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sashaisready · 7 hours ago

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Hi!!! I'm absolutely in love with your Bucky and Fairy series!!!! I think your an awesome writer❤️. I was wondering if you could write a story about Fairy being worried of Bucky cheating after they're married since he was such a player. And Bucky swears to her that he has eyes for no one else now but her.

love it let's go

forever faithful

18+

he wouldn't. he couldn't. bucky is entirely incapable of hurting you - especially in that way. isn't he?

content warning: mob!bucky x wife!reader, mature themes, insecure thoughts, angst, mention of cheating, misunderstanding trope, hurt/comfort, fluff. also this is pretty long by my standards!!

Series Masterlist

Being married to Bucky usually feels like the most natural thing in the world, but there are times when you feel a little out of your depth. One of those times being when he brings you to parties. You're still not quite used to being the Queen of New York and having all the power that title brings, especially not when you've been on Bucky's arm for years now - but people are finally starting to actually respect you rather than brush you off as just another one of his girls.

The main thing that's changed is how much more comfortable the women are around you. Now that your relationship with Bucky is legitimate, and the possibility of you being a mistress planning on seducing their husbands has significantly lowered, they are much warmer to you.

"Take advantage of this time - you're still in the honeymoon phase, meaning he'll do anything you ask," Giselda tells you with a wistful look. "It wears off quick."

"Don't scare her, Selda," Fran scolds her lightly. "You sound like a bitter, old lady."

"I am a bitter, old lady!" Giselda retorts with a dry laugh, before turning her attention back to you. "Don't take this part for granted. Before the kids, and the stress, and the late nights he'll spend at another woman's house-"

"Selda!" Fran cuts in with a glare. "That's enough."

You take no mind. Deep down, you know they could never understand just how deeply you and Bucky feel for each other. They don't realize how your relationship is stronger than they could fathom, built on the foundation of friendship and blossoming with each passing day. He isn't capable of betraying you.

But doubt has an ugly way of creeping in when it's not welcome.

"Who's she?" You ask Sam with a raised brow as you nod towards where Bucky's speaking warmly with a woman you don't recognize. She looks around fifteen years older than you and Bucky, and she's admittedly gorgeous.

Sam looks across the bar and seems surprised when he sees her. "Oh. That is, uh, an old friend of his. A very old friend; I haven't seen or heard about her since before he met you," He tells you.

"I see," You utter, trying not to let the irritation seep into your tone as they laugh together.

You're not a jealous wife - at least, you didn't think you'd be. Back when you were only friends, you would get horrifically jealous, but that was because you were so scared of losing him to someone else. Now, though, there's a ring on his finger signifying to the world that he's yours, and you're entirely secure in your marriage.

But something about her and the way she's looking at him irks you.

"Did they fuck?" You ask Sam, throwing casual out the window.

He lifts up his drink. "No," He tells you. "Not to my knowledge, anyway."

You turn to him and raise a brow.

"They didn't," He doubles down more firmly. "Agatha helped us out when we were in trouble a few years ago. Sure, they flirted, but you know him. He'd flirt with a brick wall. Nothing ever happened between them."

That brings you solace - until you recount the whole story to your nail woman.

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no," Josefina utters, shaking her head.

"What?" You ask with a frown.

"They haven't slept together," She says gravely, looking up at you as she files your nails. "Means they'll be still be curious as to what it would be like."

"Jamie doesn't waste his time thinking about what sex would be like with other women," You tell her curtly.

"All men think about is what sex will be like with every woman they encounter, whether they're happily married or not- it's only natural," She claims. "But when the women in question are thinking the same thing, that's the danger zone. Who is this woman, what's the history?"

"She's in the same line of work as him, to my knowledge," You tell her. "Helped Jamie almost a decade ago, and now she's resurfaced out of nowhere."

Josefina nods slowly before looking back down at your nails. "I'll file these into claws, just in case."

The first time Bucky lies to your face is on a late Thursday night.

"You shouldn't have waited up for me, fairy," He says as he wraps his arms around you.

"I didn't wanna eat without you," You tell him honestly as you take a bite from the bowl of pasta you're sharing.

"Missed you today," He mumbles against your forehead before opening his mouth to let you feed him.

"Missed you more," You say before turning to him. "How was your day?"

"Uh, it was fine," He replies with his eyes on the food. "Just been balancing the books with Alex and Sam. Took a little longer than I expected."

Your blood runs cold. Just an hour ago, Sam dropped by to see you. He didn't mention anything about being with Bucky tonight - in fact, he seemed surprised to hear Bucky wasn't home.

"Oh, Aggie? She's helping us get into Chicago," He tells you casually. "She's got good connections there, and you know how I've always wanted Chicago."

You can't help but be straight up with him - he may be able to lie to your face, but you can't hold back when there's something you want to know. "Who's that woman?" You ask him curtly. "She seems to be at the bar quite a bit."

Aggie. Your eye twitches at the nickname that leaves his mouth so easily. Does he think about fucking her? Was he with her tonight?

"What are you giving her in return?" You ask him curiously.

"She's a good friend; she hasn't asked for anything," Bucky explains before taking another bite. "I'm sure there'll be an opportunity for me to help her out in the future, though. Heck, by now, I must owe her a hundred favors."

"She seems nice," You say with as much sincerity as you can muster. "I'd like to properly meet her."

You almost regret telling him that.

The next day, you're checking the stock in one of the warehouses when he shows up with her. The idea of her sitting in his passenger seat, where you'd usually sit, makes your stomach churn.

Stop it. You trust him.

"Fairy, this is Agatha Harkness," He says with a smile. "Aggie, this is my beautiful wife, Y/N."

"I've heard so much about you," She tells you with a smile as she holds her hand out to you. "The fact that you tamed James must mean you're an incredible woman. I'm in awe of you."

Oh, it's James now?

You take in a deep breath and do well to shake her hand rather than claw her eyes out. Fucking James.

Somehow, you manage to force a smile. "Can't say I've heard anything about you, Agatha," You can't help but say.

She shoots him a smirk. "I don't blame him; there's not really much to say."

"You're being modest," Bucky says with a chuckle before looking over to you. "Aggie is very good at what she does. She could sell a machine gun to the Dalai Lama."

Your hand slips into his, subconsciously staking your claim.

"I met James when he was only seventeen," She tells you with a smile. "He's grown into such a handsome young man - but I'm not surprised. He's always been gorgeous."

Inwardly cringing as you try to mentally work out how old she must've been back then, you squeeze Bucky's hand. He gives you a cheeky wink, one that would usually elicit a giggle from you, but you can't help but feel ill.

The first time you imagine them fucking, you're disgusted with yourself.

"What's wrong, fairy?" Bucky asks you between heavy breaths while you scramble to sit on the edge of the bed.

You shake your head, trying desperately to get the image out of your head. Think about rainbows. Butterflies. Puppies.

"Baby, talk to me," He mumbles, gently rubbing your back. "Everything okay?"

It happened against your will - you didn't want to think about Bucky having sex with another woman. But as you were riding him, as his head fell back and the groans left his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder.

How could you?

Looking over at him, into his deep blue eyes, you feel absolutely awful. How could you ever think he could hurt you in that way?

"You okay, fairy?" He mumbles softly, gently stroking your arm. "Something I can do? Need me to fuck off?"

Looking over at him, meeting his shiny eyes, you can't help but be disgusted with yourself. After seven months of marriage and nine years of friendship, you know him better than you know himself. You know his character.

"I'm okay," You find the energy to say. "Just..."

"You're alright," He says, placing a soft kiss to your cheek. He doesn't need an explanation - you want to stop having sex, and that doesn't need a reason. More than anything, he's your safe space, and he'd never push you out of your comfort zone during such an intimate moment. The bedroom is where you're both most vulnerable, and Bucky understands that sometimes, it can feel too intense, and you need a break.

And you know all this. Which is why you're so angry at yourself for doubting his loyalty, for allowing yourself to picture such a horrid scene. He wouldn't. He couldn't betray you.

You're starting to see Bucky less and less during the days, and you can't help but spiral. As you lay next to him in bed, your mind wanders to dark places.

He's on his Kindle and you're staring up at the ceiling. His arm's around your shoulder, fingers gently stroking your skin.

Why hasn't he made a move on you yet? He's usually all over you when he hasn't seen you all day. Could it be he's already been satisfied tonight?

Stop. How could you think like that?

"Fairy?" He whispers suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts. "What you thinking about, baby?"

You turn on your side to look at him. "You," Is your truthful answer.

"Yeah?" He asks with a smirk, putting away his Kindle before turning to you and resting his hand on your waist. "What about me?"

"Wondering why we aren't fucking yet," You admit simply.

He raises his brows and shuffles in closer to you. "Well, to be honest, after the other night... I thought I should give you some space. I didn't wanna push you," He tells you.

"Oh, that?" You ask with a soft laugh. "No, that was just a random blip. I want you, Jamie. Want you really bad."

"Yeah?" He asks, taking your hands and pinning them above your head, slowly nestling between your legs. "Is that right, fairy?"

"Mhm," You hum, craning your neck up, desperate to get a kiss from him.

"All you had to do was ask, pretty girl," Bucky mumbles before kissing you deeply. It feels safe, and secure, and like nothing has changed between you.

One of his hands trails down your body and between your legs, before it slips under your panties. He continues kissing you while rubbing your clit, making you whimper into his mouth.

"I missed you," You whisper as your back arches.

"I missed you too, fairy," Bucky says lowly, his hard cock digging into your thigh. Before you can beg him to fuck you, though, you hear the worst sound in the world.

His phone rings.

"Ugh, turn it off," You whine, the jarring sound going straight through you. "Why isn't it on silent mode?"

Bucky lifts his head up, his lips parted. "Shit. I've been waiting to hear back on something important," He tells you, making your blood run cold.

"James, if you answer that call, I swear to God..." You trail off, glaring at him.

"I'm sorry, fairy. Give me five minutes," He says before getting off of you and grabbing his phone from the nightstand.

You stare up at the ceiling, seething. The only thing worse than him answering a call with his fingers in your panties would be if the person on the other side was-

"Aggie, hey," He answers, making your hand twitch.

Immediately, you get off the bed and storm into the en-suite, making sure to slam the door behind you. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Have you lost it? Are you not as beautiful to him as you used to be? Is he bored of you?

There was a time when Bucky would let the city burn just so he could look at you. When the sound of his phone ringing would melt into the background if his lips were on yours. When he'd do anything just for a chance to look at you a little longer. What he just did was a betrayal of every promise he's made you. Maybe you're being dramatic, but it's he who set the precedent. Telling you nothing would ever come above you, that he'd rather die than hurt you.

When you re-enter the bedroom, he's hanging up the phone. You stare coldly at him. "How could you do that?" You ask him.

His face softens. "I'm sorry, fairy, it was-"

"I don't give a fuck what it was about, you don't do that. Not to me," You cut him off.

"Can I explain myself?" He asks, the frustration in his tone only pissing you off further.

"Shut the fuck up, don't talk to me like that," You retort, pointing your finger at him. "You're a fucking asshole. Go."

"Go?" He repeats with raised brows.

"Yeah. Get the fuck out, because you're not sleeping in here with me tonight," You tell him curtly.

It looks as though he's about to say something else, maybe even argue with you, but instead, he takes in a deep breath and leaves the room.

The next morning, you wake up just as angry as you were when you fell asleep. It was a shitty night, tossing and turning and constantly waking up, your hands reaching out for a warmth that wasn't there.

After showering and getting dressed, you head downstairs. Your plan is to be out of the house all day so you don't have to speak to Bucky, but just as you get to the kitchen to make yourself a quick drink, you're taken aback by what you see.

The island in the middle of the kitchen is covered in gift-wrapped boxes, baskets of your favorite foods and self-care items, and bouquets of flowers. You roll your eyes. It won't be that easy to win your forgiveness. You begin to walk straight over to the sink, but a familiar smell stops you in your tracks, right by the corner of the island.

Looking down, you see a platter of pastries from your favorite local bakery. You suck in a sharp breath. Ignore it. Walk away. Leave.

But they look so fresh.

Fuck it. With a huff, you grab a beignet and take a bite, your eyes fluttering shut at the softness and sweetness. While you chew, a pair of hands rest on your hips.

"I love you. I'm so, so sorry," Bucky says lowly, resting his chin on your shoulder as his arms wrap tightly around you. "I was an asshole. Shouldn't have done that to you, and I never will again."

Sighing, you turn to face him. "You think some sweet treats and flowers are gonna make me happy?" You ask him with a raised brow.

"I also got you that bracelet you've been eyeing up," He points out, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry. I know saying it isn't enough but I need you to know that I mean it. I love you."

"Yeah," Is all you give him back before you continue eating the beignet.

"Let me take you to brunch, fairy, wherever you want," He requests, rubbing your hips. "And then we can go to the bar and celebrate Vinnie's 21st with the guys. What do you say?"

Looking up into his eyes, you nod. "Alright," You whisper.

His hands slip down to your ass and he leans down and kisses you softly. "You, uh... think we have time for a quickie, first?" He asks carefully.

With a scoff, you push him away. "In your fucking dreams, Barnes," You say with a glare, before taking a few steps towards the door. "Let's see how I'm feeling after brunch."

Though you weren't in the mood for sex after brunch, you did let Bucky eat you out on the way to the bar. It almost made you forget why you were ever mad at him, but when you get to the bar and see Agatha among the others, you're in a mood again.

Sam sits next to you while you watch Bucky speaking to Vinnie, likely giving him a lecture about being a man and taking on more responsibilities. Agatha lingers around them, making your fingers twitch.

"All good?" Sam asks you as he refills your glass with whisky.

"Meh," You let out, sinking back in your seat.

"What's wrong, hmm?" He presses, nudging your shoulder with his.

"Nothing; I'm being dramatic," You tell him before turning to him and lowering your voice. "Swear to me that this conversation stays between us?"

"Like every conversation we have," He replies, frowning. "What's going on?"

You let out a deep sigh. "I'm jealous," You admit, as painful as it is.

"Jealous? Of who?" He pushes incredulously.

"Alright, maybe jealous is the wrong word, because there's nothing about her I'm jealous of," You backtrack, malice seeping into your voice. "That fucking Agatha. I don't like her. Don't trust her."

Sam raises his brows and sits back, realization on his face. "Oh," He says simply, letting a short silence sit between you before he speaks again. "Her and Bucky are close."

"Yeah, no shit," You spit.

"Do you really think he'd do that to you?" Sam questions you.

"No," You answer immediately. "But I don't doubt she'd try."

"And that's all it would ever be," He assures you. "And the second she oversteps, she's out of here. Bucky wouldn't disrespect you by keeping someone like that around."

You hum, nodding slowly. He's right. Of course he's right.

"Anyway," Sam continues. "How's everything else? Your friends all good?"

Confused by his sudden interest in your girlfriends, you narrow your eyes at him. "Uh, yeah," You reply. "Why?"

"No, just making sure," He claims. "Y'know, one of yours is one of us. Gotta make sure everyone's eating good."

"They're eating good," You assure him, before his words remind you of something that makes you grin. "Banita is definitely eating good. She's finally not feeling sick anymore, and she's got all these weird pregnancy cravings, and a huge appetite."

"Oh, Banita, yeah," He breathes out. "How far along is she, now?"

"Seven months," You tell him with a smile. "It's the baby shower in a few weeks, and I'm so excited. It's gonna be so cute!"

"Are we invited?" He asks, surprising you. "Y'know, just to keep an eye on you guys, make sure you're safe."

"Uh, it's kind of like a women-only thing, and it's only a small thing at Banita's house, so no need for security guards," You explain. "But I'll bring you some leftover cake."

Sam nods. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

You sit back in your chair again, and glance over at where Bucky was talking to Vinnie. He's now talking to Agatha, much to your dismay. They're laughing.

"Like, what could they be talking about that's that funny?" You wonder out loud, shaking your head.

Sam snorts at you.

"What?" You ask him with a glare.

"It's just funny," He comments. "I remember back when Bucky would say shit like that about the guys you'd talk to. God, it was so frustrating how jealous he'd get. And he'd take it out on us whenever you had a date with someone else, so thanks for that." With a small smile, Sam looks over at you. "That man went through hell every day that you weren't his. I'd be damned if he screwed it up now that he's got you. You're too important to him, boss."

You continue looking at Bucky as he speaks to Agatha. Sam is right. You should listen to Sam. Stop letting your twisted mind overthink and drive you crazy. Bucky has more than earned your trust.

So why is he not moving her hand off his arm?

The final straw breaks you a week later.

Bucky had a long meeting with a supplier. You wanted to join him, seeing as you're trying to get more involved with the business, but he said he didn't want you there - that it might get ugly. He told you only him and Sam were going in, and it was going to be a difficult, tense conversation.

Naturally, you're concerned for him - even more so when you get a call from Sam at 10pm. Oh God. This is it. He's gonna tell you Bucky's dead.

"Hello?" You ask with a whisper.

"Hey, you," Sam replies, and it sounds like he's been drinking. "Uh, I was thinking about... what you said the other day. About Banita-"

"Sam, where are you?" You cut him off. "Are you not with James right now?"

"Huh? Nah, I'm at the bar," He tells you. "Haven't seen Buck all day."

"All day?" You repeat, your heart thudding in your chest. "But... uh, isn't he meeting with Novikov tonight?"

"What? No, that meeting isn't until next month," Sam tells you, making your blood run cold.

"Oh," You utter, feeling sick to your stomach.

"Is Bucky not home? I thought-"

"No, he- he just rolled up to the house, actually," You claim, not wanting Sam to be suspicious. "I'm just being dumb; I forgot he had gone out on an errand and mixed up the date of the meeting. But he's back now, so, mystery over."

"Oh, good," Sam replies. "Anyway, I really need to talk to you about Bani-"

"I gotta go, Sam, I'll talk to you later," You say in a hushed, rushed voice, hanging up on him and sinking to the floor of your bedroom.

Before your mind gets a chance to overthink, you quickly call Bucky. Why would he lie to you about having to work tonight? Where has he been all day?

It rings three times before he picks up.

"Hey, fairy," He answers. "Everything alright?"

"Where are you?" You ask him, giving him a chance to come clean.

Maybe he didn't mean to lie to you - maybe he mixed the date of the meeting up himself, and right now, he's about to give you a perfectly good explanation about where he is and what he's doing.

"I told you, I've got a late meeting with Novikov," He says, making your heart drop.

"Oh. With- is Sam there, too?" You ask, your voice no louder than a whisper.

"Yeah, he is," He lies straight to you.

You lean back against the bed, your breaths shaky. "Okay," You utter.

"Are you sure you're okay, fairy?" Bucky asks you.

Clinging onto your t-shirt, you part your lips in a silent scream. Yell at him. Tell him you know he's lying. Demand him to tell you the truth.

And then you hear it. It's faint, but the silence between you allows you to make out exactly what it is: the sound of a woman laughing. And you'd put money on who that woman is.

"I'm fine. I'm going to sleep," You say, numb.

"Alright. I'll probably end up staying at the office until the early morning so I might not see you until tomorrow, baby," He tells you, making your guts churn.

"Okay," You squeak. "Good night."

"Good night, fairy. I love you," Bucky says, and it sounds exactly like he's always said it.

You hang up and throw your phone at the wall before bursting into thick, ugly sobs.

Bucky gets home earlier than he thought he would. It's just past 1am when he walks through the front door, and he's surprised to hear music from the living room. He thought you would be fast asleep in bed by now.

He takes off his shoes and makes his way to the living room, expecting to see you passed out on the couch with one of your shitty reality TV shows playing, but the sight he gets is much, much different.

As he walks in, he immediately kicks over an empty bottle of wine, which makes him stop in his tracks. He sees you sitting in the middle of the carpet, wearing your wedding dress, holding another half-empty bottle of wine, with your head hung down. Your wedding video is playing on the TV.

"What is going on?" He utters, walking over to you. "Baby? Are you okay?"

You look up at him, and it looks like you've been crying for hours.

Bucky sinks to his knees and places his hands on your shoulders. "Hey, hey, fairy, it's me," He whispers. "What's going on, hmm? How come you're in your dress?"

He can tell by the look on your face that you're far too drunk to give him a reasonable answer.

"Okay, come on, let's go to bed," Bucky says, taking the wine bottle from your hands and placing it on the coffee table. He then grabs the remote from the table and turns off the TV.

"I know what you did," You suddenly say, your words slurred.

Bucky frowns down at you. "What?" He asks, stroking your arm. "What do you mean, fairy?"

"I know you fucked Agatha," You cry out. "You're having an affair, aren't you?"

His face falls and his voice turns cold. "What the fuck are you talking about, Y/N?"

With a hiccup, you let out a whimper before your eyes slowly flutter shut, and you pass out.

The next morning, you wake up feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

You wince as you clamber out of bed, the bright light in the bathroom making you cringe while you brush your teeth. The only thing keeping you from hiding in bed is the smell of breakfast, which lures you downstairs and into the kitchen.

Bucky's at the stove, making pancakes.

"Good morning, Jay," You mumble, trying to remember the gap in your memories from last night. The last thing you remember is eating dinner with Bucky before he left for work.

"Morning," He replies, placing the last pancake onto the stack before turning off the gas and turning to face you.

You sit at the island while he slides over a glass of orange juice and some Advil. "Thank you," You whisper.

Bucky puts a couple of pancakes on your plate before serving himself. You're sipping on your juice when he finally speaks again. "So, how come you drank last night?" He asks you.

"Huh? Oh, I guess I figured I was home alone all night, so I had a couple of glasses," You suggest, trying to put the pieces together yourself.

