rang in your head, warning you against it. You contemplated as the violent noises didn’t let up, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth.

Fuck it. You’re an Avenger. If he tries to kill you, then you’ll figure it out.

You slipped out of bed, the cool air hitting your bare legs. You snapped your fingers, a small glowing ball forming above your hand and lighting up the surrounding area. You pushed your bedroom door open and crept across the hall to Bucky’s room. You paused in front of his door, taking a deep breath as your heart thrummed unsteadily in your chest.

You pushed the handle down slowly, pushing the door open and extending your makeshift light into the room to see. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, but then you saw him, and the sight in front of you just about broke you.

His usually large form was made small against the corner of his room. His knees were folded to his chest and his head tucked down. You could see his body tremble violently from where you stood in the doorway.

“Bucky.” You called out, gentle yet firm.

He didn’t seem to hear you, his head still tucked and his body shaking.

You took another deep breath, scolding yourself for being stupid before stepping further into the room and towards the soldier. As you got closer, you could make out the sound of his stuttered breathing and the occasional hitch. Your frown deepened.

“Bucky? Bucky, it’s me. (Y/n).” You spoke again, slowly kneeling in front of the man.

Still no response.

You breathed out a long breath through your nose before closing your eyes briefly.

You reached a hand out to him, slow and careful. As gently as you could manage, you placed a hand on his shoulder.

Before you could even react, your body was slammed to the floor, and an arm was pressed across your chest, holding you down.

Bucky stared down at you with wild eyes. His forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his breathing was labored. His arm on your chest was firm, but you could feel the way that it shook against you.

“Bucky! Hey! It’s me!” Your voice rose slightly despite you trying to stay calm.

Bucky’s hold on you didn’t let up. All he did was continue to stare at you with that blank stare, as if he weren’t all there.

Your chest heaved as you tried to think, looking around the room. Suddenly, it hit you.

You evened out your breathing and reached a steady hand out to him. His eyes darted between you and your hand, but he didn’t stop you.

You gently placed your hand against his stubble-covered cheek. You spoke to him softly. Like a mother calming down her frightened child.

“It’s okay, Buck. I’m right here. You’re safe.” You paused as you felt the pressure on your chest let up a bit. You continued, “They can’t make you do anything here, Bucky. I’m here. (Y/n) is right here with you. I won’t let them hurt you again.” You whispered, softly running your thumb over the curve of his jaw.

You watched as the light slowly returned to his blue eyes, and his breathing began to slow again.

“(Y-Y/n)?” Bucky croaked out, his voice rough from yelling.

You smiled at him. “Yeah, Buck. It’s me.” Your hand never left his face.

Buckt seemed to finally realize the situation you were in, and he retracted his arm like he had been burned. He scrambled backwards until his back hit the side of his bed.

“Y-You need to leave. I don’t want to hurt you.” He stuttered out, his eyes not meeting your own. You smiled at him gently and scooted towards him.

“But you didn’t, Buck. You didn’t even come close.” You stated, placing a firm hand against his vibranium arm.

“But-”

“No buts. I’m okay. You’re okay.” You interjected, not wanting him to linger on the prospect of accidentally hurting you any longer.

There was a brief pause between you two as Bucky’s breath finally evened out fully. “Why are you in here?” He questioned gruffly.

You tilted your head at him as if he should know the answer to that already. “I was worried and wanted to help.” You responded, never raising your voice over a whisper.

Bucky let out a self-deprecating scoff. “I can deal with the nightmares on my own.” He said, once again avoiding your gaze.

You grabbe his jaw once again, ignoring the way he stiffened for a second and tilted his eyes up to meet yours.

“You don’t have to deal with them on your own.” You reassured him, your gaze unwavering. Bucky swallowed as he stared at you. You realized he might be uncomfortable being so close to someone he hardly knew, so you scooted away and dropped your hand from his face.

Bucky tried to ignore the twinge of disappointment he felt.

Since that night, you and Bucky had gotten noticeably closer.