"You said some fucked up shit," Bucky says as he cuts into his pancakes.

"I did? Oh, no, nothing too freaky, right?" You ask with a laugh.

He looks up to meet your eyes, no hint of humor in his. "You accused me of having an affair with Agatha," He tells you bluntly.

And just like that, it all comes rushing back. You remember exactly why you drank so much, and exactly why Bucky seems so upset.

"Oh," You utter dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

The silence that sits between you is cold and heavy. The kind you want desperately to fill with words, only you don't know which ones to use.

"Fairy... what the fuck?" Bucky utters, pain in his eyes. "Where did that come from?"

You bite your lip, wincing. "I just... you've been gone so much lately. Lying about where you are. And she wants you, I know she does. Sam told me the meeting with Novikov isn't until next month, and... it's not the first time you've lied to me about where you've been," You say, terrified.

He lets out a deep sigh as he processes your words. "It's... it's your birthday tomorrow," He says.

For a moment, you say nothing. And then the realization hits you harder than your hangover. Your birthday. He's been planning for it. With everyone going on with the businesses, you assumed you wouldn't be able to do anything special for the day - but how could you ever believe that Bucky would settle for less than special?

You slap your hands over your mouth and immediately burst into tears. Ugly sobs rattle through your chest, making your head hurt even more.

"Baby. Baby. Don't cry," He says as he walks around the counter.

"How- how could I ever think that of you?" You manage to choke out, your words almost unintelligible. "You're so perfect and I... I doubted you in the worst way. How could I do that to you?"

"Come here, my darling, it's alright," He assures you as he holds you tight, rocking you back and forth. He continues comforting you while your tears subdue, your breaths choppy as you sniffle.

He doesn't say anything, simply hugging you and stroking your hair, kissing your forehead, wiping away your tears. Once your sobs have ceased and your breathing is back to normal, he smiles down at you.

"Look at me. Marriage is scary, okay?" He begins. "We're both doing this for the first time. We're not gonna be perfect. All I can promise you is that I will never betray you-"

"You don't have to say that, Jamie," You cry. "You shouldn't need to say that."

"I want to say it," He assures you. "I want you to hear it. I may act stupid at times, or say the wrong thing-"

"You're never wrong, you're perfect," You cut in, clinging onto his shirt. "I'm evil."

"Evil?" He repeats with a scoff. "Baby, I know evil, okay? I've looked evil in the fucking eye. You are not that. You are my darling girl. My fairy. I- it's my fault for keeping secrets-"

"You were just trying to surprise me-"

"Still, I shouldn't have lied to your face," He says. "I felt sick whenever I did. Hated it. But... I just wanted to see your face when you saw it tomorrow."

Your face crumples again. "I ruined the surprise," You whine.

"You didn't ruin it; you still don't know what it is," Bucky points out. "I went too far with trying to keep it a secret. Ended up hurting you, which I never want to do."

"But I should've just trusted you," You say, shaking your head. "How could I think that of you?"

"I made it pretty easy for you to jump to that conclusion," He says, rubbing your shoulder. "I should've known you'd realize I was hiding something."

With a pout, you look up at him. "I'm sorry I ruined my surprise," You say.

He frowns down at you. "Hey, you don't know exactly what it is yet, do you?" He asks as his lips curl up. "You're still gonna be blown away, fairy. You deserve to be spoiled, especially on your birthday, and I'll make sure of it."

"You spoil me every day," You say with an eye roll.

"Because I love you every day," Bucky replies before placing a kiss on your shoulder. "Now, eat. My pancakes aren't as good when they're cold."

While he reaches out to grab his plate and takes a seat next to you, you turn to face him. "So, if you were planning my surprise this whole time... why did you have to speak to Agatha so late at night?" You wonder curiously. "She also seems to be awfully comfortable touching up on you."

With a bite of pancakes in his mouth, Bucky chews while smirking at you, a look of surprise on his face. When he swallows, he leans in. "Baby, are you jealous?" He asks, delight in his eyes.

Shooting him a glare, you put your fork down. "I don't get jealous, Barnes. I was irritated that she was touching my property," You correct him curtly.

"Your property?" He repeats with a laugh. "Fuck. You know it turns me on when you get all possessive, pretty girl."

"Well, stop, because I'm being serious," You say, poking his chest. "I don't want her grabbing your arm, hugging you, fucking giggling in your ear - calling you late at night. You're not her piece of meat. You're mine."

Bucky wraps his arm around you with a cheesy grin. "Keep talking like that, I'll need you to prove it right here and now," He grumbles against your lips.

You push him back with a scoff. "Get a fucking grip," You tell him sternly. "I need you to be serious. Why was she calling you so late? Why did I hear her laughing when you were at your fake Novikov meeting last night?"

He pulls back and drops the smirk, knowing you're not playing games. "Aggie-"

You throw him the coldest glare you can muster.

"Agatha," He corrects himself. "Was helping me plan your surprise."

"The fuck does an arms dealer have to do with birthdays?" You question him incredulously.

"She has a lot of good contacts-"

"What are you gonna do, shoot me?" You ask, to which he snorts.

"No, baby, she's just very well connected, even more so than me," He tells you. "And I know she can be a little... forward, but I swear to you, she never crossed the line. I'd have cut her off the second she tried anything."

Letting out a huff, you look away from him.

"I love you," Bucky says, squeezing you tightly in his grip. "I love you so, so much. And I can't wait to see your face tomorrow."

"Y'know what I want most for my birthday?" You turn and ask him, to which he nods eagerly.

"Anything," He replies instantly. "Name it and it's yours, my love."

"For her to be gone," You tell him bluntly. "Out of New York."

He laughs, but you're not joking. "Fairy, I know it isn't ideal, but I need to finish this deal with her," He explains. "Just one more week, and Chicago will be putty in my hands. And then I never have to see her again."

Maintaining your glare, you sigh. "Fine. Whatever," You huff.

"Now, what was it you were saying about me being yours?" Bucky asks, nestling his face in your neck. "What did you call me, again? Your property? Your piece of meat?"

Your hands rest on top of his which stroke your hips, and he pressed soft kisses to your neck, not stopping until you let out a moan, at which point you can feel his grin again your skin.

"Why don't you prove it, fairy?"

eek sorry to cockblock but this was getting reallllly long (also writing smut feels like a chore rn)

hope you enjoyed this installment! also someone requested a jealous!bucky which I'm SO EXCITED TO WRITE so stay tuned for that <3

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sashaisready · 7 hours ago

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me when I'm happily enjoying something that someone on [tumblr] said I wasn't allowed to

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sashaisready · 2 days ago

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Enjoyed this immensely 👌🤌

Unauthorized Response

Thought to myself: Oh, I'll just bang out a quick one-shot and try writing smut for the first time, and it somehow turned into this monstrosity (sorry for the word count)

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Scientist!Reader

Summary: The experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should...

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!). Explicit Sexual Content. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Accidental Neurobond. Shared Dreams. Shared Physical Sensations. Angst. Mutual Pining. Female Masturbation. Oral Sex (f receiving), Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex. Praise Kink. Creampie. Multiple Orgasms. Post Thunderbolts Setting. Fluff.

Word Count: 16k

You’re three sips into your too-hot coffee when you see him.

He’s leaning against the wall outside Lab 4, all broad shoulders and brooding posture, like some kind of noir detective who wandered into a government facility and refused to leave. Tactical black from neck to boots. That infamous metal arm crossed over his chest like it has something to say and no one brave enough to contradict it.

Tall. Sharp. Sullen.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

—

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life.

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw.

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low. “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is.

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself. You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.

You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.

But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.

You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.

His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.

You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.

His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.

The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.

You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.

“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”

You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”

He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.

“You know what,” he says, voice low. “You know exactly what.”

Your heart pounds.

“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.

He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”

The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.

“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”

You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.

You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.

“I wanted to come in there.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.

You look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.

“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.

You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.

And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.

“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”

You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”

You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”

That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.

His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”

You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.

“Fine.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.

“Fine.”

And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.

—-

Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.

You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.

Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

So you decide to mess with him.

You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.

He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.

You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.

But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.

You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.

You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.

He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”

“Weaponizing your arms.”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”

You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”

“You started it.”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.

“Unbelievable.”

Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.

And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.

And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.

The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.

“Did you…?” you ask.

He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”

You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.

Five hours in, you almost lose it.

You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.

You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.

“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”

You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.

“I’m not,” he says.

You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.

He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”

“What thing?”

He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”

You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.

You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in many?”

You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.

His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.

It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.

You freeze. But don’t pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You can.”

You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”

You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.

“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.

“Say it anyway.”

He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.

You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it.

And that’s when it breaks him.

“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.

And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.

There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.

“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”

Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.

“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”

He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.

“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”

Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”

You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.

“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”

You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.

“Touch your clit,” he commands.

You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.

“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”

“You already know,” you choke out.

“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”

You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.

“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”

Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—

And you shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.

You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.

The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.

His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.

Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.

He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—

Then a chime sounds at the door.

You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.

“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”

You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.

The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.

“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”

Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.

Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”

You groan louder.

She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”

She turns and walks out, boots clicking.

The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent. Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.

“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.

Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.

You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

You pause. Watch him. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse.”

He glances at you. Briefly.

And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.

You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”

Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”

You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired.

“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”

His jaw clenches.

Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.

You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”

He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.

“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”

You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”

“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.

How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.

His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”

You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.

—

You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.

Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage.

“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And then?”

She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”

You nod. She walks to you first.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.

You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.

You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.

And then—

Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.

Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.

Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.

Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.

“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”

You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.

Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.

You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.

He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.

His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.

At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.

“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”

You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.

—

Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.

They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.

It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.

You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.

You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.

Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.

And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.

You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.

You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.

Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.

The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.

And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”

Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”

You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.

She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.

Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.

“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”

You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.

“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.

“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”

Your stomach drops.

She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”

“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.

Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”

You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

Val smiles.

“I want you to stabilize it.”

The room goes quiet.

You don’t answer.

Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.

Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”

You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”

Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”

It opens. He walks in. Bucky.

Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.

Val keeps going, too casual.

“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”

No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.

Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“It’s not stable.”

“Define ‘not stable.’”

He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”

Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”

“Eventually.”

You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.

Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”

You freeze. So does he.

“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”

You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.

“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”

You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.

Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”

Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”

Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”

Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.

“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”

You say nothing. Your throat is tight.

Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”

You feel the breath leave your lungs.

Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”

The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.

You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.

But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.

Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers.

“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”

Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”

“They’ll be trained.”

“They’ll be broken.”

Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.

Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”

You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.

Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”

You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.

But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.

You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.

“Barnes.”

He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.

“I said—”

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”

You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.

Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.

“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”

Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”

“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.

You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”

He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.

“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.

You hesitate. And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.

“Bucky, please.”

His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.

You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.

His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.

“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”

“Don’t do that,” you say.

His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”

“Shut me out.”

He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.

He’s not angry. He’s gutted.

“I told you, once this wore off—”

“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”

“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”

He goes quiet. You take a step closer.

“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”

Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”

That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.

“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.

“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”

A pause. Then, lower.

“But maybe it was just easier for you.”

That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.

“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”

You take a final step closer to him.

“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.

You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.

He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.

“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”

His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.

He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.

“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.

You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”

He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.

You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”

Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.

“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”

Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”

“Bucky—”

“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”

Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.

“I almost lost it, doll.”

He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

And then he dives in.

Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.

“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it’s useless.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”

You arch up in response, gasping.

“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”

He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.

“Bucky, please!”

“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”

He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.

“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”

He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.

It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.

“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”

He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.

“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”

You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.

“Bucky—”

He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.

You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”

You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.

Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.

Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.

You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.

“You still want this?” he murmurs.

You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.

His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”

You nod again, blinking up at him.

“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”

Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.

“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”

You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.

“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”

He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder.

“Bucky—please—”

“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”

“You weren’t.”

He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.

“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.

“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”

And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.

You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.

“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.

He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”

You whimper, thighs shaking.

“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”

Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.

“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”

“Buck—”

He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.

“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.

He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.

You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”

You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”

Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”

His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.

He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.

—-

The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.

“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.

He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”

He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.

“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”

“Touché.”

You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.

“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I usually am.”

You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”

“No,” he says. “But I want to.”

Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”

“You would’ve laughed in my face.”

“I did laugh in your face.”

“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”

You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”

He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”

You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.

“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”

He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.

Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”

You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”

“That’s flattering.”

“That’s science.”

He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”

You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.

Just steady. Just… okay. You smile. And he feels it.

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sashaisready · 2 days ago

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guyssss I’m in the countryside for a few days for a much needed break and look how beautiful!! It’s so quiet and peaceful, just what I needed ❤️

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sashaisready · 3 days ago

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I loved this so much!! Especially after part one devastated me 😮‍💨

contrition | b.b. (2)

✮ synopsis: two years of healing. that's what it takes for bucky barnes to believe he might deserve you again. two years of therapy, of learning to sleep in a bed, of discovering what james barnes wants when he's not running from who he used to be. two years apart before a leaked video of his past forces him to confront the truth.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers (18+, minors dni): hurt/comfort, ptsd and trauma responses, references to past torture (hydra), trauma, panic attacks, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, praise kink, light dom/sub undertones (light), vibrating finger features (whoops)

✮ word count: 14k

✮ a/n: this is part 2 of 2! really recommend catching up at part 1 first 🤍

main masterlist

The apartment sounded wrong.

Bucky stood in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom—their bedroom—and cataloged the absence. No soft breathing. No rustle of sheets when you turned over in sleep. No quiet hum of your phone charging on the nightstand. Just his own heartbeat, too loud in the silence, and the hum of the refrigerator that had always been too loud but he'd never fixed because you said it was "charming."

Three weeks.

Three weeks since you'd left, and he still hadn't slept in the bed.

The couch had a permanent indent now, shaped to his body like a pathetic monument to his failures. He'd been meaning to flip the cushions. Hadn't. Same way he'd been meaning to call his therapist back. Hadn't. Same way he'd been meaning to do anything other than exist in this hollow space you'd left behind.

His phone buzzed. Sam, probably. Or Raynor. Both had been calling with increasing frequency, leaving voicemails that ranged from concerned to irritated to outright threatening. He let it ring out, watching his reflection in the black screen once it went quiet. He looked like shit. Felt worse.

The mission brief sat unopened on the kitchen counter where he'd thrown it two days ago. Valentina had sent three follow-ups, each more passive-aggressive than the last. He should care. Should worry about his standing with the team, about maintaining his pardon, about all the things that used to matter before you made everything else feel like background noise.

He didn't.

The apartment still smelled like you. Your shampoo lingered in the bathroom. Your coffee mug sat in the dishwasher—the one with the chip on the handle from when he'd knocked it off the counter during a nightmare. You'd laughed it off, said it gave it character. He'd been too raw from the dream to do anything but nod, but you'd seen through him like you always did. Made him tea instead of coffee that morning, kept your voice soft, didn't ask questions.

That was the thing that gutted him most. You'd always known how to navigate his damage without making him feel damaged. Until he'd made you feel like you were drowning right alongside him.

The journal you'd given him lay on the coffee table, still in its wrapping paper. He'd taken it out of the drawer the first night, set it there like placing flowers on a grave. Couldn't bring himself to open it. Couldn't bring himself to put it away either. So it sat there, gathering dust like everything else in his life.

But try for you, not for me.

Your words echoed in the empty space, bouncing off walls that held too many memories. The place where you'd slow danced at 2 AM to no music, just the sound of rain. The kitchen counter where you'd perched while he cooked, stealing bites and making him laugh. The doorframe where you'd stood that last morning, looking so fucking tired he'd wanted to drop to his knees and beg right there.

He should have.

Instead, he'd stood frozen like the coward he was, watching you leave with grief trapped in his throat like shrapnel. Three weeks later, he could still feel it cutting him up from the inside.

His metal arm whirred softly as he flexed the fingers. A recalibration, Shuri called it. Happened when the neural pathways got overwhelmed. Fitting, really. Everything about him needed recalibrating, and he didn't know where to start.

The velvet box hidden in his tactical bag mocked him from across the room.

He'd bought it two months ago, in a moment of clarity where he thought he could push through his own bullshit long enough to do right by you. The plan had been simple: therapy, real therapy. Talk to Sam about going public. Stop letting fear drive every decision.

But clarity was a funny thing. It tended to evaporate the moment shit got real, and he'd gone right back to his patterns. Pushing you away so slowly you wouldn't notice until you were too far gone to reach.

Mission fucking accomplished.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he looked.

Raynor: Barnes. Answer your phone or I'm listing you as non-compliant. You know what that means.

He knew. Back to prison. Back to cuffs. Back to being the asset everyone was waiting to snap. Maybe that would be easier. At least in a cell, he couldn't hurt anyone else. Couldn't love anyone else into disappearing.

But even as the thought formed, he could hear your voice, sharp with frustration: "Stop. Just stop with the self-pity routine. You're not a weapon, you're a person who makes choices. So make better ones."

You'd said that after the nightmare, when he'd tried to punish himself by sleeping on the floor. Always cutting through his martyrdom complex with surgical precision.

God, he missed you. Missed you like a physical wound, like something vital had been carved out of his chest and now he was just walking around with a hole where his heart used to be.

The front door opened—Sam, using the spare key you'd insisted on giving him. Because that was the kind of person you were. The kind who thought about safety nets and backup plans and making sure the people you loved were taken care of, even when they didn't deserve it.

"Man, you look worse than the last time I saw you," Sam said, not bothering with pleasantries. "And that's saying something."

Bucky didn't respond. Couldn't find the energy to deflect or defend. Sam's eyes swept the apartment, taking in the unchanged state of everything. The pictures still on the walls—you hadn't taken those. The blanket you'd crocheted still thrown over the couch. Your favorite cereal bowl still in the dishwasher.

"You planning on turning this place into a shrine, or you actually gonna deal with your shit?"

"Leave it, Sam."

"Nah." Sam moved into the kitchen, started making coffee like he owned the place. "See, I promised someone I'd check on you. Made that promise the day she called me crying because the man she loved was treating her like a ghost while she was still right there."

That got Bucky's attention. His head snapped up. "She called you?"

"Three weeks ago. Right after she left. Want to know what she said?"

Bucky's throat felt like sandpaper. "Sam—"

"She said, 'Make sure he's okay. Make sure he eats. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.' Even while her heart was breaking, she was worried about you." Sam turned, fixing him with a look that could peel paint. "So I'm here. Making sure. Even though what I really want to do is kick your ass for being the kind of idiot who lets the best thing in his life walk away."

"I didn't let her—" Bucky stopped, the lie dying on his lips. Because that's exactly what he'd done. Pushed and pushed until leaving was her only option. "I couldn't... I was going to hurt her."

"You did hurt her. Just not the way you thought." Sam poured two cups of coffee, set one in front of Bucky with more force than necessary. "You're so scared of the Winter Soldier showing up that you didn't notice Bucky Barnes was the one doing the damage."

The words hit like a physical blow. Bucky gripped the mug, needing something to anchor him. The ceramic was warm against his flesh palm, but he couldn't feel it with the metal one. Never could. Just like he couldn't feel you slipping away until it was too late.

"She's better off—"

"Man, if you finish that sentence, I swear to God." Sam sat across from him, leaning forward. "You want to know what she's doing right now? She's crashing on her sister's couch. Calling in sick to work because she can't stop crying long enough to get through a shift. Jumping every time her phone rings because she thinks it might be you."

Each word was a knife between his ribs. Bucky's hands trembled around the mug.

"But she's safe," he managed. "From me. From what I am."

"What you are," Sam said slowly, like he was talking to a child, "is a man too scared of his own happiness to let himself have it. You think pushing her away kept her safe? All it did was break both your hearts. Congratulations. Mission accomplished."

Bucky flinched. Those were the same words he'd thought earlier, but hearing them out loud made them real in a way that threatened to crack him open.

"I don't know how to fix it," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

"Start with therapy. Real therapy, not the bullshit check-ins you've been doing." Sam pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts. "I've got a guy. Specializes in PTSD, combat trauma. He's good. Discrete. And he won't let you get away with the stone-cold routine."

"Sam—"

"You said you'd try. She left, and you promised you'd try. So fucking try, Buck. Because I've seen you fight through impossible shit. I've seen you come back from the dead, literally. But you're gonna let fear kill the best relationship you've ever had?"

Bucky stared into his coffee, seeing your face reflected in the dark surface. The way you'd looked that last morning—hollow, exhausted, but still so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. You'd been disappearing for months, and he'd been too wrapped up in his own damage to notice.

No. That wasn't true. He'd noticed. He'd just been too much of a coward to stop it.

"What if it's too late?" The question came out cracked, vulnerable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be since that morning. "What if she's done?"

Sam was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler. "Then at least you'll know you tried. Actually tried, not this half-ass self-sabotage you've been pulling. You owe her that. You owe yourself that."

Bucky thought about the ring hidden in his tactical bag. The journal gathering dust on the coffee table. The three weeks of silence that felt like three years. You'd asked him to try for himself, not for you. Because you'd known—god, you'd always known—that he couldn't heal for someone else. It had to be for him.

"The therapist," he said finally. "What's his name?"

Sam's smile was small but real. "Dr. Keene. He's got time Thursday if you're ready."

Thursday. Four days away. Four days to figure out how to walk into an office and crack himself open. Four days to stop running from the man he was so afraid of being.

"Yeah," Bucky said, and the word felt like the first true thing he'd said in weeks. "Yeah, okay."

Sam stayed for another hour, filling the silence with updates about the team, about Sarah and the boys. Normal things. Human things. The kind of life Bucky had told himself he couldn't have, didn't deserve.