He lingered around the compound more and followed you around like a lost puppy. He would do small things for you. things he wouldn’t do for anyone else.

He would grab things for you off the top shelf that you couldn’t quite reach. He waited for you outside the gym so he could walk you back to your shared floor. He would make an extra pot of coffee in the morning for when you woke up.

The others began to notice.

One day, Sam and Steve were visiting Bucky on your guys’ floor. You were out with Wanda and Natasha and would be returning anytime now.

Bucky stood at the oven, the sound of food sizzling on a pan bouncing around the kitchen.

“I didn’t take you for a chicken tender guy, Barnes,” Sam stated as he sat at the kitchen bar with Steve. Bucky didn’t even glance over his shoulder before responding.

“(Y/n) likes them.” He said in his usual gruff tone.

Sam looked at Steve, who just shrugged. Sam continued with his teasing.

“So you’re making lunch for (Y/n), who isn’t even home yet, and won’t make any for us?” Sam said with a quirked brow.

This time, Bucky threw a quick look at the two men over his shoulder before turning back to the stove. “(Y/n) likes my cooking.” He stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Right on cue, the elevator doors opened, and you walked through. “Hey, boys.” You greeted casually as you beelined straight for Bucky. They didn’t miss the small quirk on his lips as he watched you approach him.

“Hey, Buck.” You greeted him separately, placing a gentle hand on the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades. You looked down at the pan of chicken. “You makin’ yourself some lunch?” You questioned quietly. Bucky shook his head lightly.

“It’s for you…if you want it.” He said in an almost timid manner, afraid you would reject his cooking despite never having done so before.

Your smile was blinding as you looked back up at him. “I could never say no to your cooking, Bucky. Thank you.” You said, a sincere grin stretched across your face.

Sam and Steve watched the almost domestic interaction before excusing themselves and heading to the elevator.

“Man, did you see that?!” Sam questioned with an incredulous wave of his arms as soon as the doors of the elevator shut.

“I haven’t seen him act that comfortable around anybody but me,” Steve replied, brows furrowed. “I figured they would warm up to each other eventually due to the proximity, but I never expected it to happen this quick,” Steve stated. His mind was running a mile a minute to figure out what you possibly could’ve done to make Bucky act so… peaceful.

Sam shook his head as the doors opened to another floor, and they stepped out. “As curious as I am, I’ll take this as a win. It’s good he’s opening up to someone.” The man said to Steve, who gave him a firm nod.

“Let’s hope it progresses from here, then.”

“You are going to pace a hole into my floors, Tinman,” Tony said sarcastically as he watched Bucky’s large frame lumber back and forth in front of the large doors of the landing pad of the tower.

His gaze snapped up to Tony. “Her comms are shut off, and she was supposed to be back an hour ago.” He said, his voice hoarse. Tony sighed in understanding. Despite his playful demeanor, he too was worried about you.

“That’s why we sent Rogers and Romanoff out 30 minutes ago. They’ll get her, and everyone will be okay.” Tony said in an attempt to calm the anxious super soldier.

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice crackled to life over the intercom of the room they were in. “We found her. She’s unconscious and bleeding. The rest of the men have been taken care of, and we’re taking her back to the jet.” Natasha spoke with an emotionless tone. The tone she uses when she doesn’t want to break.

Tony was the one to reply, but it was all white noise for Bucky.

Bucky felt like the world was crumbling around him. His small, quiet world he had just barely managed to build.

In the year that Bucky had been living with the Avengers, living with you, he had grown an undeniable fondness towards you. He knew it, and so did everyone else. You were his sun, and not just because of your abilities. You reached out to him when he felt like he was drowning. Every moment spent with you felt like breathing.

Each night that you came into his room and calmed him down from whatever terrors that lingered in his mind meant so much to him. Each time, you invited him to watch a movie with you. Something so simple, but you didn’t have to. Sometimes, he would wake up to the credits rolling and his head in your lap. Your delicate fingers running through his long hair.