After Sam left, Bucky sat in the too-quiet apartment and finally, finally opened the journal.

Your handwriting on the first page made his throat tight:

For all the stories you haven't told yet. You deserve to be more than your worst days. Always.

He picked up a pen, hand shaking slightly, and wrote the first words:

I fell in love with you on a Tuesday.

It wasn't much. It wasn't nearly enough. But it was true, and it was a start.

And maybe, if he could fill enough pages with truth, he'd figure out how to stop running from the only person who'd ever made him want to stay.

~ three weeks prior ~ The transport back to New York had been a special kind of hell.

Not the physical restraints—he'd worn worse, been treated worse. The titanium cuffs were almost gentle compared to HYDRA's methods. No, it was Walker's eyes that made him want to disappear. That mix of pity and disgust, the barely concealed I told you so hovering on his lips. It was Yelena going deadly quiet in the quinjet, which was somehow worse than her usual barbs. It was the way even Val—Val who'd seen every shade of monster there was—looked at him like a liability that needed containing.

Three bodies. Three ex-HYDRA scientists who'd been running a knockoff super soldier program out of a defunct pharmaceutical lab in Warsaw. The mission had been simple: infiltrate, gather intel, extract. No termination protocol. No weapons free. Just get in, get the data, get out.

He'd gotten in just fine.

Then one of them had smiled at him. Just a little quirk of the lips, and said, "Gotovy vypolnit' prikaz?" Ready to comply?

Not the words. Never the words again—Shuri had made sure of that. But something in the pattern, the cadence, the way the Russian rolled off his tongue like he'd been gargling broken glass. Something that bypassed all of Bucky's careful control and went straight to the place where the Soldier lived.

He'd come to with blood on his hands and Walker screaming in his ear.

The containment cell in the Tower's sub-basement was medical-grade, meant for enhanced individuals who posed a threat to themselves or others. White walls, no windows, temperature controlled to keep him comfortable while they figured out what the fuck had happened. He sat on the single bench, still in his tactical gear—they'd been too wary to let him change—and stared at his hands.

Flesh and metal. Both capable of equal damage.

His phone had been confiscated, but he could see it through the observation window, lighting up on the desk. Your ringtone—he'd assigned you something soft, something that wouldn't jar him awake from nightmares. It played three times in the first hour.

"You want me to answer that?" The tech on duty—Hollander, decent guy, three kids—gestured at the phone.

"No."

What was he supposed to say? Hey baby, I'm back in the city but currently in lockdown because I snapped and killed three people with my bare hands. How was your day?

Dr. Cho ran every scan imaginable. Blood work, brain scans, neural mapping. Looking for any trace of external manipulation, any sign that someone had found another way in. The results were horrifyingly clean. No drugs, no tech, no secret programming. Just Bucky Barnes, losing control because someone spoke Russian with the right inflection.

"It's a trauma response," Cho explained, professional but not unkind. "Like a soldier diving for cover when a car backfires. Your neural pathways remember the pattern, even if the trigger itself is gone."

"So I'm not safe." It wasn't a question.

"You're not unsafe," she corrected carefully. "But we should monitor—"

"How long?"

"Forty-eight hours minimum. Protocol."

Two days. Two days in a white box while you thought he was somewhere in Warsaw, doing hero work. Two days of your calls going unanswered because how could he explain this? How could he tell you that after all the work, all the fixing, he was still a weapon waiting to go off?

The door opened on day two. Yelena walked in like she owned the place. She dragged a chair across the floor, the screech of metal on concrete deliberately obnoxious, and sat backwards on it like they were having a casual chat.

"So," she said, examining her nails. "You had fun party in Warsaw."

"Go away, Belova."

"Cannot." She pulled out a bag of chips from her jacket—where the hell had she been hiding those?—and tore it open. "Valentina says I must watch you. Make sure you don't go—how she say—'full murder ‘bot again."

"I didn't—" He stopped. Because he had. Three bodies worth of had.

"You know what I think?" She crunched loudly, deliberately. "I think you are, eh, what is word... drama queen."

Bucky's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"You hear Russian, you freak out, you kill people." She waved a chip dismissively. "Is very dramatic. Like soap opera but with more blood."

"That's not—"

"'Oh no, someone spoke language of my tragic past, now I must murder.'" Her accent made the mockery somehow worse. "Is like me killing everyone who mentions Red Room. Would be very exhausting. Also, very messy."

"It's not the same thing."

"No?" She tilted her head, bird-like. "So trauma is competition now? Yours is special flavor?"

He glared at her. She popped another chip in her mouth, unbothered.

"You know what your problem is, Barnes?"

"Go ahead, enlighten me."

"You think you are only one with ghosts." She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "News flash—we all have them. Difference is, some of us learn to live with ghosts instead of letting ghosts live us."

"That's not—"

"Who calls you?" She nodded at his phone, still lighting up periodically. "Every twenty minutes, same ringtone. Soft. Like lullaby. Girlfriend?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Ah." She sat back, crunching thoughtfully. "And she does not know you are here, playing prisoner princess in tower."

"It's not her problem."

"Bozhe moi, you really are American again. Everything is 'not problem,' 'is fine,' 'don't worry about it.'" She switched to a terrible American accent for the last part. "Is exhausting, this pretending."

"I'm not pretending—"

"Your phone rings, and you look like someone is pulling out fingernails." She studied him with those too-sharp eyes. "But sure. Is not her problem."

Another call. The ringtone seemed louder in the silence that followed.

"You know what Natasha told me once?" Yelena's voice had gone softer, which was somehow worse than her mockery. "She said hardest part of having someone is letting them see you. All of you. Even ugly parts. Especially ugly parts."

"Natasha never—"

"Had someone? No. But she wanted to." She stood, leaving the chip bag on the chair. "Is why I think she would be very annoyed with you right now. All this self-pity, very boring. She hated boring."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "Your girlfriend—she is normal person? Not spy, not Avenger?"

He nodded reluctantly.

"Then she chose you knowing what you are, yes? Winter Soldier, metal arm, whole package?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So maybe—just maybe—she is stronger than you think. Maybe she doesn't need protecting. Maybe what she needs is boyfriend who answers fucking phone."

She knocked on the door to be let out, then turned back. "Oh, and Barnes? Next time someone speaks Russian at you and you feel like killing? Try counting to ten first. In English. Is what I do when Walker talks."

The door closed behind her, leaving Bucky alone with her words rattling around in his skull. His phone lit up again. This time, he could see the preview of your text:

Just tell me you're alive. Please.

Twenty-four hours later, when they finally released him past midnight, he had a dozen voicemails he couldn't bring himself to listen to. Not yet. Not when he was standing outside the Tower in yesterday's tactical gear, still smelling like violence and metal and shame.

He took a cab back to the apartment—couldn't call it home, not when you weren't there—and saw the anniversary dinner he'd missed. The gift waiting on the coffee table. The careful way you'd tried to make something special out of another night alone.

Three days. Three days of choosing his shame over your peace of mind. Three days of letting you think he might be dead rather than admit he was exactly what he'd always feared—a killer waiting for the right words to flip the switch.

When you finally called from that bar, drunk and scared and needing him, he'd already been drowning in guilt since Warsaw. The way you'd said you missed him, the texts that got progressively sadder, the mention of some asshole touching you—it had all crashed together into perfect clarity.

He'd been protecting himself. Not you. Never you.

Because protecting you would have meant answering the phone. Would have meant trusting you with the ugly truth. Would have meant believing—really believing—that you were strong enough to handle it.

Maybe she doesn't need protecting. Maybe what she needs is boyfriend who answers fucking phone.

Yelena's words echoed as he drove through empty streets toward you, already knowing he was probably too late. Already knowing that three days of silence had probably cost him everything.

But he went anyway. Because after three days of being a coward, showing up was the least he could do.

Even if it was too little, too late.

~ 2 years later ~

The therapist's office smelled like leather and lemon furniture polish.

Two years in, and Bucky still noticed it every Thursday at 3 PM, still cataloged exits (two), potential weapons (letter opener, paperweight, his own hands), and the exact number of steps from his chair to the door (seven).

"You're doing it again," Dr. Keene observed, not unkindly.

"Doing what?"

"The risk assessment. You're safe here, James."

James. Two years, and he still wasn't used to anyone but you calling him that. But you hadn't called him anything in 730 days. Not that he was counting.

(He was absolutely counting.)

His metal fingers flexed involuntarily, the plates realigning with soft mechanical whispers. A phantom pain shot through his left shoulder—psychosomatic, Keene had explained. His body remembering trauma that technically belonged to a different arm. The original one, the flesh and bone one, long gone. Sometimes he still felt it, especially on cold mornings. Ghost sensations of fingers that had once known how to hold a rifle steady, play cards, touch a dame's cheek without fearing what came next.

"Hard habit to break," he said, settling deeper into the chair that had molded to his body over countless sessions. The leather creaked, and his spine automatically cataloged the sound—not danger, just furniture. Another lesson in rewriting instinct. "But I'm working on it."

That was the thing about therapy—the real kind, not the court-mandated check-ins he'd half-assed his way through before. It was work. Brutal, exhausting work that left him feeling flayed open and reassembled wrong. Some days he walked out of this office feeling like he'd gone ten rounds with Steve in his prime. Bruised in places that didn't show, aching in ways that had nothing to do with muscle or bone.

"Tell me about this week," Keene prompted. The man had the patience of a saint and the perception of a sniper. Salt-and-pepper beard, kind eyes that missed nothing, hands that never moved suddenly. Bucky had hated him for the first six months. Now he just mostly tolerated him, which was progress.

"Good week. Mostly." The words came out measured, careful. His throat felt tight—always did in this room, like his body was allergic to vulnerability. "Taught a self-defense class at the community center. Helped Sam with a mission in Lagos—clean extraction, no casualties. Didn't have any nightmares until Wednesday."

"What happened Wednesday?"

Your birthday.

The thought hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, made his ribs feel too tight around his lungs. He'd seen the photos your sister posted—you laughing at some rooftop bar, wearing a red dress that made his mouth go dry even through a phone screen. New friends, new life. A guy's arm around your shoulders in one shot, casual and possessive in a way that made Bucky's metal hand whir anxiously before he caught himself.

"Just a date," he said. "Nothing significant."

Keene hummed, that particular sound that meant he saw right through the deflection but would circle back to it later. The man was like a bloodhound for emotional avoidance.

"How are the anger management exercises working?"

"Haven't punched anyone in eight months." The words tasted bitter, defensive. His jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. "Though Walker makes it tempting."

"John Walker is still part of your team?"

"Unfortunately." Bucky shifted, the leather protesting beneath him. His body felt too big for the chair suddenly, restless energy crawling under his skin like ants. "But I'm... managing it. The breathing exercises help. The grounding techniques. When he starts his shit, I just—" He paused, forced his shoulders down from where they'd crept up toward his ears. "I count to ten in Romanian now instead of Russian."

That got a small smile. "Why Romanian?"

The question sat heavy in the air. Bucky's chest went tight, that familiar sensation of memories pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding attention. "Because Russian makes me think of..."

Ready to comply.

The words echoed even unspoken, carved into neural pathways that would never fully heal. He could still taste the rubber of the mouth guard, feel the electricity racing through his veins like liquid fire, smell the ozone and burnt flesh and—

"Things I'd rather not think about," he finished, blinking hard to dispel the sense memory. His hands had clenched into fists. He forced them open, finger by finger. "Romanian just reminds me of hiding. Which wasn't great, but it was mine, you know? My choice to hide. My choice to run."

"That's significant progress, James. Reclaiming agency over your associations."

Agency. Everything came back to agency in this room. The agency HYDRA stole with voltage and scalpels and words that rewrote his DNA. The agency he'd surrendered to fear, convinced that distance was the same as protection. The agency he'd taken away from others—from you—in the name of keeping them safe.

"Can we talk about the journal?"

Bucky's entire body locked up, muscles tensing like he was preparing for a blow. The journal you'd given him sat on his desk at home, leather worn soft from two years of handling. Filled with his chicken-scratch handwriting, pages warped from tears he'd never admit to shedding. Letters to you he'd never send. Memories he was trying to preserve before they got lost in the fog of everything else. Apologies that would never be enough.

"What about it?"

"You mentioned last week that you've been writing letters to—"

"I know what I mentioned." Too sharp. He forced his shoulders to relax, unclenched his jaw. The taste of copper in his mouth meant he'd bitten his cheek. Again. "Sorry. I just... those are private."

"I'm not asking you to share them. I'm asking how it feels to write them."

How did it feel? Like performing surgery on himself without anesthesia. Like talking to a ghost that haunted his apartment, his dreams, his every waking moment. Like keeping you alive in the only way he had left—through words you'd never read, apologies you'd never hear, love letters to someone who'd moved on.

"Necessary," he said finally.

Keene waited. The man had turned waiting into an art form, comfortable with silence in a way that made Bucky want to crawl out of his skin.

"I know she's moved on," Bucky continued, the words scraping his throat raw. His metal thumb pressed against his thigh, grinding in small circles that would leave bruises later. "I know it's been two years. I know she's probably—"

Happy. In love. Getting married to someone who didn't need a manual for basic human interaction. Someone who could sleep through the night without waking up screaming. Someone who could touch her without checking for exit wounds.

"But I can't seem to stop. Writing to her, I mean. It's like... if I stop, it makes it final."

"And you're not ready for it to be final?"

"I'm never going to be ready for it to be final." The admission ripped something loose in his chest, left him feeling hollow and too full at the same time. "But that's my problem to deal with. Not hers. Not anymore."

They talked through the rest of the session about his progress. The VA meetings where he sat in circles with other broken soldiers, swapping war stories and coping mechanisms. The kids at the community center who'd gone from flinching at his arm to hanging off it like monkey bars, their fearlessness both heartbreaking and healing. The way he could walk past a flower shop now without feeling like his lungs were collapsing, though the smell of roses still made him nauseous.

"Same time next week?" Keene asked as they wrapped up.

"Yeah." Bucky stood, knees creaking in protest. His body might heal fast, but it still kept score. Old injuries that should have killed him ached in the rain. Phantom pains from wounds that had healed decades ago. The left shoulder, where metal met flesh, a constant reminder of what had been taken and what had been given back wrong.

The walk back to his apartment—new place, Bed-Stuy, far enough from your shared space that he didn't see ghosts on every corner—took him past the farmer's market. He bought plums without having a panic attack, which felt like a victory. The vendor smiled at him, genuine and warm, and he managed to smile back without feeling like a fraud.

Bought flowers too, white tulips that reminded him of nothing in particular. No associations, no memories, just simple beauty that he could practice caring for without the weight of history.

His apartment was sparse but lived-in. Books on the shelves—philosophy, poetry, the science fiction novels you'd gotten him hooked on. Dog-eared and worn, read and reread during sleepless nights when your absence felt like a physical wound. A couch that had never been slept on, because he used the bed now like a real person, even when the mattress felt too soft and his body craved the punishing hardness of the floor. Plants by the window that were miraculously still alive after six months—a small jungle of green that required daily attention, routine, care. The journal on his desk, closed but waiting, like a patient confessor.

He made dinner—actual dinner, not just protein bars and whatever he could eat standing over the sink. Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, rice. Sat at the table like a functioning adult, used both knife and fork, didn't shovel food into his mouth like someone might take it away. Did the dishes immediately instead of letting them pile up, the warm water soothing on his flesh hand, the metal one impervious as always.

The gym was less crowded in the evenings. He preferred it that way—fewer eyes tracking his movements, fewer people trying not to stare at the arm. He sparred with Sam, who'd gotten better at reading Bucky's moods over the past two years. Knew when to push and when to pull back, when Bucky needed to go hard and when he needed to be reminded that he wasn't fighting for his life anymore.

"You're getting soft," Sam said, panting after Bucky pulled a punch that would've laid him out a year ago. Sweat dripped down his face, soaked through his shirt. Even holding back, Bucky hit like a freight train.

"Maybe." Bucky unwrapped his hands, flexing the metal fingers. Shuri had added new features in the last upgrade—pressure sensors that helped him gauge his grip, temperature regulators that meant he didn't burn or freeze anyone he touched. Small improvements that made him feel less like a weapon and more like a man with a very expensive prosthetic. "Or maybe I'm just getting better at not being an asshole."

"Nah, still an asshole. Just a self-aware one now."

They grabbed beer after, sitting on the roof of Sam's building. The city sprawled below them, lights like stars that had fallen and gotten stuck. Brooklyn glittered in the distance, and Bucky's chest tightened at the sight. Somewhere out there, you were living your life. Maybe in the same apartment, maybe somewhere new. Maybe alone, maybe with—

He cut that thought off at the knees.

"Sarah's asking about Thanksgiving," Sam said carefully. Too carefully.

"I'll be there."

"You said that last year."

"Last year was... complicated."

Last year, he'd been convinced you might show up at Sam's door. That you'd be there laughing with Sarah in the kitchen, flour in your hair and wine staining your lips purple. That he'd have to sit across from you at dinner and pretend his bones weren't trying to crawl out of his skin from wanting to touch you.

He'd spent Thanksgiving on his fire escape instead, eating Chinese takeout straight from the container and writing letters he'd never send.

I'm thankful for the time we had, he'd written, three beers deep and maudlin. Even if I ruined it. Even if it hurt. Even if I dream about you every night and wake up forgetting you're gone.

"It's been two years, Buck."

"I'm aware." The words came out sharper than intended. His body tensed, ready for a fight that wasn't coming.

"Maybe it's time to—"

"Sam." A warning, low and final. The metal hand clenched around his beer bottle, not enough to shatter but enough to make the glass groan.

"I'm just saying. You've done the work. You're in a good place. Maybe it's time to reach out."

"She's moved on." The words tasted like ash, bitter and choking. "I check— I know she's doing well. That's all that matters."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. He did more than check. He had a Google alert for your name, scrolled through your sister's Instagram with the dedication of a detective working a cold case. Knew you'd gotten a promotion at work, that you'd adopted a cat named Alpine, that you'd taken up pottery classes on Thursdays.

(Thursdays. His therapy day. Like even your hobbies were avoiding him.)

Sam was quiet for a long moment, the kind of quiet that meant he was about to say something Bucky didn't want to hear. "You know she asks about you sometimes. When she calls Sarah."

Everything in Bucky went still. The city noise faded to white static, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "What?"

"Just... how you're doing. If you're okay. If you're happy."

If you're happy. Like happiness was a switch he could flip, a state he could achieve instead of something he glimpsed in peripheral vision before it vanished. He was better. He was functional. He was surviving.

But happy?

Happy was your laugh in the morning, coffee brewing while you danced to music only you could hear. Happy was your hand in his, unafraid of the metal and what it meant. Happy was two years gone and not coming back.

"What does Sarah tell her?"

"The truth. That you're doing better. That you're healing. That you—" Sam hesitated, and Bucky's stomach dropped. "That you still love her."

The beer bottle shattered.

Glass and foam exploded everywhere, shards glittering in the low light. The metal hand recalibrated, servo motors whirring as they adjusted to the sudden loss of resistance. Blood welled on his flesh palm where a shard had caught him, the wound already beginning to close.

"Shit. Sorry." He stared at the mess, mind blank. Two years of therapy, of anger management, of learning to control his strength, undone by your name and the word love in the same sentence.

"Yeah, that's about what I figured." Sam handed him a napkin, not even fazed. They'd been through worse. "Look, I'm not saying grand gestures or whatever. I'm just saying... maybe she deserves to know you're better. Maybe you both deserve some closure."

Closure. Like you could close a wound that had become part of your anatomy. Like you could stitch shut something that had fundamentally altered your DNA. His metal hand still tingled with phantom sensations, memories of holding you that the arm itself had never experienced. The flesh remembered, and somehow that was worse.

"I'll think about it," Bucky lied.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

Bucky woke to his secure phone buzzing like an angry hornet. 47 missed calls, texts flooding in faster than he could read them. Sam's name, multiple times. Sharon. Yelena. Valentina. Even Walker, which was never good. His blood went cold, mind immediately cataloging possibilities—compromise, attack, someone hurt, someone dead, you—

"What is it?" he answered Sam's callback, already reaching for his go-bag. His voice came out steady, all business, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. "Who's compromised?"

"Buck..." Sam's voice was strange. Careful in a way that made Bucky's skin crawl. "You need to see the news. But—shit, don't watch it alone, okay? Come to my place. We'll—"

But Bucky was already pulling up news sites, his metal hand gripping the phone too tight. The screen cracked under his thumb as the headline hit him like a sniper round:

LEAKED: CLASSIFIED FOOTAGE SHOWS DECADES OF WINTER SOLDIER TORTURE

The blood in his veins turned to ice water. His vision tunneled, edges going dark. No. No, no, no—

The video was everywhere. Every major news outlet, every social media platform. Forty minutes of pure, unfiltered hell—footage HYDRA had apparently kept as some sick training material. Evidence of their success in breaking him down to base code and rebuilding him wrong.

His thumb hovered over the play button. He didn't want to see. Already knew what it contained, had lived it, bore the scars both visible and not. But there was a sick compulsion, a need to know what the world was seeing. What you were seeing.

The first frame made bile rise in his throat.

There he was, young and screaming. The footage was grainy, black and white at first—old film reels from the early days, when HYDRA still bothered documenting their experiments like proud scientists. Strapped to that chair that still featured in his nightmares, metal restraints cutting into skin that hadn't yet learned to stop feeling. They'd stopped bothering with anesthetic after the first few sessions—the serum healed him too fast, made pain relief pointless. More efficient to let him scream until his throat gave out.

The video quality evolved as it progressed through the decades. Jerky 8mm film giving way to steadier 16mm, black and white bleeding into washed-out color. By the sixties, the footage was clearer, the horror rendered in technicolor precision. Multiple angles capturing every convulsion, every plea. His younger self begging in Russian, then English, then wordless animal sounds as electricity rewrote his neural pathways. The technicians taking notes, adjusting voltage with clinical detachment. One checking his watch, bored.

He watched them attach the metal arm for the first time. No anesthetic for that either. Just a bone saw and cruel efficiency, his screams echoing off concrete walls. The smell—God, he could still smell it. Burnt flesh and ozone, metal cauterizing meat. They'd had to restart his heart twice during that procedure. The video caught that too, his body convulsing on the table, eyes rolled back to show only whites.

Three minutes in, and he was on his knees in his apartment, retching. Nothing came up but bile and the ghost of a sandwich from last night. His body shook, muscles remembering trauma decades old. The metal arm sparked, recalibrating frantically as his nervous system went haywire.

The video kept playing. He couldn't look away.

Year after year compressed into minutes. The chair. The words. The wipes that left him seizing, foam tinged pink with blood frothing from his lips. Training that was just sanctioned torture—bones broken and healed and broken again until he learned to move through pain like it was weather. They made him fight other Winter Soldiers, made him kill them bare-handed to prove his superiority. One had begged. The video caught that too, caught Bucky—no, the Asset—snapping his neck without hesitation.

But the worst parts were the moments between. When the programming cracked just enough to let James Barnes bleed through. Confused, terrified, trying to remember his own name. In one clip, strapped to the chair and waiting for the next session, he'd been reciting something under his breath. The audio picked it up clearly:

"Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan..."

Over and over, like a prayer. Like a lifeline. Until the technician hit the switch and the electricity burned even that away, left him empty and ready to be filled with purpose.

By the end, the Asset barely looked human. Eyes empty, responding only to commands. They'd point, and he'd kill. They'd speak the words, and he'd comply. No hesitation, no recognition, no trace of the man who'd laughed with Steve in Brooklyn and danced with pretty girls and had a favorite sandwich at the deli on the corner.

The video ended with a mission briefing. December 16, 1991. The Asset nodding, accepting orders to kill Howard and Maria Stark without a flicker of emotion.

Bucky stayed on his knees for a long time after it finished, shaking. His phone rang and rang—Sam, probably, or one of his therapists. He couldn't answer. Couldn't form words past the scream trapped behind his teeth.

This wasn't the sanitized version from his pardon hearings. This wasn't redacted files and clinical language that let people maintain distance. This was the raw footage. This was what had been done to him, to the person he'd been, to the man who'd just wanted to serve his country and come home.

Forty minutes of torture, and that was just what they'd chosen to document. Seventy years of this, and the world was seeing it over morning coffee. Commenting on it. Sharing it. Debating whether he deserved sympathy or a bullet, whether this made him more victim or more monster.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Time went strange when your past was being broadcast to the world. His apartment felt too small, too exposed, like the walls might collapse under the weight of all those watching eyes. He'd turned off his phone eventually, couldn't stand the constant buzzing. Everyone had seen it. Everyone knew exactly what had been done to him, what he'd been reduced to.

The knock at his door was soft. So soft he almost missed it over the sound of his own ragged breathing. He didn't move at first, couldn't seem to make his legs work. The knock came again, barely there, and then—

"Bucky?"

Your voice through the door, small and wrecked.

He was on his feet before conscious thought caught up, body moving on pure instinct.

Two years of staying away, of respecting boundaries, of keeping his distance—all of it evaporated at the sound of you saying his name like that.

He yanked the door open and you were there. Hair wild, face swollen from crying, wearing pajama pants and a sweater that didn't match. Like you'd thrown on whatever was closest and come to him.

Like after two years of silence, you'd seen that video and your first instinct was to come to him.

You looked at him for one suspended moment—taking in his red eyes, the tremor in his hands, the way he was barely holding himself together—and then you were moving.

You crashed into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Your arms went around his neck and you were sobbing—great, body-shaking sobs that he felt in his bones. He caught you on instinct, metal arm around your waist, flesh hand cradling the back of your head. Your feet left the ground as he held you, held you like he'd wanted to for 731 days.

You were here. In his arms. Shaking apart, but here.

He'd imagined holding you again a thousand times. In those imaginings, it was always different—softer, maybe. Definitely not with you crying so hard you could barely breathe, not with his own eyes burning and chest cracking open. But even like this—especially like this—he hadn't felt this complete since the last time he'd held you. Like the world had finally stopped spinning wrong. Like his lungs remembered how to take in air.

You didn't say anything at first. Couldn't, probably, around the sobs. He just held you, one hand stroking your hair while you shook apart in his arms. You were warm and solid and real, and you still fit against him like you'd been carved from the same stone. He pressed his face into your hair, breathed you in—floral shampoo and something uniquely you that made his knees weak.

"I've got you," he murmured, the words coming out rough. "I've got you, sweetheart. It's okay."

But that just made you cry harder, fingers digging into his shoulders like you were afraid he'd disappear. He maneuvered you both inside, kicking the door shut without letting go. Muscle memory had him moving to the couch, sitting down with you still wrapped around him. You ended up in his lap, face buried in his neck, and he just held on while you fell apart.

Time went liquid. Could have been minutes or hours that you cried, and he just sat there, hand running up and down your spine in the same soothing pattern he'd used to use when you had nightmares. Your tears soaked through his shirt, and he could feel you trying to get closer, like you could crawl inside his chest if you just held on tight enough.

Eventually, the sobs slowed to hiccupping breaths. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, and Christ—your eyes were swollen nearly shut, face blotchy and tear-stained. You looked absolutely wrecked.

"There she is," he murmured, thumb coming up to brush tears from your cheek. His hand moved without permission, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of casual intimacy he'd lost the right to two years ago. "Hi, pretty girl."

Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "I couldn't—I tried to watch it all but I—I c-couldn't—" Your voice cracked, broke completely. You had to take several shuddering breaths before trying again. "Twenty minutes. That's all I could—and you lived it, Bucky, you actually—oh god—"

"Hey." He caught your face in his hands, thumbs sweeping away the new tears. "It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"It's not—" A sob cut you off. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, shoulders shaking. "It's not okay! N-nothing about that is okay! I knew—fuck, everyone knows what happened to you, in theory. The trial, the pardons, all of it's p-public record. But seeing it—"

Your breath hitched, caught, turned into another sob. "Actually s-seeing what they—the chair, Bucky. The way you... you screamed. The way you b-begged them to stop and they just—they just—"

"Breathe," he said softly, pulling you back against his chest when your breathing went too shallow, too fast. "Come on, sweetheart. Match me. In and out."

You pressed your ear to his chest, and he breathed slow and steady until you started to match his rhythm. His hand found your hair again, stroking through the tangles. Your whole body trembled against him, little aftershocks of grief.

"Like you weren't even h-human," you whispered against his shirt. "Like you were just... parts to be rearranged. And the early footage, you were so—you were just a kid, basically. Twenty-six and sc-screaming and—"

Another wave of sobs took you. He held you through it, jaw clenched against his own emotions.

This was why he'd never told you the details. Why he'd kept it vague—'conditioning' and 'programming' sounded so much cleaner than the reality.

"I'm being—" You pulled back suddenly, laughing through your tears but there was no humor in it. "God, I'm being ridiculous. You're the one who—who lived through it and here I am, cr-crying all over you, making you comfort me through your trauma—"

"Stop." His voice came out sharper than intended. He gentled his grip on your face, made sure you were looking at him. "Don't do that. Don't apologize for caring. Don't apologize for being human."

"But I—"

"No." He was firm on this. "You think I'd rather you saw that and felt nothing? You think I'd prefer indifference?"

"I just—" Your face crumpled again. "I asked you. Remember? About the n-nightmares. About what they did. And you said—you said 'standard Hydra shit' and I let it go. I should have pushed. Should have—"

"I wouldn't have told you." Simple truth. "I wasn't ready. Couldn't even say the words out loud in therapy, let alone to you."

"But you were so alone." The words came out broken, wet. "For d-decades, you were alone. They hurt you and broke you and put you back together wrong and you couldn't even—you couldn't even remember who you were supposed to be. And then you c-came back and I—"

You pressed a hand to your mouth, muffling another sob. "I left you alone again. You pushed me away because you were sc-scared and instead of fighting for you, I just—I left. I left you alone."

"You didn't leave me alone." He pulled your hand away from your mouth, laced their fingers together. "You left because I made it impossible to stay. Because I was too much of a coward to let you see all of me."

"You're not a c-coward." Fresh tears tracked down your cheeks. "You survived that. You survived decades of that and you're still—you're still kind. Still good. Still—" A hiccup interrupted you. "Still the best man I've ever known."

"Sweetheart—"

"I missed you," you said, the words tumbling out between sobs. "Every day. Every f-fucking day. Even when I was angry. Even when I tried to date other people. Even when I—" Your breath hitched. "I couldn't get you out of my head. Out of my heart. Like you were carved into my bones and I couldn't—couldn't scrape you out no matter how hard I tried."

"I know." His own voice cracked. He felt raw, exposed. "Me too. Every fucking day."

"I'm sorry." You were crying harder now, barely able to get words out. "I'm s-sorry I didn't fight harder. Sorry I wasn't strong enough to—to stay and make you see that you were worth fighting for."

"Hey, no." He pulled you closer, pressed his forehead to yours. "No apologies. Not for protecting yourself. Not for having boundaries. Never for that."

"But—"

"We both fucked up," he said quietly. He hardly meant it, he never blamed you, but it seemed to be what you needed to hear. "We both could have done better. But we're here now."

"Yeah," you whispered, voice small and wrecked. "We're here now."

You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other's air, existing in the same space for the first time in two years. Your body still shook with aftershocks, little tremors and hiccups that broke his heart.

"I should—" You started to pull back. "I should go. This isn't—you don't need me falling apart on your—"

"Stay." The word ripped out of him, desperate and raw. "Please. Just—you can take the bed. I'll take the couch. Not like before. Not—" He swallowed hard. "Just stay. Let me know you're safe. Let me—let me take care of you for once."

You searched his face, and he watched you see it—all the longing, all the fear, all the love he'd never learned how to hide.

"Okay," you whispered, and started crying again. "Okay."

Neither of you moved for a while after that. You stayed curled in his lap, his arms around you, while the city lights painted patterns on the walls. Every so often, a fresh wave of tears would take you, and he'd hold you through it, murmuring nonsense into your hair.

"I watched them put the arm on," you said at one point, voice hoarse. "No anesthetic. You were awake and they just—they just cut—"

"I know," he said when you couldn't finish. "I know, baby. It's over now."

"It's not over. You still dream about it. Still have days where you can't—" Another sob. "I should have been there. Should have helped somehow—"

"You did help." He pressed a kiss to your warm temple, tasted salt. "You helped by being the first person in years to look at me like I was worth saving. Even if I didn't know how to let you."

Later, he'd give you clothes to sleep in—soft things that would smell like him. You'd brush your teeth side by side, and he'd pretend his heart wasn't breaking at how right it felt. He'd make up the bed with fresh sheets while you changed, and when you emerged drowning in his henley, he'd have to look away.

When you paused in the bedroom doorway, looking back at him with swollen eyes and something fragile in your expression, he'd be ready.

"Thank you," you'd say, voice still rough from crying. "For letting me stay. For—for being here."

"Always," he'd reply, and mean it with every atom of his being.

You'd smile then—wobbly and complicated—and close the door. He'd make up the couch and lie there listening to you breathe in the next room, marveling at the miracle of your presence.

But for tonight, you were here. Safe in his space, under his protection, breathing the same air. After 731 days of nothing, it was everything.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

The couch was too short for his frame, but after two years of therapy, Bucky had learned to stop punishing himself with discomfort. He'd gotten good at making himself comfortable in spaces that didn't quite fit. Still, sleep came in fragments—twenty minutes here, an hour there. His body kept jerking awake, convinced he'd dreamed the whole thing. That you weren't really in his bed, wearing his clothes, breathing his air.

Around 3 AM, he heard the bedroom door creak open. Soft footsteps on hardwood, hesitant but moving closer. He opened his eyes to find you standing there in the darkness, silhouetted by the city lights filtering through the windows. You'd put his henley back on, and it hung to mid-thigh, making you look smaller than you were.

"Baby?" The endearment slipped out before he could catch it, voice rough with sleep and surprise. He squinted, trying to read your expression in the dark. "You okay? Need something?"

You didn't answer. Just stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around yourself, before moving toward him with purpose. He sat up, ready to give you the couch if you couldn't sleep in the bed, ready to move to the floor if that's what you needed. But you didn't ask him to move.

Instead, you crawled right into his space, onto the couch that was definitely not built for two people. He accepted you immediately, arms opening on instinct as you fitted yourself against him—chest to chest, your face buried in his neck. The couch groaned under the combined weight, but held.

"Hey," he murmured, pulling the blanket up over both of you. His hand found your hair, still messy from sleep. "Bad dream?"

You shook your head against his throat. Your arms went around him, holding on tight, and he could feel the way your breath hitched. Not crying, but close. He understood without explanation—you'd woken up remembering. The video, the torture, the decades of pain compressed into forty minutes of footage. You'd needed to touch him, to feel him solid and whole and here.

"I've got you," he whispered into your hair. "I'm okay. I'm right here."

You made a small sound and pressed closer, like you could protect him retroactively from things that had already happened. One of your hands found the juncture where metal met flesh, fingers tracing the scars there with devastating gentleness. He tensed for a moment—old habit—then forced himself to relax. To let you touch. To let you see.

They stayed like that until dawn crept through the windows, dozing in and out of sleep. Every time he surfaced, you were there, heartbeat against his chest, breath warm on his neck. Real. Present. A miracle he still couldn't quite believe.

When morning came properly, neither of them acknowledged how naturally they'd fitted together in sleep. How your leg had hooked over his hip, how his metal hand had splayed possessively across your lower back. They extracted themselves carefully, both pretending not to notice the reluctance in the separation.

"Coffee?" he offered, voice still gravelly.

"Tea, if you have it." You stretched, his henley riding up to reveal a strip of skin that made his brain short-circuit. "Coffee makes me jittery these days."

These days. Two years of changes, small evolutions he hadn't been there to witness. He turned to the kitchen to hide the way that knowledge sat heavy in his chest.

"Still take it with honey?"

"Yeah." You padded after him, bare feet on hardwood.

He busied himself with the ritual of morning—filling the kettle, finding the good honey (wildflower, local, from the farmers market you'd always loved), selecting eggs from the fridge. You perched on one of the bar stools at the counter, watching him move through his space with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"You cook now," you observed.

"Turns out eating actual food is part of that whole 'taking care of yourself' thing Keene keeps harping on about." He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced efficiency. "Who knew?"

"Your therapist sounds like a smart man."

"Don't let him hear you say that. His ego's big enough already." He glanced at you, taking in the sleep-rumpled hair, the way his clothes draped over your frame. You looked soft and accessible and untouchable all at once. "I've got some sweatpants that might fit better than the boxers, if you want—"

"These are fine." You tugged at the hem of the henley self-consciously. "If that's... if you don't mind."

"I don't mind." Understatement of the century. Seeing you in his clothes was doing something to his brain that felt both ancient and brand new. "Never minded."

Silence settled between them as he cooked, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You sipped your tea and watched him work, occasionally commenting on the changes in his apartment—the art on the walls, the plants that hadn't died, the general sense that someone actually lived here instead of just existing.

He was plating the omelets when you spotted it. The journal, sitting on the counter where he'd left it last night. Your whole body stilled, mug pausing halfway to your lips.

"Oh," you said quietly. "You use it."

Understatement of the century.

"Yeah." He set your plate in front of you, then leaned back against the opposite counter, giving you space. "Every day, pretty much."

You reached out, fingers hovering over the worn leather cover. "What do you write about?"

"Everything. Nothing." He shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by miles. "Therapy stuff. Memories I want to keep. Things I should have said."

"Letters," you said, not quite a question. "Sam mentioned letters, once."

"Yeah."

You were still staring at the journal like it might bite. Or like it might break your heart.

"You can look, if you want." The words came out steadier than he felt. "It's... a lot of it's to you anyway."

Your eyes snapped to his. "You don't have to—"

"I know. But we're doing honesty now, right? Being real?" He gestured to the journal. "That's about as real as I get."

You hesitated for another moment, then pulled the journal toward you. Your hands shook slightly as you opened it, and he had to look away. Focused on his coffee instead of the way your face changed as you read his messy handwriting, years of thoughts spilled onto paper.

He knew what you were seeing. Pages of apologies, observations, dreams he'd documented so he wouldn't forget them. Lists of things he wanted to tell you—your laugh sounds different in my memory than it did in real life. I bought plums at the market and almost called you. I still can't sleep on the left side of the bed.

The poetry was in there too, terrible attempts at capturing feelings too big for prose. He'd tried to write about the way you used to hum while cooking, how you'd steal his socks and act surprised when he'd find you wearing them. How loving you had felt like drowning and breathing all at once.

You were crying again, silent tears sliding down your cheeks as you read. Occasionally you'd make a small sound—half-laugh, half-sob—at something particularly pathetic he'd written. He wanted to take the journal back, spare you both this vulnerability. Instead, he gripped his mug tighter and waited.

Finally, you looked up. Your eyes were red but clear, seeing him in that way you'd always had. Like you could look past all the armor and see straight to the soft, desperate heart of him.

"Two years," you said softly. "You wrote to me for two years."

"Seven hundred and thirty-one days." He set down his mug, needing his hands free. Needing to move. "I know how it looks. Obsessive. Unhealthy, probably. Keene says it's—"

"Human," you interrupted. "It looks human."

You stood, rounding the counter until you were in his space. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, count the tears still clinging to your lashes. You reached up slowly, telegraphing your movement, and he realized what you were doing. Giving him time to pull away, to redirect.

He didn't.

Your hand touched his face, and for the first time in two years, he didn't flinch. Didn't turn to offer the other cheek, the flesh side. You cupped his jaw with careful fingers, thumb brushing over stubble, and he let his eyes close. Let himself have this moment of being touched without apology.

"I wrote too," you admitted. "Not in a journal. In my phone. Little notes I'd never send. Anger, mostly, at first. Then just... observations. Things I wanted to tell you. Dreams I had where you were still there when I woke up."

He opened his eyes to find you closer still. Your other hand came up, and now you were holding his face between your palms like something precious. Something worth keeping safe.

"Can I—" you started, then stopped. Took a breath. "I want to kiss you. Is that—would that be okay?"

Instead of answering, he brought his metal hand up to cradle your cheek. Watched your eyes flutter closed as you leaned into the touch, no fear or hesitation. Just trust. Just love, somehow still intact after everything.

"Always," he murmured, and closed the distance.

The first press of lips was careful, tentative. A question asked and answered in the space of a breath. You made a small sound and pressed closer, and suddenly he was seventeen and eighty and every age in between, kissing you for the first time and the thousandth time all at once.

Your lips were chapped from crying, and you tasted like honey tea and salt. He'd never tasted anything better. One of your hands slid into his hair and he groaned, the sound swallowed between your mouths. Two years of missing this, of waking up reaching for you, and here you were. Soft and warm and real.

The kiss deepened, something desperate creeping in at the edges. He walked you backward until you hit the counter, lifted you onto it without breaking contact. You gasped against his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and his brain went white-static at the feeling.

He'd always loved kissing. Loved the intimacy of it, the way it could feel more vulnerable than sex. Loved how you'd melt against him, how you'd make those little sounds when he found the right angle, the right pressure. He kissed you like he was relearning a language he'd never truly forgotten, muscle memory and discovery all tangled together.

When you pulled back to breathe, he trailed his mouth down your jaw, found that spot below your ear that had always made you shiver. Still did. Your hands tightened in his hair, and he smiled against your throat. Some things didn't change.

"Bucky," you breathed, and he had to kiss you again just for the way you said his name. Like a prayer, like a promise, like coming home.

His hands found your waist, rucking up the henley to find bare skin. You were warm and sleep-soft under his palms, and when he spread his fingers wide, he could span most of your back. The metal hand was gentle, sensors calibrated to exactly the right pressure. No hiding, no hesitation. Just touch.

You shifted against him, and he became suddenly, devastatingly aware that you were wearing his boxers and nothing else under them. His hand slid to your thigh, fingers brushing under the fabric, and you made a sound that short-circuited several major brain functions.

"Wait," you gasped, pulling back slightly. Your lips were swollen, eyes dark, and it took every ounce of control not to dive back in. "Are we—what are we doing here?"

"I don't know," he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, bodies lined up in ways that made thinking difficult. "What do you want us to be doing?"

"I want—" You stopped, seemed to gather yourself. Your hands were still in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made him want to purr. "I want to do this right this time. I want to be sure we're not just... falling back into old patterns."

"This doesn't feel like old patterns." His thumb stroked along your ribs, feeling the expansion of your breath. "This feels new. Better. Like we might actually know what we're doing this time."

"Do we though?" But you were smiling, small and real. "Because I'm sitting on your kitchen counter at 8 AM, wearing your clothes, and I'm about five seconds from doing something really stupid."

"What kind of stupid?"

"The kind where I drag you back to that couch and show you exactly how much I missed you."

Jesus. He pressed his face into your neck, trying to get his bearings. "That doesn't sound stupid. That sounds—"

"Like we're skipping steps again." Your fingers gentled in his hair, stroking now instead of gripping. "Like we're using physical stuff to avoid talking about the hard stuff."