He clung to your natural warmth like it was the only thing he knew. You were the most gentle being he ever met. He was only reminded of your strength when out on the battlefield, watching you tear through the enemy forces like it was second nature.

His breathing grew heavy as every sweet memory the two of you shared crossed his mind. All he could think about was you. Your voice, your laughter, the way your hair fell against your shoulders, the glint you got in your eyes when you teased him, the way you would hum him to sleep after a particularly rough dream.

Bucky decided then and there that he couldn’t live without you. Couldn’t live without the warmth you brought to his cold heart.

“...nes! Barnes!” Bucky’s head shot up at the sound of Tony’s voice. The billionaire was looking down at the trembling man.

“You need to get it together, pal. They’re almost here, and we need your muscles to get her to the medbay.” Bucky’s open mouth closed as he nodded and stood.

“Did something happen to Steve?” He questioned, knowing that Steve was plenty capable of carrying you himself.

Tony held his chin between two fingers. “Bullet wound in the abdomen. He’s awake and stable but in no condition to carry anyone.” Tony said as the quinjet came into view and began to descend onto the landing pad. Tony looked to Bucky, “She’s top priority.” Bucky nodded. He didn’t need to be told that.

As soon as the doors opened, the two men descended upon the quinjet. Natasha stepped out with Steve’s weakening body slumped against her body, supporting his weight. She looked to Bucky, “She’s laid out on the seats. Bleeding’s been stopped.” Bucky gave a curt nod and rushed to your unconscious body that was draped over the quinjet’s seating.

He scooped you into his arms as Tony followed behind, relaying your visible condition to the doctors via the communications device in his ear.

Bucky’s heavy footfalls thudded throughout the hall as he ran to the medbay. He glanced down at your face every so often. “C’mon sweetheart. You gotta wake up.” He mumbled to himself as the medbay doors finally came into view.

The attending doctors rushed out the doors to guide Bucky to the surgical table. He set you down gently and watched as the doctors swooped down on you, scissors cutting open your gear and clothes.

Tony placed a hand on his chest, “C’mon, Barnes. We gotta leave so they can help her.” Tony showed an unusual gentleness, understanding Bucky’s feelings.

Bucky didn’t put up a fight. He knew he’d just get in the way if he stayed. He exited the doors and walked to the room where Steve was being fixed up.

The doors slid open, and he met the gaze of Natasha and Steve. His eyes were cold as he stared at them.

“You said it was just a recon mission. There shouldn’t have been that many people there.” Bucky spoke to Steve, his voice unwavering but gruff.

Steve huffed, his gaze fixed on the linoleum floors. “It was an ambush. More men than she could handle on her own.” He stated. Bucky didn’t reply, his gaze flickering over to Natasha, who was worrying her lip between her teeth.

“What happened to her?” His voice was quieter now, unsure if he wanted the answer.

Natasha responded this time, “She got overwhelmed. They had some new tech. Something that subdued her powers enough for them to get close.” Natasha’s voice faltered as she continued, “Four gunshot wounds to the torso and a lacerated spleen due to a knife.”

Bucky swallowed down the lump in his throat. He had taken more gunshots, more knives to the torso than he could remember. But you were you. You didn’t have some fancy serum running through your veins that healed you faster like he and Steve did.

Bucky almost didn’t want to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue, but he did. “Do you think she’ll be okay?” His voice was quiet and strained.

He took note of the hesitance in both Steve and Natasha’s faces. Finally, Steve replied. “We’re unsure. She was unconscious by the time we got to her, and we don’t know how long she was like that.”

Bucky’s whole demeanor changed. His already stiff shoulders tensed considerably, his jaw locked, and his gaze became steely.

“If she dies–” Bucky choked out, not able to finish his sentence. His vibranium fist clenched so hard the metal groaned under the pressure.

He turned and stormed out of the room.

You were out of surgery soon enough and were wheeled into a recovery room. You were stable, and the doctors said you would be okay. But you were yet to wake up.