She was right. Of course she was right. Two years of therapy for both of them, and here they were, ready to fall back into bed without addressing any of the things that had driven them apart.

"Okay," he said, pulling back to look at you. It took effort—every instinct screaming to stay close, to take what you were offering—but he managed it. "Okay. You're right. We should talk."

"Such a responsible adult," you teased, but there was affection in it. Love, even. "Therapy’s really done a number on you."

"You have no idea."

He helped you down from the counter, both of you adjusting clothes and trying to pretend the kitchen wasn't charged with enough sexual tension to power Brooklyn. You settled back at the counter with your rapidly cooling breakfast, and he took the stool next to you this time. Close enough that your knees touched. Small victories.

"So," you said, cutting into your omelet. "Talk. What do we do now?"

It was a good question. The question, really. Two years of growth, of therapy, of learning to be whole people instead of broken halves. They couldn't just slot back together and pretend nothing had happened. But they couldn't pretend they weren't still inevitably drawn to each other either.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know I want to try. Real try, not the half-assed thing I was doing before. I want to tell you about the hard stuff. I want to trust you with all of it, not just the parts I think you can handle. I want..." He paused, gathered courage. "I want to be the partner you deserved two years ago. If you'll let me."

You set down your fork, turned to face him fully. "I want that too. But I need—we both need—to be whole people first. Not trying to fix each other or complete each other or whatever codependent shit we were doing before."

"Agreed." He risked reaching out, covering your hand with his metal one. You turned your palm up, interlacing the fingers, and something in his chest eased. "So what does that look like?"

"I think..." You squeezed his hand, thinking. "I think it looks like taking things slow. Like actually dating this time, not just falling into living together because it's easier. Like being honest about the scary stuff, even when our brains are telling us to protect each other."

"Therapy homework," he said with a grimace. "Keene's gonna love this."

"Mine too. She's been saying I need to practice healthy boundaries for months."

"So... boundaries." The word felt foreign in his mouth when it came to you. But necessary. "What do you need?"

You considered this, thumb stroking over his metal knuckles absently. "Time. Space to keep being my own person. Regular check-ins about how we're feeling, even when—especially when—it's uncomfortable. And..." You looked at him directly. "I need you to trust me. Really trust me. With the missions that go bad, with the nightmares, with the days when you can barely get out of bed. All of it."

"That's gonna be hard," he admitted.

"I know."

"But I want to try."

"I know that too."

They sat there for a moment, hands linked, breakfast cooling between them. It wasn't the passionate reconciliation his body wanted. Wasn't the dramatic merger of souls that movies promised. It was quieter than that. More solid. Real in a way that all their previous attempts hadn't been.

"So," he said eventually. "Want to go on a date with me?"

You laughed, bright and surprised. "A date?"

"Yeah. Friday night. I'll pick you up and everything. We can do the whole first date thing properly this time."

"We already slept together on our actual first date."

"Which is why we're doing it better this time." He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "What do you say?"

"I say..." You pretended to consider, but your smile gave you away. "Pick me up at seven. And Barnes? Bring flowers."

"Yes ma'am."

You stayed for another hour, talking through logistics and boundaries and all the unsexy parts of rebuilding a relationship. He drove you home on his bike—you still remembered exactly how to move with him through traffic—and walked you to your door like a gentleman.

"Friday," you said, and it sounded like a promise.

"Friday," he agreed.

You went up on your toes and kissed his cheek, soft and brief. Then you were gone, leaving him standing on your stoop with his hand pressed to his face like a teenager.

He made it back to his apartment before the full weight of it hit him. You were back. Not in his bed, not in his life fully, but back in his orbit. They had a date. A real date, with parameters and boundaries and all the things Keene had been telling him he needed.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to his therapist's contact.

"I need an emergency session," he said when Keene answered. "Something happened."

"Are you safe?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm good. Really good. That's kind of the problem."

A pause. "This is about her, isn't it?"

"How did you—"

"James. We've been working together for two years. I know your 'she's back in my life' voice."

"I have a 'she's back in my life' voice?"

"You have several. Which one is this—the panicked one or the cautiously optimistic one?"

Bucky considered, thinking about your hand in his, the way you'd kissed him like you had all the time in the world.

"Cautiously optimistic," he decided.

"Then I'll see you Thursday at our regular time. And James? Good job on reaching out instead of spiraling."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and James? Flowers. Don't forget flowers."

"Already on it."

He hung up and stared at his journal, still open on the counter where you'd left it. Evidence of two years of missing you, wanting you, learning to be someone who could deserve you.

Time to put all that work to use.

He had a date to plan.

~ six months later ~

The couch had become sacred ground.

Not in the way it used to be—a monument to his cowardice, the place he'd slept to avoid your bed. Now it held different memories. Better ones. The afternoon he'd spent relearning your body. The night he'd finally told you about Warsaw, really told you, while you held his hand and didn't flinch. The morning he'd made love to you slow and quiet while rain streaked the windows.

Tonight, you were draped across his lap, wearing one of his t-shirts and not much else, pretending to watch whatever movie he'd put on. He wasn't paying attention either. Too focused on the way you kept shifting against him, the little sighs you made when his fingers traced patterns on your bare thigh.

"You're not watching," you accused, but your voice was breathy, distracted.

"Neither are you." His metal hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your underwear. The sensors registered heat, dampness, the way your muscles tensed in anticipation. "Got something more interesting in mind?"

You turned in his lap to face him, straddling his thighs with a flexibility that still made his brain short-circuit. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He gripped your hips, pulled you flush against him. You were already wet—he could feel it through the thin fabric between you both, and it made his cock twitch with interest. "Gonna need more than maybe, sweetheart."

Instead of answering, you rocked against him, a slow roll of your hips that made you both catch your breath. Your hands braced on his shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to ground you both.

"Missed you today," you said, and it wasn't what he expected. Your voice was soft, honest in that way that still sometimes caught him off guard.

"I was only gone eight hours."

"I know." Another roll of your hips, more deliberate this time. "Still missed you."

Something in his chest went tight and warm. Two years back together, and you still missed him when he was gone. Still wanted him when he came home. Still looked at him like he was something worth keeping.

And in his bedside drawer, hidden beneath old mission reports and spare magazines, sat a small velvet box that had been waiting three years. The one he'd bought drunk on love and convinced he'd found forever. Even through your separation, through all the therapy and growth and pain, he'd never been able to throw it away.

Now it waited for the right moment—not rushing this time, not desperate. Just certain.

"Show me," he said, voice rougher than intended. "Show me how much."

Your eyes went dark at the command. You loved this—when he got demanding, when he stopped treating you like glass. It had taken months to learn your signals, to trust that you'd tell him if something was too much. Now he could read your body like his favorite book, knew exactly when to push and when to ease back.

He slid his metal hand between you both, pressing the heel against you through your underwear. You gasped, hips jerking forward, and he smiled. "That's it. Take what you need."

You ground against his hand with increasing desperation, chasing friction. He watched your face, cataloging every expression—the way your brows drew together when something felt particularly good, how your mouth fell open when he increased the pressure. Beautiful. Fucking perfect.

"Not enough," you whimpered, movements becoming frantic. "Need—"

"I know what you need." He pulled your underwear aside with his flesh hand, metal fingers finding your clit immediately. The temperature difference made you cry out—cool metal against overheated flesh. "Always so wet for me. So ready. Been thinking about this all day too, haven't you?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words as he circled your clit with devastating precision. The upgraded sensors were incredible, letting him feel every twitch, every pulse of need. He could tell you were already close, wound tight from anticipation.

"Want to try something," he said, slowing his movements just enough to make you whine. "Trust me?"

"Always." No hesitation, and that trust still humbled him.

He shifted his hand, two metal fingers sliding through your wetness before pressing inside. You were soaked, taking them easily, and the sound you made went straight to his cock. But that wasn't the best part—the best part was activating the subtle vibration function Shuri had installed for "therapeutic purposes."

"Oh fuck—" Your whole body went rigid, then melted against him. "Bucky, what—"

"Upgrade." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made you see stars while the vibrations worked you from the inside. "Good?"

You couldn't answer, too lost in sensation as he worked you higher. Your wetness coated his fingers, dripping down to his palm, and he had to grit his teeth against the urge to forget the foreplay and just bury himself inside you.

"Look at you," he murmured, free hand tangling in your hair to keep you facing him. "Taking it so well. So perfect for me. Can feel how close you are—clenching around my fingers, trembling in my lap. You gonna come for me?"

You nodded desperately, movements erratic as you rode his hand. He increased the vibration, pressed his thumb to your clit, and watched you shatter. Your orgasm hit hard, back arching as you cried out. He worked you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and grabbing his wrist.

"Too much," you gasped, but he didn't stop. Just gentled his movements, eased the vibrations down to a subtle hum.

"You can take it." He kissed your neck, felt your pulse racing under his lips. "Know you can. Always so good for me, aren't you? Can give me one more."

You made a broken sound as he resumed his rhythm, oversensitive and overwhelmed. Your whole body trembled, caught between pulling away and pressing closer. He loved you like this—completely undone, trusting him to take care of you even when it bordered on too much.

"That's my girl," he praised as fresh wetness coated his fingers. "Getting even wetter. Body knows what it needs even when your brain's all fuzzy. Just feel, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good."

The second orgasm built slower, your body fighting it even as it climbed. He could tell the exact moment you gave in, stopped resisting and just let it happen. You went limp against him, only his hand in your hair keeping you upright as you came again, quieter this time but no less intense.

"Beautiful," he breathed, finally easing his fingers out. They were soaked, glistening in the low light. "So fucking beautiful."

You made a small sound when he lifted you, rearranging you both so you were on your back on the couch, him kneeling between your spread thighs. Your underwear was ruined, twisted to the side and soaked through. He pulled them off, tossed them somewhere behind him.

"Look at this pretty cunt," he said, running a finger through your folds. You twitched, sensitive, and he smiled. "All swollen and wet. Can see how hard you came—still clenching around nothing, still dripping for me."

"Please," you whispered, the first word you'd managed in minutes.

"Please what?" He freed his cock, groaning at the relief. He was painfully hard, had been since you first climbed in his lap. "Tell me what you want."

"You." Your hands reached for him, shaky but insistent. "Want you inside me. Need to feel you."

"Yeah?" He rubbed the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself. You were furnace-hot, slick enough that he had to grit his teeth for control. "Think you can take it? Already came twice, might be too sensitive..."

"I can take it." There was steel under the desperation in your voice. His girl, always stronger than you looked. "Please, Bucky. Need you."

He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and you both groaned. You were molten around him, cunt fluttering with aftershocks that made him see stars. Perfect. Like you were made for him, shaped by him, existing just for this.

"Fuck," he breathed, having to stay still or risk ending this embarrassingly fast. "Feel so good, baby. So wet and tight and perfect. Can feel you trying to pull me deeper. Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You clenched around him deliberately, and he had to press his forehead to your shoulder for composure. Two years, and you still affected him like this. Still made him feel desperate and possessive and completely fucking gone for you.

He started to move, slow and deep, watching your face for signs of discomfort. But you just gazed up at him with trust and heat and something that looked a lot like awe. Like he was something worth looking at that way, even after everything.

"Love fucking you like this," he told you, picking up the pace. "Love watching you take my cock. Love how wet you get, how you stretch around me. Could live inside this sweet cunt."

You moaned, arching into him. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you could reach. He caught them, pinned them above your head with his metal hand. The position made you clench around him, and he smiled.

"Like that? Like being held down?" He thrust harder, deeper, watching your tits bounce with the force. "Like knowing you can't move, can't do anything but take what I give you?"

You nodded frantically, and he could feel fresh wetness where you were joined. Perfect. His perfect girl, who trusted him with your pleasure, who let him take control because you knew he'd take care of you.

"Gonna come again," he told you, rhythm getting rougher. "Gonna fill this pretty cunt up. Mark you from the inside, make sure you feel me all day tomorrow. Would you like that? Walking around full of my come, knowing who you belong to?"

"Yes," you gasped, and he could feel you getting close again. "Yes, please, yours—"

"Mine," he agreed, and reached down to rub your clit with his flesh hand. "All mine. This cunt, this body, this perfect fucking girl. Mine to fuck, mine to fill, mine to take care of."

You came with a cry, convulsing around him. The feeling of your cunt gripping him, trying to milk his cock, sent him over the edge. He buried himself deep and came hard, grinding against you as he filled you.

"That's it," he groaned, still pulsing inside you. "Take it all. Such a good girl, taking everything I give you."

You stayed locked together as you caught your breath, both trembling with aftershocks. He released your wrists, smoothing his hands over the marks he'd left. Not bruises—he was always careful about pressure—but evidence of his grip that would fade within the hour.

"Okay?" he asked, pressing kisses to your temple.

You hummed contentment, boneless and sated beneath him. "More than okay. That was..."

"Yeah." He knew what you meant. The intensity, the connection, the way it felt like coming home every single time.

He eased out carefully, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. His come immediately started leaking out of you, and something primal in him loved the sight. Marked. His.

"Stay there," he ordered, heading to the bathroom for a washcloth.

When he returned, you'd curled onto your side, looking soft and fucked out and perfect. He cleaned you gently, carefully, smiling when you twitched at the contact.

"Sensitive?"

"Mmm. Good sensitive." You caught his hand, brought it to your lips. "Love you."

"Love you too." The words came easy now, no hesitation or fear. Just truth.

He gathered you up, carrying you to bed properly. Tomorrow you'd deal with the real world—missions and therapy and all the work that went into building a life together. But tonight, you had this. Each other. A love that had survived separation and learned how to stay.

"Hey," you mumbled against his chest as he settled you both under the covers.

"Yeah?"

"We're really doing this, aren't we? Making it work?"

He pressed a kiss to your hair, pulled you closer. "Yeah, sweetheart. We really are."

And for the first time in your relationship, he thought of that ring in his dresser without a doubt in his mind.

feedback is always appreciated! ♡

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sashaisready · 6 days ago

Text

Hey so I’m going to die

attrition, part one | b.b.

✮ synopsis: six months. that's how long it takes for you to realize love isn't enough. six months of bucky sleeping on the couch, of missed anniversaries and empty drawers where his things should be. six months of being loved by someone who treats you like you're already a ghost.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers (18+): heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (unintentional), alcohol use/intoxication, unwanted touching (from minor character), violence, ptsd and trauma responses, therapy avoidance, communication breakdown, emotional neglect, mild sexual content (minors dni), depression, co-dependency, anxiety, self-destructive behaviors

✮ word count: 14.7k (woof)

✮ a/n: ANGST CITY BABY. but this is part one of a two-part series and i p r o m i s e (promise promise) there's a happy ending on the horizon. but i've gotta drag everyone through the emotional trenches first 🤠

The candle wax had started pooling at the base, creating small rivers that threatened to spill onto the tablecloth your grandmother gave you. You'd been watching it for the past twenty minutes, cataloging its slow destruction while the roast chicken developed a skin that could probably deflect bullets.

Which, given who you were waiting for, felt grimly appropriate.

Your bare feet had gone numb against the kitchen tile, a bone-deep cold that crept up through your ankles. The dress—the one that made you feel like you could conquer an imaginary boardroom and bar fights with equal efficiency—now clung uncomfortably to your ribs, each breath a reminder of how long you'd been sitting here, waiting. Your stomach had given up growling an hour ago, resigned to its empty fate.

Six months. The number sat heavy behind your sternum, a weight that pressed against your lungs with each inhale. You'd moved in together at three months—a decision that had felt like destiny at the time. His toothbrush next to yours. His combat boots by your rain boots. His leather jacket slowly accumulating the smell of your perfume.

It had seemed romantic then, this swift collision of lives. Now the apartment felt like a beautiful prison you'd both walked into willingly, locking the door behind you.

The wine had gone warm in your glass, taking on that sickly sweet quality that made your teeth ache. You'd stopped drinking after the second one, some optimistic part of you still believing he'd walk through the door in time to share the bottle. That same part of you had carefully wrapped the small gift sitting on the coffee table—nothing major, just something that had made you think of him. A leather journal, worn and vintage, the kind he always touched in antique shops but never bought. You'd written something inside it this morning, when hope still felt like a reasonable emotion.

Your phone sat dark beside your plate. No messages. No missed calls. The silence of it felt accusatory, like even the device had given up on pretending this was normal.

When the key finally scraped in the lock, your spine straightened involuntarily, vertebrae clicking back into alignment after hours of slumping. Your heart kicked up its rhythm, that Pavlovian response to his arrival you hadn't managed to train out of yourself yet. Even now, even angry and hurt and tired, your body betrayed you with its eagerness.

Bucky filled the doorway like he always did—not just with his physical presence but with that particular gravity that made rooms reorganize themselves around him. Exhaustion hung on him like a second skin, in the slope of his shoulders and the way he held his head. His shoulders carried that specific tension that meant the mission had gone sideways, muscles bunched under his jacket like he was still ready to fight. The cut on his cheek was fresh, still weeping slightly, and his tactical pants bore smears of something dark that could be mud or blood or both.

He stopped mid-step, keys still dangling from his flesh hand. His eyes—that impossible blue that still made your stomach flip traitorously—tracked from your face to the dress to the table set for two. The wine bottle. The wilted salad. The candles drowning in their own wax.

You watched the exact moment comprehension hit him. His pupils dilated slightly, jaw going slack before tightening again. The keys landed in the bowl with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.

"Shit." The word came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep in his chest. "Sweetheart, I—"

"It's fine." The words jumped out before he could finish, your voice pitched just high enough to sound almost believable. Already you were moving, hands reaching for plates like this was all part of the plan. The ceramic was cool under your fingers, grounding you. "You're here now. Are you hungry? I can reheat—"

"Don't." His voice cut through your bustling, low and rough like gravel. When you looked back, he hadn't moved from the entryway, just stood there like he was cataloging damage from a bomb he'd accidentally detonated. One hand braced against the doorframe, knuckles white.

"Really, it's nothing." You turned back to the table, focusing on the simple task of stacking dishes. Your hands stayed steady even as something hot and tight crawled up your throat. "I made too much anyway. You know me, always overestimating portions."

"What time did I say?" The question came out carefully neutral, but you'd learned to read the microscopic changes in his voice. The slight rasp that meant self-hatred was creeping in.

"Seven-ish?" You kept your tone light, breezy, the voice you used when pretending everything was fine during your mother's phone calls. "But honestly, I should have checked. I know how these things go."

"It's nine." He said it like he was confessing to a crime. "Nine oh seven."

"Bucky, really—"

You glanced at him, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the scene again. His eyes moved from the table to you, cataloging details with that sniper's precision that never quite turned off. The dress. Your bare feet. The careful way you'd done your hair. Then his gaze caught on something over your shoulder, snagging like fabric on a nail.

The coffee table.

His whole body went rigid, that predator stillness that meant his brain was processing a threat. Except the threat was a small wrapped package, sitting innocent and damning in the lamplight.

Your stomach dropped somewhere around your knees.

"What—" he started, voice strangled.

"Oh, that's nothing." The words tumbled out too fast as you moved, scooping up the gift before he could step closer. The paper crinkled under your grip, and you fought the urge to crush it completely. "Just something I saw. Picked up. Seriously, not important."

His face went pale—not the gradual drain of color but an instant bleaching that made him look hollow, ghostlike. The cut on his cheek, half-healed and forgotten until now, stood out angry and red against his bloodless skin. You watched him piece it together in real time, could actually see the moment understanding clicked behind his eyes.

His left hand—the metal one—betrayed him first. The plates shifted and recalibrated with soft mechanical whispers, the way they always did when his emotions ran too hot, too fast for his body to process. A tell he'd never managed to suppress.

His gaze drifted past you, landing on that stupid Seinfeld calendar stuck to the fridge. The one he'd bought you three months ago, cackling like an idiot in the checkout line about how George Costanza somehow perfectly captured your shared existential dread. It hung there between old takeout menus and photo booth strips from better days, garish and wonderful and so utterly them that it hurt to look at.

You watched him stare at it, watched him count backwards in his head. Watched the last piece slot into place.

"It’s today," he said slowly, like he was defusing a bomb. Like the words might explode if he said them too fast. "It's—fuck." The profanity came out as barely more than a breath. "Fuck. Six months."

"It's really not a big deal." You were already shoving the gift into the nearest drawer, the wood protesting as you forced it shut. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around your ribs and was slowly tightening them. "Just a random Tuesday, you know? I mean, who even counts months? That's so high school."

"You made dinner." His voice had gone hollow, echoing strangely in the small space. Each word seemed to cost him something. "You got dressed up. You bought—"

"I like cooking." The words came out too fast, too bright, like shattered glass catching light. Your smile felt like it might crack your face. "And this dress is comfortable, I wear it all the time. You probably just haven't noticed because you're—anyway, should I heat up the chicken? You must be starving."

"Stop."

The word came out rough, almost angry, but when you looked at him, you could see all that fury turned inward. His flesh hand was clenched into a fist so tight you could hear his knuckles pop. The metal one hung carefully still at his side, like he didn't trust it. Didn't trust himself.

"Just—stop pretending this is okay."

"But it is okay." You forced the smile wider, until your cheeks ached with it. The expression you'd perfected after months of practice. "I understand. Your work is important. The world needs saving. What's a dinner compared to that?"

Something shifted in his expression—frustration bleeding into something that looked almost like disappointment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words, trying to find the right ones. You recognized that look. It was the same one he got when he wanted you to yell at him, to throw something, to be anything other than understanding.

But you couldn't give him that. Wouldn't. Because if you started letting the hurt show, you might never stop. The dam would break, and you'd drown both of you in the flood.