Bucky sat next to your bed, his right hand laced with yours. He wanted to feel the unnatural warmth you always had. But now you felt just like everyone else.

It had been two days since your surgery, and Bucky had only left your side to use the bathroom and to eat.

Bucky’s eyes shot to the door as Steve walked in. He took in the sight of his best friend. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes were sunken due to exhaustion.

“Buck.” He said gently, “You need to rest up and shower.”

“I can’t. What if she wakes up?” He asked. His voice was hoarse and broken.

Steve sighed. “I’ll be right here, and you’ll be the first to know.” He reassured him. However, Bucky didn’t move.

“C’mon, Buck. You know she won’t want to see you like that.” He said, stepping closer. “She won’t be able to focus on recovering if she’s too worried about you.”

Bucky’s eyes met Steve’s. He was right, you couldn’t see him this way. He stood from his chair, his eyes never leaving your face as he walked to the door.

“Promise me you’ll tell me as soon as she wakes up.” He said, not looking at Steve.

Still, Steve smiled, “I promise, Buck.”

Bucky was quick in the shower, feeling no need to linger.

Now, he laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had no desire to sleep. He didn’t deserve to. Not when you were suffering on your own. However, the exhaustion from being up for two days straight and worrying about you finally creeps up on him. He tried to fight off the sleep, but his eyelids only grew heavier and heavier until he drifted off.

“... Sergeant Barnes.” The artificial voice rang throughout his room, causing Bucky to shoot up from his bed.

“FRIDAY?” He croaked out. His voice thick with sleep.

“Captain Rogers asked me to inform you that Miss. (L/n) is awake and is requesting to see you.” The robotic voice explained.

Bucky didn’t need to hear anything else as he stumbled from his bed and to the door of his room. His breathing was heavy and rough as he sprinted to your recovery room. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to move faster, get to you quicker. As if you would disappear if he didn’t.

Bucky began closing in on the doors of your recovery room, not bothering to slow down, opting to barrel through the cracked door.

His quick movements came to a halt at the sight of you. You were sat up in your bed, Steve’s hand on your back to keep you stable. There was a doctor in the room with a clipboard, presumably talking to you before being interrupted by Bucky’s dramatic entrance.

Bucky’s breathing was labored as your eyes locked on him, and despite your situation, despite all the pain, you grinned. “Bucky.” His name came out of your mouth in a quiet whisper.

He stalked over to you and felt his hand tremble as he reached for yours. “Hey, doll.” He said quietly, attempting to match your smile with a shaky one.

Steve nodded to the doctor, who got the message and turned to leave. Steve spoke next. “You two catch up for now.” He said, then turned to you, “Let us know if you need anything.” He spoke more gently now.

You smiled up at him. “Thank you, Steve.”

Steve nodded and left the room.

You looked back to Bucky, your fingers slowly gaining back their warmth. “Hi, Bucky.” You said, your grin not leaving your face.

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “How can you be grinning right now?” He asked, his smile gentle and sweet.

You shrugged and ran your thumb over the back of his hand, tracing the scars. “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I? I couldn’t have asked for better.” You spoke to him.

Bucky shook his head. “I would’ve preferred for you not to be sitting here, injured.” He said, his eyes glancing over your every feature. He couldn’t be happier to be talking to you right now.

“Bucky?” Your small voice echoed between the two of you.

His eyes never left your face. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“I want to take a shower.” You stated plainly.

Bucky laughed increduously at your simple request. “Baby—” The pet name slipped out, but he didn’t notice. “You are in no condition to leave this bed right now.” He said.

You pouted. “Bucky, I feel so gross. I can’t live like this.”

He rolled his eyes at your whining but kept smiling. “As soon as you’re cleared, doll, I’ll get you a shower. I promise.” He said gently, as if he were placating a child.

Your smile softened. “Okay, Bucky. Thank you.”

Bucky’s head tilted slightly as he looked at you. “Anything you want, doll, it’s yours.”

It took only two more days for you to be cleared to walk around and move back into your room. You were to report back for daily checkups and were on strong antibiotics.

Bucky stood next to your hospital bed as you shimmied your shirt over your head. He turned away to protect your modesty but stood close in case you needed his help.

“Bucky.”

He turned back around at the call of his name, his gaze raking over your body. It was refreshing to see you in something other than a hospital gown.

“Ready to go?” He asked, extending his vibranium hand out to you. You nodded. You took his hand and stood shakily. His flesh hand was placed gently on the small of your back as he helped you stand. “Let me know if you need me to carry you.” He said firmly, not wanting to risk you getting injured any further.

The two of you walked out of the room. His usual quick strides were slower in shorter to keep pace with you. Slowly but surely, the two of you made it to your room. You sat on your bed to catch your breath, having not been used to walking so far, let alone at all.

Bucky watched as your gaze lingered on your bathroom door. “Shower?” He asked you. You looked to him with a small smile and nodded.

Before you could bother trying to stand, Bucky was walking to your bathroom. You listened to the sound of the shower as Bucky turned it on. He came back to the room and rummaged through your drawers, looking for comfortable clothes. He went back to the bathroom to place your folded clothes on the counter for you. He was quick to walk back out to your side, hoisting you up gently.

“You don’t have to do this, Buck.” You spoke softly.

Bucky didn’t look at you, too focused on watching your footing. “Don’t start with that. I want to.” He replied, leaving no room for argument.

The two of you made it to the bathroom, and he slowly dropped your hand.

“Do you need help?” He asked, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

You glanced over at your shower. It was a walk-in, so it should be manageable. “No, I think I’ll be okay.” You replied and turned to look back at Bucky.

You could still see the worry swirl in his eyes, but you knew he wouldn’t stop worrying until you were completely healed. Eventually, he nodded. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right outside the door.” He said.

You smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Bucky. I will.”

His gaze lingered on you before turning to leave, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

You turned to the shower and took a deep breath. You took off your clothes slowly, ignoring the searing pain in your torso as you lifted your arms over your head to get your shirt off.

You had finally managed to get your clothes off and stared at yourself in the mirror. You frowned at your wounds that were stitched closed and traced a finger over them. They would scar.

You sighed and walked slowly to the shower. You felt the temperature of the water, smiling to yourself when you realized Bucky had it set to just the right temperature. You stepped in and groaned in pleasure at the feeling of the warm water beating against your skin. Your muscles began to relax as the water cascaded gently against your body.

You decided you couldn’t keep Bucky waiting forever and decided to begin washing yourself. You leaned over for your shampoo but winced and grabbed one of the wounds on your side. It seemed it didn’t agree with the movement. You powered through and grabbed the bottle, opening the lid and squirting the soap into your hand.

You reached up to your head, ignoring the pain that racked up and down your body, and began scrubbing.

Your teeth are gritted painfully together, the white hot pain becoming unbearable. You couldn’t hold your arms up, let alone move them, for long due to your body being littered with deep wounds. You became frustrated, dropping your arms as the soap dripped down your hair and hands. Tears sprung to your eyes, angry with your own helplessness.

You took a deep breath and shut the water off.

Bucky’s brows furrowed in confusion at the sound of the water stopping. That was way too quick, especially considering your condition.

“Bucky?” Your small voice echoed from behind the door.

Bucky sprang up and paused right outside the door, hand already on the handle. “Doll? You alright?” He called out, his face etched with worry.

No response.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t answer me, I’m going to come in there.” He could hear the worry in his voice as he spoke.

Once again, no response.

Bucky’s breathing faltered, and he pressed down on the handle, pushing the door open with ease.

His gaze immediately locked on you. Your arms were crossed over your chest, your body trembling. Either in pain or due to the cold on your wet skin. He couldn’t tell. However, he felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of your wet eyes and your shaky bottom lip.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He breathed out, reaching you in three quick strides as his hands raised to cup your face gently.

“What’s wrong, honey?” He asked in a whisper, as if speaking in a normal voice would hurt you further.