"I forgot our anniversary." He said it flatly, like stating evidence at a trial. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would hurt less. It didn't.

"It's just a day." You busied yourself with clearing plates, needing the physical action to keep yourself anchored. The fork clinked against china, a tinny sound that made you wince. "We're together every day. That's what matters, right?"

"You don't believe that."

"Sure I do." Another lie, smooth as silk. You'd gotten good at them. Had to, living like this. "Besides, when you think about it, anniversaries are kind of arbitrary. Why six months and not seven? Why celebrate time at all when—"

"What was in the box?"

He'd moved closer while you rambled, silent as always. Ghost-quiet, they probably called it in his files. Now he stood between you and the kitchen, blocking your escape with his body. This close, you could smell the mission on him—cordite and copper and something acrid that might have been burning plastic.

"Nothing important. Just… something that made me think of you." You shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around manic. Your hands fluttered like birds with broken wings. "But honestly, it's stupid. You probably wouldn't even—"

"Show me."

"Bucky—"

"Please." The word caught you off guard, soft and desperate. It hit you in the solar plexus, knocked the air from your lungs. "Just... let me see what you got me."

You could have refused. Should have, maybe. Instead, you found yourself retrieving the small package, the drawer sticking slightly as you pulled it open again. Your hands trembled as you held it out, and you hated them for the betrayal.

He took it carefully, like it might explode. Or like it was precious. The same way he'd touched you, in the beginning, before he'd learned you wouldn't break. The paper fell away with careful movements of his flesh hand, the metal one still hanging useless at his side.

The journal revealed itself slowly—leather worn soft with age, the color of whiskey in low light. You'd seen him run his fingers over similar ones a dozen times in antique shops, always putting them back with a small shake of his head. Like he didn't deserve nice things. Like he couldn't allow himself even that small pleasure.

"I thought—" Your voice caught, and you had to swallow hard to continue. "You're always writing on those loose papers, and they get everywhere, and I thought maybe—but it's dumb. You probably prefer the papers. It's not—"

"It's perfect." His voice came out raw, scraped. Like the words hurt coming up.

He opened it with careful fingers, found the note you'd tucked into the first page. You watched his eyes track over your handwriting, watched his jaw tighten with each word. You'd written it last night, three glasses of wine deep and feeling sentimental. Something about how his stories deserved a better home than scattered napkins and receipt backs. Something about being grateful for every day, even the difficult ones.

Now it felt like evidence of your naivety.

"It's really not," you said quickly, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. "I can return it. Get you something more practical. Or nothing. Nothing's good, too."

He looked up at you then, and the devastation in his eyes made your stomach flip. It was the look he got sometimes when he woke up from nightmares, before he remembered where he was. When he was. Lost and guilty and carrying too much weight for one person's shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between you, the journal still clutched in his flesh hand like an anchor. "Acting like nothing matters. Like I didn't just—like this doesn't—" He stopped, frustrated, the words tangling up behind his teeth. "I fucked up. I forgot something important. Why won't you be angry?"

"Because I'm not angry." Your voice stayed steady even as your nails dug crescents into your palms. "I'm fine. We're fine. Everything's—"

"Fine," he finished, bitter as black coffee. "Yeah. You keep saying that."

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of your body. How your feet ached from standing, cold and numb against the tile. How the dress pulled at your ribs with each breath. How your hands couldn't seem to stop moving, straightening things that didn't need straightening.

"Look, why don't you get cleaned up?" You couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a spot just over his shoulder. "I'll put the food away. We can just... reset. Pretend this didn't happen."

"Is that what you want? To pretend?"

"I want—" The words caught in your throat like fishhooks. It felt like a test.

You forced another smile, felt it stretch your face into something that probably looked more grimace than grin. "I want you to eat something. And maybe put something on that cut. It looks deep."

His flesh hand went to his cheek automatically, coming away with fresh blood. He stared at it like he'd forgotten he was bleeding. Like physical pain was so far down his priority list it barely registered.

"It's nothing."

"Now who's deflecting?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, carrying more edge than you'd intended. A crack in the facade you'd been so carefully maintaining.

His eyes sharpened, zeroing in on that first real break in your performance all night. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you're pushing down." He moved closer, and your body responded without your permission—heart rate spiking, breath catching, skin prickling with awareness. "Come on. Tell me what a shit boyfriend I am. Tell me how I'm ruining this."

"You're not—"

"I am." His voice was rough, urgent. Desperate in a way that made your chest ache. "I know I am. I can see it happening and I can't—I don't know how to stop it. So just say it. Please. Be mad at me."

"I can't." The admission came out small, tired. True. "I can't be mad at you when I know what your life is like. When I know what you carry. It would be like... like being mad at the rain for falling."

His metal hand clenched, servos whirring softly in the quiet apartment.

"I'm not the weather," he said quietly. "I'm a person who makes choices. And I chose wrong tonight."

"You chose to save lives." You moved past him toward the kitchen, needing distance. Needing air that didn't smell like gunpowder and guilt. "Hard to argue with that math."

He caught your wrist—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was trying to be gentle. His thumb found your pulse point automatically, and you knew he could feel how it jumped at his touch.

"That's not... You know that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" You looked down at his hand on your wrist, at the blood still drying in the creases of his knuckles. At the flesh and bone that could be so gentle and so violent, often in the same night. "Every time you walk out that door, you're choosing them over me. And that's... that's right. That's what heroes do. I just need to be better at accepting it."

"Don't." His grip tightened fractionally. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but enough to feel the desperation in it. "Don't make me into something noble when I'm fucking this up. When I'm hurting you."

"You're not hurting me." The words tasted like ash. "I'm fine."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so bitter. "You keep saying that word."

"Because it's true."

"No," he said quietly, "it's not. And we both know it."

You stood there in your kitchen—his kitchen, this shared space that felt more like a crime scene now—and wondered how you'd gotten here. How six months of loving this man had taught you to swallow so much disappointment it had become second nature. Your throat felt full of unsaid words, accusations and pleas and declarations all tangled together into something too big to voice.

"I need to change," you said finally, extracting your wrist from his grip. The skin there felt too warm, like his touch had branded you. "This stupid dress is giving me a headache."

That was a lie too. The headache was from clenched teeth, from holding your face in that careful smile, from the effort of pretending everything was fine when it was anything but. But he let you go, watching you retreat with eyes that seemed to catalog every step like evidence of his failures.

You made it to the bedroom door before his voice stopped you.

"I love you."

The words hit you in the back like bullets. You closed your eyes, hand tightening on the doorframe until your knuckles went white. Your lungs forgot how to work for a moment, chest tight with everything you couldn't say.

"I know," you said without turning around.

Because you did know. That was the worst part. You knew he loved you the way he knew how—desperately, violently, silently. The way a soldier loves peacetime. The way a ghost loves being seen. The way a weapon loves being put down.

It just wasn't enough anymore.

But you couldn't say that. Couldn't risk the weight of that truth. So you did what you'd gotten so good at doing.

You pretended it was fine.

The bedroom was dark when he finally came to bed, but you weren't sleeping. Couldn't, with your mind running circles and your body still humming with the tension of the evening. You'd changed into one of his old shirts and curled up on your side, facing the wall, listening to the sounds of him moving through the apartment. The shower running. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. His footsteps, heavier than usual with exhaustion.

The mattress dipped behind you, and you felt the heat of him before he even touched you. He smelled like your soap now, the gunpowder and blood washed away, leaving just Bucky. Just the man you'd fallen in love with, who was somehow both exactly who you'd thought he was and nothing like it at all.

His flesh hand found your hip, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn't pull away. You never pulled away. That was part of the problem, wasn't it? You'd made yourself so available, so understanding, that he'd forgotten you had edges. Forgotten you could break.

"You awake?" His voice was rough in the darkness, barely above a whisper.

You didn't answer, but your breathing hitched, giving you away. You felt him shift closer, his chest pressing against your back, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against him. The metal arm stayed wedged between them, carefully positioned so the plates wouldn't touch your skin.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You closed your eyes, feeling the familiar routine begin. This was how he apologized when the words weren't enough, when his voice failed him like it so often did. With touch. With his body. With careful, focused attention that used to make you feel cherished.

His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach. Not demanding, just... present. Asking. Always asking, even after six months, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. His lips pressed against your shoulder, your neck, the spot where your pulse jumped traitorously.

You turned in his arms because you were weak. Because despite everything, your body still responded to his like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes were dark in the dim light filtering through the curtains, pupils blown wide with want and something that might have been desperation.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he could fix everything broken between you if he just tried hard enough, loved you thoroughly enough. His flesh hand cradled your face like you were something precious, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with aching gentleness.

You let him, because this was easier than talking. Easier than admitting that the distance between you had grown so vast that even this—this thing that had always worked—felt like putting a bandaid on a bullet wound.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, his touch mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing you. Like he was afraid you might disappear. And maybe you were, in a way. Maybe you'd been disappearing for months, becoming less solid with each missed dinner, each forgotten plan, each night you fell asleep alone.

His mouth followed his hands, pressing apologies into your skin that he couldn't speak aloud. He knew your body like a mission he'd studied, every sensitive spot, every place that made your breath catch. He applied that knowledge with focused intensity, watching your face in the darkness for every micro-expression, adjusting his touch based on the smallest reactions.

It was good. It was always good. He made sure of that with technical precision, with the kind of attention to detail that should have made you feel worshipped. His flesh hand worked between your thighs with practiced movements, finding exactly the right rhythm, the right pressure. His mouth on your breast, your throat, swallowing the sounds you made like they were sustenance.

But even as your body responded, as heat coiled low in your belly and your hands tangled in his hair, some part of you stayed separate. Observing. Cataloging the way he held himself so carefully above you, weight balanced on his right arm while the left stayed pressed against the mattress. The way his breathing stayed controlled, measured, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. The way he watched you with that same focused intensity he brought to everything, like making you come was a mission objective to complete.

When he finally pressed inside you, your back arched and his name fell from your lips like a prayer. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, sharing breath in the darkness. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the effort it took to maintain that careful control.

He moved like he was handling something breakable. Deep, measured thrusts that built a steady rhythm designed to take you apart by degrees. His flesh hand found yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head, while the metal one stayed planted firmly on the mattress, bearing his weight.

You wanted to tell him to let go. To stop being so careful, so controlled. To give you something real instead of this perfect performance. But the words stuck in your throat, trapped behind months of fine and okay and it doesn't matter.

He knew exactly what angle made you gasp, exactly how to roll his hips to hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. He applied this knowledge ruthlessly, efficiently, until you were shaking beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He watched you fall apart with dark satisfaction, like he'd successfully completed a mission. His own release followed shortly after, his body shuddering silently above you, face buried in your neck. Even then, even lost in his own pleasure, he was quiet. Just harsh breathing and the whisper of your name, barely audible.

After, he held you too tightly, both arms around you now that the careful control wasn't needed. The metal arm was cool against your overheated skin, and you pressed into it, into this part of him he tried so hard to keep separate.

"Better?" he asked quietly, and you could hear the hope in it. Like maybe this had fixed something. Like maybe you'd forgotten about the cold dinner and the lonely wait and the wrapped gift hidden in a drawer.

"Yeah," you whispered, because what else could you say? How could you tell him that technically perfect sex couldn't fill the emotional void between you? That you needed more than his body—you needed his words, his presence, his time?

"Good," he murmured, already drifting toward sleep. The mission was complete. Objective achieved. Girlfriend satisfied.

You lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his arms around you. Six months of this. Six months of being loved by a man who couldn't say it out loud unless he thought he was losing you. Six months of being held by someone who only knew how to hold on too tight or let go completely.

Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow you'd find your voice. Tomorrow you'd stop pretending everything was fine.

Tonight, you just closed your eyes and pretended to sleep, counting his heartbeats against your back and wondering when love had started feeling so much like loneliness.

The morning light was doing that thing where it slanted through the blinds just wrong, striping across your face in a way that guaranteed a headache by noon. You'd been awake for the past hour, maybe two, caught in that special purgatory between sleep and consciousness where all your mistakes liked to parade themselves for review.

Bucky was still wrapped around you, flesh arm heavy across your waist, metal arm tucked carefully behind his back. Even in sleep, he kept it away from you. Like his subconscious had been programmed with the same careful distance as his waking mind.

You studied the ceiling, counting water stains like constellations, and tried to remember when it had become like this. When you'd become someone who catalogued disappointments instead of joys. Someone who lay in bed calculating the exact weight of a sleeping man's arm across your ribs.

It hadn't always been like this.

Six months ago, you'd been the woman who'd laughed—actually laughed—when he'd awkwardly admitted his therapist had suggested he ask you out. Not a polite titter or an uncomfortable chuckle, but a real, surprised burst of laughter that had made him jump.

"Oh my god," you'd said, wiping tears from your eyes while he sat frozen across from you at the dive bar he'd chosen. "Shit. That's definitely the most honest thing anyone's ever said on a first date."

His face had done something complicated—surprise melting into confusion, then something that might have been the birth of a smile. "You're... not going to throw your drink at me?"

"Why would I?" You'd raised your beer, foam sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "At least you're, I don’t know. Working on yourself. Do you know how rare that is, these days?"

He'd clinked his bottle against yours, and there it was—a real smile. The kind that transformed his whole face, made him look younger, softer somehow. "To horrible first impressions?"

"To honesty," you'd corrected. "Even the awkward kind."

That had been the beginning. Or maybe the beginning had been earlier, in your bookstore that smelled like dust and old paper and the obscure eighties rock you played just loud enough to discourage teenagers from using it as a hangout. He'd wandered in looking lost, all broad shoulders and careful movements, like he was afraid of breaking something.

Five visits. That's what it had taken. Five separate occasions of him pretending to browse your stacks while stealing glances at you over copies of Kerouac and Murakami. You'd watched him work up to it like a man approaching a live wire, and when he'd finally asked—voice rough, words tumbling over each other—you'd said yes before he'd even finished the sentence.

You'd slept together after that first date. It had surprised both of you—the way you'd crashed together outside your apartment, the way he'd kissed you like he was starving for it, the way you'd pulled him inside without a second thought.

"I don't usually—" he'd said after, lying in your bed looking shell-shocked and unbearably soft in the lamplight.

"Yeah, me neither," you'd admitted, then traced a finger along his flesh arm, marveling at how someone so dangerous could be so gentle. "But I'm glad we did."

He'd pulled you closer then, nose brushing against your temple. "Me too."

Those early days had been full of small revelations. You'd discovered he kept notes—actual handwritten notes on receipt backs and napkins and torn corners of newspapers. You'd found them scattered around his apartment like breadcrumbs: likes her coffee with cinnamon when she's sad and wears dad's old college sweatshirt on laundry day and laughs at commercials but only when she thinks no one's watching.

"Is this... about me?" you'd asked, holding up a scrap that read hates cilantro but won't send food back.

He'd flushed, reaching for the paper, but you'd held it out of reach. "My memory," he'd said quietly. "It's not always... Some days are harder than others. I don't want to forget the important things."

You'd kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting the vulnerability in his admission. "I hate cilantro," you'd confirmed against his lips. "But I love that you noticed."

He'd come home bleeding more nights than not in those early months, before the move, when boundaries were still being negotiated. You'd gotten good at first aid by necessity, keeping supplies under your bathroom sink like some people kept spare towels. He'd sit on a stool while you worked, and inevitably—always—his hands would find your waist. He'd press his face against your stomach like he was trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you through your sleep shirt.

"I'm okay," he'd mumble into the fabric while you cleaned a gash on his shoulder.

"I know," you'd say, even when he wasn't. Even when his hands shook against your hips and his breath came too fast. "I've got you."

Those were the nights he'd kiss you like a drowning man, desperate and deep, mapping your mouth with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the geography of you. You'd discovered early on that he loved kissing—could spend hours just making out like teenagers, all wandering hands and bitten lips and breathless laughter when you had to come up for air.

"This okay?" he'd ask between kisses, even after months together, checking in like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this.

"More than okay," you'd assure him, and watch his pupils blow wide before diving back in.

He'd sit through terrible spy movies with you, the ones with ridiculous plots and worse dialogue, because he'd noticed your collection and drawn his own conclusions. You'd curl up on his couch while Hollywood's version of espionage played out in technicolor absurdity.

"That's not how any of that works," he'd mutter when the hero rappelled through a ventilation shaft.

"That's the point," you'd say, tucking your feet under his thigh. "If I wanted realism, I'd watch the news."

But he'd watch anyway, adding dry commentary that made you laugh harder than the intentional jokes. During the love scenes, he'd trace patterns on your ankle with his thumb, pretending he wasn't affected while his ears turned pink.

The moving in together had been gradual, then sudden. Your toothbrush at his place. His favorite mug at yours. Until one day he'd looked around your apartment—at his jacket on your coat rack, his books mixed with yours, his reading glasses on your nightstand—and said, "This is inefficient."

"What is?"

"Paying for two places when we're always together anyway."

Not the most romantic proposition, but the way he'd been fidgeting with his car keys, nervous energy radiating off him in waves, told a different story.

"James Buchanan Barnes," you'd said slowly, "are you asking me to move in with you?"

"Maybe. Yes. If you want." He'd run his flesh hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that made your chest tight. "I want to wake up with you every day. Not just sometimes. Every day."

You'd said yes, of course. How could you not, when he looked at you like that? Like you were his anchor in a storm he couldn't name.

But somewhere between then and now, something had shifted. The notes stopped appearing—or maybe you'd stopped looking for them. The movie nights became fewer, his commentary sharper when they did happen. He still kissed you like he was drowning, but now it felt like he was already too far underwater to save.

"Hey," his voice, rough with sleep, pulled you from your reverie. "You're thinking too loud."

"Just thinking," you said softly, not turning to face him.

"Yeah?" His lips found the spot where your neck met your shoulder, pressing a kiss there that felt like an apology. "What about?"

The way we used to be. When loving you felt like breathing instead of drowning.

"The Donovans," you said instead, nodding toward the wall. "They're at it again. Who starts rearranging furniture at six in the morning?"

He huffed a laugh against your skin, and you could feel him listening. Sure enough, the telltale scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor filtered through the thin walls, followed by muffled voices.

"Maybe they're trying to spice things up," he murmured. "New feng shui, new marriage."

"Is that what we need? Better feng shui?"

His arm tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest. "I don't think there's a furniture arrangement that fixes what I've mangled."

The honesty of it caught you off guard. For a moment, it felt like before. Like you were still those two people who'd found something unexpected in each other.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you felt him go still. The mission alert tone. Because of course it was.

"I know," you said before he could speak. "You have to go."

"I—" He paused, and you could feel the weight of words unsaid pressing against your spine. "Yeah. I do."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself, watching him dress in efficient movements. His tactical gear was kept in the closet now, easy access. When had that become normal? When had you stopped noticing the weapons hidden around your shared space like deadly décor?

At the door, he paused. "About last night—"

"Bucky." You finally looked at him, taking in the guilt etched into every line of his face. "Just... be careful, okay?"

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at the lack of accusation. "Always am."

"No," you said quietly. "You're really not."

He crossed back to you in three strides, cupping your face in his hands—both of them, metal and flesh—and kissed you like he used to. Like you were oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for too long. When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"I love you," he said, fierce and desperate. "Even when I'm shit at showing it. I love you."

"I know," you whispered. "That's what makes this so hard."

He left then, and you were alone with the ghost of his kiss still on your lips and the weight of everything unsaid settling into your bones. You made coffee, adding cinnamon like you always did when you were sad, and tried not to think about how he'd remember that detail but forget your anniversary.

Love was funny that way. It could be in the small notes scattered like breadcrumbs and still get lost in the larger leaving. It could be desperately real and still not be enough.

You found a piece of paper stuck to the coffee maker as you reached for a mug. His handwriting, clearly recent—the pen he'd used was still uncapped on the counter:

she only listens to Fleetwood Mac when she can't sleep. Dreams instead of Rumours = the bad kind of insomnia

You stared at it for a long time, remembering last Tuesday when you'd played "Dreams" on repeat at 3 AM, curled on the couch while he'd been supposedly asleep. He'd been listening. Taking notes. Still trying to decode you like you were a mission he could complete if he just gathered enough intel.

You carefully folded it and put it in the drawer where you'd hidden his anniversary gift. Another piece of evidence that you'd been loved by Bucky Barnes. Another reminder that sometimes love, no matter how real, wasn't enough to make someone stay.

The nightmare came a few weeks later, on a Tuesday.

You'd been having a good day, or at least good by recent standards. Bucky had been home for a full week—some kind of record lately. He'd even cooked dinner, that pasta dish his mother used to make, though he could never quite remember if it was oregano or basil she'd used. You'd eaten together at the actual table, phones face down, talking about nothing important in that comfortable way that made you ache for how things used to be.

Maybe that's why you'd let your guard down. Why you'd curled into him that night instead of maintaining the careful distance that had become your default. He'd seemed present, actually there with you instead of wherever his mind usually wandered. His arm had been warm around you, and you'd fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You woke to darkness and the sensation of being trapped.

At first, your sleep-addled brain couldn't process what was happening. The pressure around your throat was firm, mechanical, unforgiving. Metal fingers pressed against your windpipe with calculated precision, not quite cutting off air but making each breath a conscious effort. Your hands flew up instinctively, fingernails scraping against vibranium that wouldn't yield.

"Bucky." The word came out strangled, barely there.

His eyes were open but vacant, seeing something that wasn't you, wasn't this room, wasn't this year. In the dim light, you could see his face contorted with rage—no, not rage. Fear. Raw, primal terror that belonged to some other time, some other place where he wasn't safe, where he had to fight to survive.

"Soldat." The Russian fell from his lips like acid. More words followed, too quick and slurred with sleep for you to catch, but the tone was clear. Orders. He was following orders.

Your vision started to blur at the edges. Not from lack of air—not yet—but from the tears that came unbidden. This wasn't him. This wasn't your Bucky who kept notes about your coffee preferences and kissed you like you were precious. This was the Winter Soldier, and he was going to kill you in your own bed.

"James." You forced the word out, put every ounce of love you had into it. Your hand found his face, palm against stubble and scars. "Baby, please. It's me. You're home."

For a moment, nothing. The pressure continued, steady and sure. Then—a flicker. Something in his eyes shifted, pupils contracting as consciousness clawed its way back. You watched the exact second he came back to himself, watched the recognition slam into him like a physical blow.

The hand released so fast you gasped, air rushing back into your lungs in a painful burst. But the sound of your breathing—ragged, desperate—seemed to break something in him.

"No." The word ripped from his throat, raw and disbelieving. He scrambled backward so violently he fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard. "No, no, no. What did I—Oh god."

"I'm okay," you tried to say, but your voice came out wrecked, harsh. The sound of it—the damage he'd caused—made him flinch like you'd struck him.

He was on his knees now, staring at his metal hand like it was covered in blood. Maybe in his mind, it was. "I was—Jesus Christ, I was killing you. I was—" His breath came in sharp pants, heading toward hyperventilation. "Your neck. Let me see your neck."

"Bucky—"

"Let me see." It came out as almost a roar, desperate and wild.

You pushed yourself up, hand going unconsciously to your throat. Even that light touch made you wince, and you knew without looking that there would be marks. A perfect blueprint of his hand in bruises.

He saw your wince. Of course he did. And the look that crossed his face—you'd seen him shot, stabbed, thrown from buildings. You'd never seen him look like this. Like someone had reached inside and torn something vital loose.

"I… I put my hands on you. I tried to—" He couldn't finish, just stared at you like you were already dead, like he'd already lost you to his own monstrosity.

"You were asleep," you said, voice still rough but steadier now. "You were having a nightmare. You didn't know—"

"Does that matter?" He laughed, but it was a broken sound, closer to a sob. "Does it fucking matter that I was asleep when I'm strong enough to snap your neck without trying? When I—" He pressed his flesh hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking. "I could taste it. The mission. Kill the target, eliminate the witness. You were just—you were just a body to eliminate."

"But you stopped." You moved to the edge of the bed, needing to be closer even as he flinched away. "You heard me and you stopped."

"This time." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were wet, desperate. "What about next time? What happens when I don't wake up in time? When I squeeze just a little harder, hold on just a few seconds longer?" His voice broke completely. "I'll kill you, and I'll wake up with your body in our bed, and I'll have to live with that. I'll have to know that the last thing you felt was me hurting you."

"That won't happen."

"You don't know that!" He was on his feet now, backing toward the door. "Nobody knows that! I don't even know what's in my head, what they put there. Seventy years of programming, of turning me into a weapon, and you think—what? That love is enough to fix that? That I can just will myself better?"

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe it. But the words stuck in your throat—the throat that still ached from his grip.

"I'm sleeping on the couch," he said, and it sounded like a sentencing. Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.

"Bucky, please—"

"I can't." He stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he needed it to stay upright. "I can't lay next to you knowing what I'm capable of. I can't touch you with hands that—" He looked down at the metal arm, gleaming dully in the darkness. "I was okay with being a monster when it was just me. But I can't—I won't let you be collateral damage."

"You're not a monster."

He turned then, and the look he gave you was almost pitying. "Tell that to your neck."

You sat there, on the edge of the bed you'd shared for three months, and listened to him settle on the couch. Heard him punch a pillow, once, twice, muffling what sounded suspiciously like sobs. You wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him it wasn't his fault, that you weren't afraid.

But you were afraid. Not of him—never of him—but of the ghosts in his head that could turn him into someone else. Of the war between who he was and what they'd made him.

Your fingers found your throat again, tracing the shape of his hand in tender skin. Tomorrow, there would be bruises. Purple and blue and sickly yellow, a necklace of trauma you'd have to hide with scarves and makeup. But worse than the physical marks was the knowledge that he'd never forgive himself for this.

That he'd use it as evidence in the case he was always building against himself: why he didn't deserve love, why he couldn't have nice things, why James Buchanan Barnes was too broken to be saved.

You pulled his pillow against your chest—it still smelled like him, like cedar and something indefinably safe—and tried not to think about how this was the beginning of the end. How he'd pull away now, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but the empty space where love used to live.

In the living room, you could hear him moving restlessly, probably calculating the exact distance needed to keep you safe from him. Always the protector, even when the thing he was protecting you from was himself.

You wanted to tell him that the real damage wasn't the bruises that would fade in a week. It was this—the distance, the self-hatred, the way he was already grieving a relationship he'd decided was too dangerous to keep.

But your throat hurt, and your words weren't working right, and sometimes love wasn't enough to overcome seventy years of programming.

So you held his pillow and listened to him not sleeping on the couch, both of you alone in the dark, measuring the distance between what you had and what you were about to lose.

The bar was too loud and too warm, and you'd lost count of your drinks somewhere around the third toast to "getting the gang back together." Your college friends were all talking over each other, five conversations happening at once, and you were pretending to follow along while the room tilted gently to the left, then right, like a ship in uncertain waters.

Your phone sat face-up on the sticky table, silent. Three days. Seventy-two hours since the last check-in, which had been just one word: Alive. You'd stared at it for so long the letters had started to blur. Alive meant not dead. It didn't mean safe or whole or missing you or anything else your desperate brain wanted to read into it.

"Another round?" Derek—or was it Dylan?—appeared with a tray of shots that glowed an alarming shade of blue. He'd been in your International Relations class senior year, the guy who always sat too close during group projects and somehow never had his portion of the work done on time.

"I'm good," you said, but the words came out slurred, tongue thick in your mouth, and somehow there was already a shot glass being pressed into your hand. The glass was cold, wet with condensation, and your fingers felt clumsy around it.

"Come on," he said, sliding into the booth beside you. The vinyl squeaked under his weight, and suddenly the booth felt half its previous size. His thigh pressed against yours, heat seeping through your jeans. "Like old times."

Nothing about college had involved Derek-or-Dylan sitting this close, but your brain was too fuzzy to form the words. Thinking felt like trying to swim through honey. The shot burned going down, tasted like artificial raspberry and the kind of decision you'd regret in the morning. Your throat closed around it, body trying to reject what your mind had already accepted.

Someone was laughing too loud. Sarah? Stephanie? The girl who'd lived down the hall junior year. Her engagement ring caught the bar lights, throwing little rainbows across the table. Engaged. Normal. Safe. Her fiancé probably slept in their bed. Probably came home when he said he would.

Your phone buzzed. Your heart leaped—stupid, traitorous thing—but it was just your credit card app, politely informing you of suspicious activity at "O'Malley's Tavern." Yeah, you thought hazily, five rounds for people you haven't seen in years was pretty fucking suspicious.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over Bucky's contact. The little green dot that showed he was active had been gone for days. Off the grid. Radio silent. But that didn't stop you from opening the messages, from reading the last exchange from four days ago:

You: be safe Bucky: Always am.

Liar, you thought, and started typing.

You: hey

You stared at the word, deleted it, tried again. Your vision swam, letters doubling and tripling before reforming.

You: heyyyy. i miss u

Derek-or-Dylan was saying something about his job at a consulting firm, his hand gesturing wide enough to brush your shoulder, your arm, coming to rest on the back of the booth behind you. His cologne was too strong, something that probably had a name like "Masculine Musk" or "Power." It made your stomach roll. You shifted forward, but the room swayed with the movement, and you had to grab the edge of the table to steady yourself.

You: i know ur probly saving the world rn but i wanted u to know You: taht i love u You: that** You: even if ur being stupid lately

The words looked wrong on the screen, but you couldn't figure out how to fix them. Your fingers felt disconnected from your brain, moving of their own accord.

"You okay?" Derek-Dylan asked, and his hand was on your knee now, squeezing gently. His palm was damp through your jeans. "You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," you mumbled, trying to pull your leg away. But in the booth, trapped between him and the wall, there was nowhere to go. Your skin crawled where he touched you, but your body felt too heavy to properly react.

You: ur therapist called btw You: well not called but like. sent another email You: oh i hacked ur email. sry. You: i mean not rlly since u left it up on my laptop but whatever You: ur gonna get in troubel You: trouble* You: i dont want u to get in trouble

The shots were hitting harder now, making your thumbs clumsy on the screen. Everything felt like it was moving through water. Someone was telling a story about their promotion, their engagement, their perfect life that definitely didn't involve a boyfriend who slept on the couch and disappeared for days without warning.

Your chest felt tight. When was the last time you'd been able to breathe properly? When was the last time your lungs didn't feel like they were working at half capacity?

You: do u even miss me anymore You: or am i just another thing u have to manage You: like ur therapy u dont go to

Derek-Dylan's hand was back, higher this time, fingers pressing into your thigh. The pressure made bile rise in your throat. "You were always the quiet one," he was saying, voice low and too close to your ear. His breath was hot, smelled like beer and those terrible shots. "The mysterious one."

"Bathroom," you managed, practically falling out of the booth. The floor rushed up to meet you, and you caught yourself on the edge of the table, glasses rattling. Someone's drink sloshed over the rim, ice cubes scattering.

"Whoa there," he said, reaching for your elbow, fingers wrapping around your arm. "Let me help—"

"I'm fine," you said again, louder, yanking away. The movement made your vision blur, dark spots dancing at the edges. You stumbled toward where you hoped the bathrooms were, using the backs of chairs and the kindness of strangers to stay upright.

You: i went out tonight You: trying to be normal You: but nothing feels normal without u You: withuot You: without* You: fuck

The hallway to the bathroom was narrower than it should be, walls pressing in like they were trying to squeeze the air from your lungs. You leaned against the cool brick, phone bright in the darkness. The screen swam in and out of focus. More words pouring out now, without filter, without thought, like blood from a wound you couldn't stem.

You: dereks being creepy You: or dylan You: idk his name You: he keeps touching me You: i dont like it You: i want to come home but home doesnt feel like home when ur not there You: when ur on the couch You: when u wont even look at me

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

Your phone started buzzing. Not a text. A call.

Bucky's name filled the screen, and your heart lurched so hard you nearly dropped the phone. Your hands were shaking—when had they started shaking? You stared at it, paralyzed, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

[Missed call - 10:16 PM]

Immediately, it started again.

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

You should answer. Of course you should answer. But your hands were trembling and your throat felt thick with unshed tears and you were so fucking drunk and what if he was angry about the texts? What if he was calling to tell you to stop, to leave him alone, to finally say the words that would make this ending real?

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:17 PM]

The third call. This time, your trembling thumb hit decline.

The texts started immediately.

Bucky: Hey, sweetheart. You okay? Bucky: Can you pick up? Bucky: Please answer Bucky: I just need to know you're safe Bucky: Baby, please

That last one made your eyes burn, tears hot and sudden. When was the last time he'd called you baby? When was the last time his voice had sounded anything but carefully controlled? Your chest ached with missing him, a physical pain that made you press your hand against your sternum.

You stumbled out the back exit into an alley that smelled like garbage and rain and piss. The cold air hit your overheated skin like a slap, and you had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding down it. The brick was rough against your palms, grounding you even as the world spun.

Your phone rang again. This time, muscle memory had you answering before your brain could catch up.

"Hey." His voice filled your ear, warm and worried with something sharp underneath. Like honey poured over broken glass. "There you are. You okay?"

"Bucky?" Your own voice came out small, wobbly, and you hated how desperate you sounded.

"Yeah, sweetheart. It's me. Where are you?"

"I'm..." You looked around the alley like it might provide answers. Dumpster. Fire escape. Puddle of something you didn't want to identify. "I'm out. With friends. College people."

"Okay." He kept his tone gentle, but you could hear movement in the background—keys jingling, a door closing, footsteps on pavement. "You having fun?"

The question broke something in you. The tears you'd been holding back spilled over, hot on your cheeks. "No," you admitted, and then the words just tumbled out, sloppy and slurred. "No, 'm not having fun. I miss you and I'm tired and everyone's talking about their perfect lives and Derek won't stop touching me and I just want to come home but you're not even there, you're in Warsaw or wherever saving the world and—"

"Who's touching you?"

The words cut through your rambling like a blade. All the gentleness gone, replaced with something cold and dangerous that made your drunk brain struggle to catch up.

"What?" You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift through the fog of alcohol.

"You said someone's touching you. Who?"

"I—Derek. Or Dylan? From college. He's just... he kept putting his hand on my leg and I didn't..." You trailed off, some sober part of your brain finally catching up to what you were saying. To who you were saying it to. Your stomach dropped.

Silence. The kind that made your skin prickle with unease, that made you want to take the words back, swallow them down with the rest of your mistakes.

"I'm coming to get you," he said finally, and his voice was too calm, too controlled. The voice he used when he was trying very hard not to kill someone. "Tell me where you are."

"You're in Warsaw," you said, confused. Your brain felt like it was operating on a five-second delay.

Another pause. When he spoke again, something in his tone made your chest tight. "I've been back for three days. Debriefing at the Tower."

The words hit you like cold water. Three days. He'd been in New York for three days and hadn't come home. Hadn't even told you he was back. The pain of it was sharp, sudden, cutting through the alcohol fog.

"Oh." It came out small, pathetic. You pressed your free hand against the brick wall, needing something solid to hold onto.

"Send me your location," he said, and you could hear him moving faster now, the sound of a car door opening. "I'll be there in twenty."

"You don't have to—"

"Location. Now." Not harsh, but firm. The voice that brooked no argument.

You fumbled with your phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to share your location. The blue dot pulsing on the map looked lonely, lost. Like you felt.

"Good girl," he said, and the familiar endearment made your eyes burn fresh. "Now listen to me. You're gonna go wait out front where it's well-lit. You're not going back inside. You're not talking to Derek or Dylan or anyone else. You're just gonna wait for me. Understood?"

"Okay," you whispered.

"Say it back."

"Wait out front. Don't go inside. Don't talk to anyone."

"That's right. I'll be there soon."

"Bucky?" Your voice cracked. "I'm sorry. About the texts. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't." His voice softened, just slightly. "Don't apologize. Just... just wait for me, okay? We'll talk when you're safe."

Safe. Like you weren't safe now. Like you ever felt safe anymore, even in your own home, with him sleeping a room away like a stranger.

"Okay," you said again.

"Twenty minutes," he promised, and then he was gone.

You stared at your phone screen, at the string of messages you'd sent, each one more pathetic than the last. Your reflection in the dark screen looked distorted, wrong. Mascara smudged, lips still stained from whatever was in those shots, eyes too bright with tears and alcohol.

Twenty minutes. You could wait twenty minutes.

You pushed off the wall, the world tilting dangerously, and made your way to the front of the bar on unsteady legs. Each step required concentration, like walking a tightrope. Three days. He'd been home for three days.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly freezing despite the warm night. Your skin felt too tight, like it didn't fit right anymore. Everything felt wrong. The streetlight above flickered, casting strange shadows that made you dizzy.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Time moved strangely when you were drunk, too fast and too slow all at once. You watched cars pass, their headlights blurring into streaks of light. Counted them to keep your mind off the way your stomach churned.

"There you are."

You jumped, nearly losing your balance. Derek-or-Dylan stood there, that same too-wide smile on his face. Up close, you could see the flush on his cheeks, the slightly unfocused look in his eyes. He was drunk too, but not as far gone as you.

"Thought you got lost," he said, moving closer. "Come on, let's get you back inside."

"No." You shook your head, which was a mistake. The world spun harder. "I'm waiting for someone."

"In this state?" He laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. "You can barely stand. Here—"

He reached for you, and you tried to step back, but the wall was already against your spine. Nowhere to go. His hand wrapped around your upper arm, grip too tight, and you could smell his cologne again, that awful musky scent that made your stomach revolt.

"Stop." The word came out slurred, weak. "I said I'm waiting—"

"Don't be like that." He crowded closer, his other hand coming up to rest on the wall beside your head, caging you in. "We were having fun inside, weren't we?"

"No." You turned your head away, but that just exposed your neck. His breath was hot against your skin. "Please, just—"

The sound of tires squealing made both of you jump. A black car pulled up to the curb so fast it fishtailed slightly, leaving rubber on the asphalt. Your drunk brain took several seconds to process what was happening—car, familiar car, Bucky's car, Bucky—before he was already out, moving with the kind of purpose that made your foggy mind finally understand why people crossed the street when they saw him coming.

He didn't run. Didn't need to. He just strode forward with inevitable violence in every line of his body, and Derek-or-Dylan was already backing up, hands raised, mouth opening to form words that never made it past his lips—

The crack of bone was loud in the quiet street.

Derek-or-Dylan screamed, dropping to his knees like someone had cut his strings. His wrist—god, his wrist was bent like wrists weren't supposed to bend, and your stomach lurched hard enough that you had to swallow back bile. The world tilted sideways, and you gripped the brick wall harder, rough texture the only thing keeping you upright.

"Touch her again," Bucky said, voice conversational, almost pleasant, like he was discussing the weather, "and I'll break the other one. Then start on your legs."

He wasn't even breathing hard. Hadn't broken a sweat. Just stood there in dark jeans and that leather jacket you'd bought him for his birthday, looking like he'd done nothing more strenuous than walk across a room. But there was something in his stance, in the casual way he watched Derek-or-Dylan writhe on the ground, that made your drunk brain whisper dangerous even as your body sang safe.

"My wrist," Derek-or-Dylan moaned, high and panicked. "You broke my fucking wrist!"

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, matter-of-fact. "I did."

Then he turned to you, and it was like watching a storm clear. All that cold violence melted away, replaced with something soft, concerned, yours. His eyes tracked over you, cataloging damage—checking for hurt you couldn't even identify through the alcohol haze.

"Get in the car, baby," he said, voice gentle now. He held out his hand—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was being careful with you.

"Okay," you said stupidly, the word coming out slurred. You were still staring at Derek-or-Dylan clutching his wrist and moaning on the sidewalk. Your brain felt like it was operating on a ten-second delay, trying to connect crack with bone with Bucky did that with for you.

You pushed off the wall and immediately regretted it. The world spun violently, your legs deciding they were more suggestion than requirement. You would have fallen if Bucky hadn't been there, suddenly, impossibly fast, arm around your waist.

"Whoa," he murmured. "I've got you."

"'M really drunk," you informed him, like maybe he hadn't noticed. Your words mushed together at the edges. "Like... really, really drunk."

"I can see that." Was that fondness in his voice? You couldn't tell. Everything sounded underwater.

He guided you to the car like you were made of spun glass and bad decisions, opening the passenger door and basically pouring you into the seat. Your limbs felt disconnected, uncooperative. The leather was cool against your overheated skin, and it smelled like him—that mix of cedar and metal and something uniquely Bucky that made your chest ache even through the drunk fog.

He rounded the car, pausing to crouch beside Derek-or-Dylan. Through the windshield, you watched him say something that made all the color drain from Derek-or-Dylan's face. Even from here, even drunk, you could see the man nodding frantically, like a bobblehead having a panic attack.

Then Bucky was sliding into the driver's seat, the door closing with a solid thunk that felt like safety. Like coming home. Even though home didn't feel like home anymore and you were too drunk to remember why.

"Seatbelt," he said quietly.

You stared at the buckle like it was advanced calculus. Your fingers felt like they belonged to someone else, clumsy and too big. "Can't," you mumbled. "Fingers're drunk too."

He leaned over to help, and suddenly he was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could count his eyelashes if your vision would stop swimming. His hands—even the metal one—moved with perfect precision while yours fumbled uselessly in your lap.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, pulling back to look at you properly. His eyes were doing that thing where they went all intense and worried. "Did he—"

"No." You shook your head, which was a terrible idea. The car started spinning. Or maybe you were spinning. Hard to tell. "Jus'... grabbed my arm. Wanted to..." You frowned, trying to remember. "Something. Dunno. His breath smelled bad."

"I know." His hand came up like he was going to touch your face, then dropped. "I know."

The engine purred to life, and then you were moving. You pressed your forehead against the cool window because it felt nice and also because holding your head up was suddenly very difficult. The city lights blurred past in long streamers of color that made you dizzy.

"You've been back for three days," you said, though it came out more like "you've'n back fr'three days."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

"Were you gonna tell me?" The words were getting harder to form. Your tongue felt too big for your mouth.

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you almost forgot what you'd asked.

"I needed time," he said finally. "To think. To figure out how to..."

"How to what?"

"How to keep you safe." The words came out raw. "How to be near you without being a danger to you. How to—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching tightly.

You wanted to laugh, but it came out as more of a hiccup-sob hybrid. "You broke his wrist."

"He was touching you."

"Could've jus'... asked him to stop." The words kept sliding into each other.

"No," he said, and there was something final in it. "I couldn't have."

You turned to look at him, which required way more effort than it should have. The streetlights kept catching his face in flashes—sharp jaw, furrowed brow, eyes fixed on the road like it personally offended him. He looked tired. He looked dangerous. He looked like everything you wanted and couldn't have and your drunk brain couldn't remember why that was important.

"'M drunk," you announced, like maybe he'd forgotten in the last thirty seconds.

"I know."

"Really, really drunk."

"I know that too." His lips twitched, almost a smile. "The texts kind of gave it away."