Your water eyes looked up at his, and you drew in a shaky breath before speaking. “I-I can’t–” You swallowed before continuing. “I need your help.” You said, “Please?” You choked out, meek and scared.

Bucky felt his heart shatter. In the year he has known you, he has never seen you like this. So small and sad.

Bucky brushed a tear from your cheek as it fell. “Of course, sweetheart.” His hands moved from your cheeks and to your shoulders. He nudged you back into the shower and turned the handle. The water came back to life, still warm. It trickled down your body as you stood there.

Bucky smiled at you softly. “Are you okay with me taking my clothes off, doll?” He asked, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable than you already may be. He watched as you gave him a quick nod, the tears still not leaving your eyes.

Bucky made quick work of his clothes before stepping into the shower right behind you. “Is it okay if I touch you?” He asked calmly. You responded with another nod of your head.

Bucky drew in a breath before reaching for your hair and scrubbing in the rest of the shampoo. He was gentle and careful, treating you like a doll. His doll. He turned you around to rinse your hair in the water but paused when he saw the tears running down your face and your lip still trembling. His frown deepened as he took in your smaller form.

He cupped your face again. “What’s wrong, honey? Where’s it hurt?” He questioned, his gaze dropping slightly to look at your wounds before he locked his eyes back onto yours.

You shook your head at him, and his brows furrowed in response. “You gotta talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what's wrong.” He chided gently, egging you on.

You drew in a shaky breath before speaking. “I was so scared, Bucky.” You looked down at his chest, wanting to avoid his gaze. “I-I thought I was going to die.” You choked out.

Bucky’s shoulders tensed as he realized you were talking about that day. You hadn’t spoken of it since you woke up. No one pressured you, knowing you needed time. Bucky was about to respond, but you cut him off.

“And all I could think about—” You hiccuped, practically choking on your own emotion. “All I could think about was you.” You finally got out.

Bucky froze where he stood, his eyes widening slightly.

“All I could think about was what you would do if I died. Who would comfort you when you had a nightmare—” You were speaking too fast now and tripping over your words. “And then, I sat there. Bleeding out, in pain, and my consciousness beginning to slip.” You paused. “All I thought about was how I was going to die here, cold and alone, never getting to tell you how I felt.”

Bucky’s heart pounded hard in his chest as you rambled on. His grip on your face tightened slightly. “Doll—” He croaked, but you cut him off again.

Your eyes locked with his. The color in them more vibrant with your tears. “I love you, Bucky Barnes. And I have to tell you now, or I’ll regret it forever.” You said resolutely, your voice more steady than it had been since he had entered the shower with you.

Bucky could feel his own hands tremble. Could feel every beat of his pounding heart against his ribcage.

“You l-love me?” Bucky choked out, his own eyes beginning to water.

You nodded, nuzzling your face into his open palm. Your eyes were still wet, and your lips still trembled.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. He took in a steadying breath as he felt your lips brush his. “Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

You responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

Bucky sighed before slotting his lips against yours gently. He poured every ounce of love into that kiss. Every feeling you’ve ever made his cold heart feel. One of his hands dropped to your waist, the other to the side of your neck. He pulled you against him, his lips working over yours slowly. He groaned as one of your hands made their way into his hair, pulling gently.

You pulled away first, gasping for air as you rested your forehead against his chest. Bucky’s hand gently chucked your chin, directing your gaze towards his. His eyes were so soft, so different from the usual look they held.

“I love you too, doll.” He whispered.

You felt your face split into a smile. Your tears were long gone. All you felt in that moment was love and joy.

You tucked your face back into his chest as your body began to heat in giddy embarrassment due to your power. You felt the rumble of Bucky’s laugh against you.

“You can’t be embarrassed now, Sweetheart. I’ve already seen you naked.”

You responded with a smack to his chest and glared up at him. He only continued to smile at you before leaning down and capturing your lips into another kiss. This kiss was softer, slower.

He pulled back and mumbled against your mouth. “Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again.”

divider creds: @aquazero

1K notes · View notes