Oh god. The texts. You groaned, trying to sink through the seat and into the road below. "Fuck. 'M sorry. Shouldn't have—they were so stupid—"

"I told you not to apologize."

"But 'm being stupid, and you were prob'ly busy with... with whatever, and I just—"

"Baby." He said it soft but firm, like punctuation. "The texts were fine. More than fine. They were..." He paused, and you watched him search for words through your blurry vision. "They were the first honest thing either of us has said in weeks."

That shut you up. You stared at him, trying to process his words, but thinking felt like trying to catch fish with your bare hands. Slippery. Impossible.

"We need to talk," he continued. "But not tonight. Tonight, you're drunk and I'm..." He trailed off.

"Angry?" you supplied, though it came out more like "ang-ry?"

"Yeah." He glanced at you, something soft flickering in his eyes. "But not at you. Never at you."

"He was jus'... just some guy from college," you said, words tumbling over each other. "He didn't... didn't matter."

"He put his hands on you." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "That matters."

You thought about arguing, but the thoughts kept sliding away before you could catch them. Something about hypocrisy and beds and sleeping alone, but it was all too muddy, too complicated for your drunk brain to sort through.

"Missed you," you said instead, small and honest and probably too raw. "Know 'm not s'posed to say that. Know we're... whatever we are. But missed you so much I couldn't—can't breathe sometimes."

His hand found yours across the center console, fingers interlacing. It was the first time he'd touched you voluntarily in weeks, and the simple contact made your eyes burn with tears you were too drunk to control.

"I know," he said quietly. "Me too."

You squeezed his hand, probably too hard, but he didn't pull away. "Feel sick," you admitted.

"I know, sweetheart. We're almost home."

"Not home," you mumbled, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "Just 'partment. Home's where you are, but you're never there."

You felt more than saw him flinch, but the world was getting fuzzy at the edges and spinning faster now, and you couldn't remember why that was important. His thumb rubbed circles on your hand, and you focused on that sensation, let it anchor you as the city lights blurred past.

You were drunk. Really, really drunk. But somehow, in the midst of all that spinning and blurring and too-much-ness, one thought stayed crystal clear:

He'd come for you. He'd been home for three days without telling you, but when you'd needed him—really needed him—he'd come.

You didn't know what that meant. Didn't know if it changed anything.

But for now, for this moment, with his hand in yours and the familiar streets leading back to whatever home was these days, it was enough.

The rest of the night exists in fragments. Snapshots through a drunk haze that would embarrass you later, when sobriety brought all the sharp edges back.

Bucky's hands, impossibly gentle as he helped you from the car. The way you'd swayed into him, and how he'd let you, just for a moment, before steadying you with careful touches. The elevator ride where you'd pressed your face into his chest and breathed him in like you'd been suffocating for weeks.

"Easy," he'd murmured when you stumbled over your own feet at the apartment door. "I've got you."

And he did. Those careful hands working the zipper of your jeans. Pulling your sweater from each arm. The fabric pooling at your feet while you stood there, too drunk to be self-conscious, too tired to pretend you didn't need him.

"Arms up," he'd said softly, and you'd complied, letting him pull one of his worn t-shirts over your head. It smelled like him. You might have cried about that, but the memories blur together, everything soft and underwater.

His boxers, rolled at the waist to fit. A glass of water pressed into your hands. "Drink all of it." Two ibuprofen. "These too."

And then—miracle of miracles—the bed. Not the couch. The bed, with its too-soft pillows and sheets that had forgotten the shape of him. You'd curled on your side, expecting him to retreat to his usual post in the living room.

Instead, the mattress dipped behind you. Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a chest you'd mapped with your fingers a hundred times but hadn't touched in weeks. His lips found the nape of your neck, pressing kisses there like prayers, like apologies, like promises he couldn't keep.

"I love you," whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I love you so fucking much."

You'd wanted to respond, to turn in his arms and demand he explain why love felt like leaving. But sleep was already pulling you under, and his warmth was the first comfort you'd felt in months, and so you'd let the darkness take you while he held on like you might disappear.

Consciousness returned like a slap.

Your mouth tasted like something had died in it. Your head pounded in rhythm with your heartbeat, each pulse sending spikes of pain behind your eyes. But worse than the hangover was the memory, creeping back in horrible HD clarity.

The texts. Oh god, the texts.

Derek's hand on your thigh.

Bucky breaking his wrist with the casual efficiency of someone opening a jar.

Three days. He'd been back for three days.

You opened your eyes carefully, squinting against the morning light that streamed through the curtains like an assault. The bed was empty beside you, but still warm. He hadn't been gone long. The indent of his body remained in the sheets, a ghost of pressure that made your chest constrict so suddenly you couldn't breathe.

Your ribs felt too tight, like someone had wrapped wire around them and was slowly twisting. Each inhale scraped against something raw inside you, something that had been bleeding quietly for months but suddenly felt fatal. You pressed your palm flat against your sternum, hard, trying to counter the implosion happening behind your bones.

From the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening. The clink of a pan. Coffee brewing—the smell both nauseating and necessary.

You sat up slowly, the room tilting slightly before settling. Your hands shook as you reached for the water on the nightstand, downing what was left and wishing it was enough to wash away everything about last night. But it wasn't. Nothing would be.

Because now, in the harsh light of sobriety, you could see everything clearly. The past six months stretched out behind you like a road map of small heartbreaks. The progression from sharing a bed to him sleeping on the couch. From daily texts to radio silence. From being partners to being strangers who happened to share a lease.

And last night—last night he'd held you like he used to. Kissed your neck. Whispered that he loved you.

After being home for three days without telling you.

After weeks of treating you like a roommate he was too polite to evict.

After, after, after.

Your chest felt hollow, carved out. Like someone had reached in and scooped out everything soft, leaving just the sharp edges behind. Your lungs forgot how to expand properly. The air felt too thick, too heavy, like breathing through water. You could feel your pulse everywhere—throat, wrists, behind your eyes—each beat a reminder that you were still here, still alive, still hurting.

"Hey." His voice from the doorway made you jump. He stood there in sleep pants and nothing else, hair mussed, looking unfairly good for someone who'd probably been up all night. "I'm making breakfast. Eggs and—"

"I can't do this anymore."

The words fell out of your mouth like stones. Heavy. Final. They surprised you as much as him, but once they were in the air, you couldn't take them back. Didn't want to.

His face did something complicated—a flash of confusion before understanding hit. You watched the color drain from his skin, leaving him gray as ash. The spatula in his hand clattered to the floor.

"What?" The word came out cracked.

You pulled your knees to your chest, made yourself small. Your body curled in on itself like it was trying to protect what was left of your heart, arms wrapped so tight around your shins you could feel your own bones. The hangover pounded behind your eyes, but this pain was worse. Necessary, but worse.

Your throat felt like it was closing, muscles constricting around words you'd swallowed for months. When you tried to speak, it came out raw, scraped: "I can't... I can't keep doing this, Bucky. I can't."

"Hold on." He moved into the room, movements jerky, uncoordinated in a way you'd never seen from him. "Just—wait. We can talk about this. We need to talk about this."

"Do we?" Your voice broke, tears already burning hot. They came sudden and violent, like your body had been storing them up for this exact moment. Your sinuses ached with the pressure of holding them back, but it was useless. They fell anyway, hot tracks down cheeks that felt numb with shock. "Because we haven't talked—really talked—in months. You sleep on the couch. You were home for three days without telling me. You can't even—"

A sob cut off the words, harsh and ugly. It ripped from somewhere deep in your chest, from that hollow place where your heart used to live. Your shoulders shook with the force of it, whole body trembling like it might fly apart.

"You can't even touch me unless I'm drunk and someone else tried to first."

"That's not—" He stopped himself, running both hands through his hair. The metal one caught the light, gleaming dully. "Fuck. Fuck, that's not fair."

"Isn't it?" The tears were falling freely now, hot and humiliating. Your nose ran, and you didn't care. Your face felt swollen already, eyes burning like someone had poured acid in them. "Tell me what's not fair about it. Tell me I'm wrong."

He couldn't. You both knew he couldn't.

"Please." The word ripped from him, raw and desperate. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, and seeing the Winter Soldier kneel like that should have meant something. Would have, once. "Baby, please. Don't do this. Not like this. Not when you're—"

"Hungover?" You laughed, but it came out like another sob, wet and broken. Your chest hitched with it, breath coming in sharp gasps that hurt. "When should I do it, then? When you're on another mission? When you're sleeping on the couch? When you're here but not really here at all?"

"I'm trying—"

"No." The word came out stronger than you felt. "You're not trying. You're hiding. You're running. You're doing everything except trying."

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. You could see the war in him—the need to reach for you battling the fear of what his hands could do. Had done. That eternal fight between who he was and what he'd been made into.

"I love you," he said, like it was an argument.

"I know." Your voice broke completely, dissolved into something unrecognizable. The words scraped your throat raw. "That's what makes this so fucking hard. Because I love you too. I love you so much I can't breathe sometimes."

Your hand pressed against your chest again, harder this time, because it felt like your ribs might crack open from the pressure building inside. Your heartbeat was all wrong—too fast, too hard, skipping beats like it was trying to escape.

"I love you so much I've been disappearing, piece by piece, waiting for you to see me. To come back to me."

"I'm right here—"

"No, you're not!" The words exploded out of you, ripping something on the way up. Your voice went hoarse with the force of it. "You haven't been here in months! Your body's here, but you—the real you—you're gone. And I can't..."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they leaked through your fingers anyway. Your whole face felt hot and tight, skin stretched too thin over too much pain.

"I can't compete with your ghosts anymore. I can't compete with your guilt. I can't love you hard enough to make you stop punishing yourself, and it's killing me to try."

When you lowered your hands, he was staring at you like you'd shot him. Like you'd reached into his chest and torn something vital loose. His face was wet—when had he started crying?

"I'll go back to therapy," he said desperately. "I'll—I'll sleep in the bed. I'll tell my therapist everything. I'll—"

"It's not about the bed." Your voice came out small, exhausted. Empty. Like you'd cried out everything inside you and now there was just echoing space. "It's not about the therapy or the missions or any of it. It's about the fact that you've already left me. You just forgot to take your body with you."

"No." He shook his head, frantic now. "No, that's not—I'm here. I'm right here. Please, sweetheart, please just—"

"You were home for three days." You said it quietly, but it hit him like a physical blow. You watched him flinch, watched his whole body recoil. "Three days, and you didn't come home. Because this isn't your home anymore, is it? It's just... a place you keep your things. A place you sometimes sleep."

"That's not true—"

"Then why didn't you come home?"

Silence.

The kind that said everything.

"I needed time," he said finally, voice wrecked. "To figure out how to fix this. How to be better. How to—"

"You can't fix this alone." The tears had slowed but not stopped, steady streams now instead of the flood. Your eyes felt raw, lids swollen. Everything hurt—face, chest, throat, heart. "That's what you've never understood. You keep trying to solve me like I'm a mission. Like if you just find the right approach, the right angle, you can complete the objective without any mess. But love is messy. It's supposed to be messy."

"I know that—"

"Do you?" You met his eyes, those blue eyes you'd fallen in love with, that still made your heart skip even now. Even through the wreckage. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been trying to love me without letting me love you back. And I can't... I can't do that anymore."

Something in him seemed to break then. Really break, not the careful controlled way he'd been falling apart for months. His shoulders shook, and when he reached for you, it was with both hands. Metal and flesh, no distinction, just desperate need.

"Please." His voice was raw, ruined. "Please don't leave me. I'll do anything. I'll—Christ, I'll quit the team. I'll tell everyone about us. I'll—"

"I don't want you to quit the team." You were both crying now, the space between you salt-soaked and aching. Your chest felt cracked open, everything spilling out. "I don't want you to change who you are. I just wanted... I wanted you to let me in. To trust me with more than just the good parts."

"I trust you—"

"With everything except yourself." You pulled back, even though it physically hurt to do it. Your skin felt too tight, like leaving his reach might tear you apart. "And I can't build a life with someone who treats me like I'm too fragile to handle their damage. I'm not... I'm not some civilian you need to protect, Bucky. I'm supposed to be your partner."

"You are—"

"No." You stood on shaking legs, needing distance. Needing air. Your knees almost buckled, muscles weak from crying, from hurting, from holding yourself together for so long. "I'm your secret. Your liability. Your guilt. I'm everything but your partner."

He was on his feet too now, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what to do."

"I can't." The words tasted like ash, like endings, like everything you never wanted to say. "Because you're asking the wrong question. It's not about what you do. It's about what we do. Together. And you can't... you won't let there be a together."

"That's not—"

"You sleep on the couch." Each word hurt to say, like coughing up broken glass. "You were home for three days. You missed our anniversary. You haven't touched me without apologizing in months. You love me, I know you love me, but you love me like I'm already gone. Like you're just waiting for me to figure it out too."

He stood there, chest heaving, and you could see it—the moment he realized you were right. The moment he understood that he'd been pushing you away so slowly, so carefully, that neither of you had noticed until there was nothing left to push.

"I don't know how to stop," he admitted, and it was the most honest thing he'd said in months. "I don't know how to be in love without being terrified. I don't know how to wake up next to you without checking to make sure I didn't hurt you in my sleep. I don't know how to come home without bringing the blood with me."

"I never asked you to be perfect—"

"I know." His voice broke. "I know, and that's... that's the worst part. You never asked for anything except me, and I couldn't even give you that."

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn't fix. Six months of small abandonments. Six months of loving each other wrong. Six months of him leaving without moving and you staying without being seen.

Your body felt strange, disconnected. Like you were floating above yourself, watching this happen to someone else. The tears had stopped but your face still felt wet, tacky. Your chest moved with breath but you couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything except the yawning void where your heart used to be.

"I need to pack," you said finally. The words came out robotic, empty.

"No." But there was no fight left in it. Just despair. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know." You couldn't look at him. Couldn't watch him realize this was really happening. "My sister's, maybe. Just... somewhere that isn't here."

"This is your home—"

"No." You turned to face him one last time, memorizing the way he looked in the morning light. Beautiful and broken and everything you'd ever wanted. "It was supposed to be. But homes are where you feel safe. Where you feel seen. And I haven't felt either of those things in months."

He made a sound then, wounded and raw, and it took everything in you not to go to him. Not to take it back. Not to settle for the half-life he was offering. Your body swayed toward him against your will, muscle memory overriding logic. But you locked your knees, clenched your fists, held yourself still through sheer force of will.

"I love you," you said, because it was true. Because it would always be true. "But I can't disappear anymore. Not even for you."

You made it to the doorway before his voice stopped you.

"What if I—" He swallowed, started again. "What if I go to therapy. Really go. What if I... what if I try?"

You paused, hand on the doorframe. The wood was smooth under your palm, solid. Real. An anchor in a world that felt like it was dissolving.

"Then try. But try for you, not for me. Because I can't... I can't wait anymore, Bucky. I can't put my life on hold hoping you'll decide you deserve to be happy."

"I don't know how to be happy," he admitted.

"I know," you said softly. "That's why I have to go."

You left him standing there in the bedroom you'd shared, in the home you'd built, in the life you'd tried so hard to make work. The sound of his grief followed you—not sobs, but something worse. The quiet, breathless keen of someone watching their world collapse and knowing they'd lit the match themselves.

You packed mechanically, throwing things into bags without thought or care. Your hands moved on autopilot while your mind went somewhere else, somewhere numb and far away. He didn't try to stop you. Didn't follow. Just stood frozen in the bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might shatter what little was left.

When you wheeled your suitcase to the door, he was there. Red-eyed, hollow, looking like a ghost of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it. For being too broken to love you right."

"You're not broken," you said, and meant it. "You're just... lost. And I can't be your map anymore."

The door closed behind you with a soft click that sounded like an ending.

You made it to the elevator before the sobs hit, great heaving things that made your whole body shake. Your knees gave out and you sank to the floor, suitcase abandoned, hands pressed over your mouth to muffle the sounds tearing from your throat. Your stomach cramped with the force of it, muscles seizing, lungs burning.

You'd done it. You'd left. You'd saved yourself from disappearing completely.

It was the right thing to do.

So why did it feel like dying?

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sashaisready · 7 days ago

Text

I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

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sashaisready · 9 days ago

Text

This is so kind thank you! I sort of threw this one together but I’m so pleased with how it turned out 🤗

Best Laid Plans

Lee Bodecker x Female Reader

When your plans for the town's Easter egg hunt go awry, you find help from an unlikely source...

This is for the lovely's @buck-star 's Easter Special ! Felt very inspired so started this earlier this afternoon and it just flowed! Way longer than planned lol sorry.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Trope: 🌷 Enemies to lovers

Prompt: 🐰 Easter egg hunt

Wordcount: Approx. 3.9k

No major warnings. I have also been deliberate vague about when this is set - so it's up to you! Hope you enjoy - as always I love hearing your thoughts ❤️

🐰

A satisfied grin spread across your face as you arranged the model chicks and bunnies, a sea of pastels brightening up the tired storefronts amongst the floral arrangements you’d already hung. Perfect. You smoothed down your polka dot sundress as you took in the scene. Just beyond the storefronts were the stalls for the fair later, selling everything from lemonade to chocolate, handmade crafts and freshly baked goods. A few of the vendors had started to set up, but there was still a nice amount of time before people would start to arrive. You’d given yourself a wide margin to prepare everything, hopefully you’ll have a little downtime to relax before the festivities began.

Your vision was finally all coming together. It was touch and go there for a while, especially with the well-meaning-but-pretty-useless Jake as your helper, but it was actually starting to pay off. It actually looked…good! Especially for a smalltown fair. You couldn’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they arrived later.

“Looks like the Easter bunny threw up out here,” someone chuckled from behind you.

Your smile dropped as you turned to face the culprit. But you already knew who that smooth voice belonged to.

Ugh. There he was. Again.

His uniform looked surprisingly crisp for him, stretched over his broad shoulders. He must’ve finally given the iron a try. Or maybe he’d convinced old Mrs O’Malley to help out a busy bachelor. You could still spy the curve of his stomach peeking out over his waistband from under the starchy white shirt. Not that it mattered, you normally liked a hefty man.

Just not this hefty man.

He stood there confidently surveying your handiwork, like a judge at a dog show. His sheriff badge caught a flicker of morning sunlight as his mouth pulled into a pensive sneer. He was normally quite handsome, not that you’d ever admit that. He had a gorgeous smile on the rare occasions you saw it, almost boyish in contrast to the severity of his short hair and tense jaw.

“Very funny, Sheriff Bodecker,” you replied in a deadpan tone. “Come up with that one all by yourself?”

He leaned on the roadblock barrier and chuckled. “Yeah. Spent all morning workin’ on it,” he grinned devilishly as he manoeuvred the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, his eyes alight with mischief. Lee Bodecker had the most beautiful blue eyes, you’d noticed…

…Shame the man they belonged to was utterly insufferable.

“Glad my tax dollars are going to good use…” you sighed as you moved to collect the baskets for the egg hunt.

“Hey, you’re gettin’ free labour from my men and a whole street closed off for your little Easter party here, maybe save me the sass,” he scoffed. You didn’t like the patronising hand gesture he used to emphasis ‘little’.

You sighed incredulously, continuing to arrange the baskets, “it’s not my Easter party. And it’s a fair by the way. And it’s for the whole town. It’s about community, being together – whether you celebrate Easter or not. A little morale goes a long way…”

He rolled his eyes “Mm. Well the residents who lost their parking spaces to the roadblock this morning certainly didn’t have much morale when they came to bitch at the station about it…”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. You turned to him again, one hand on your hip and the other clasping one of the little yellow baskets which you pointed at him accusatorily. You knew exactly who he was referring to. That same vocal minority had also come to PTA meetings, written angry letters to the school – and once even ambushed you at the market. They seemed unmoved that it was a joint effort from the school and the church to do something nice for the town. The way they reacted, anyone might think you were responsible for evicting them from their houses, not using their preferred parking spaces for a few hours. You’d already repeated the same arguments so many times that you could probably recite them in your sleep. You were simply sick of talking about it, which you quickly made clear to Lee.

“Listen here, Sheriff. I’m going to tell you what I told all of them. It’s one day. One. We gave them plenty of notice about it, explaining it was so the kids could do the Easter egg hunt without the fear of getting mowed down, and folks can set up their market stalls with plenty of space. God forbid they park in that lot a few streets over and walk the short distance to main street – they can all fit in there, we’re not exactly New York City levels of population here in Meade…And most of them walk to town anyway!! Besides, the district owns those spaces, not them – just because they park in them most days when they come to shoot the shit at the barbers doesn’t mean they’re theirs.”

A little sharper than you had anticipated, but it did the job. You exhaled, trying to calm yourself down as you felt yourself get riled up.

Lee smirked, cocking his head to the side as he studied you. “Wow. Is that how you talk to your students when they act up? Or is it just me that the local schoolteacher likes to put in his place?” his voice was low, almost a purr.

You didn’t like the strange flush that he somehow brought to your cheeks. You briefly felt off balance. You needed to shake that off.

“My students know how to behave,” you quipped. And just like that, the flush had gone. The familiar irritation had taken its place.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, a strange buzz between you that you couldn’t quite identify. You felt that with him sometimes. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was just anger.

His eyes were on you so intensely it seemed like they could tear a hole in your skin.

Then he just laughed. The irritation burned through you, down to your bones.

“Why are you even here? The roadblock is up, nothing starts officially for another couple of hours…” you shrugged. “Surely the Sheriff has better things to be doing than supervising me putting up toy bunnies…” you muttered.

“Wow…so much for community and morale,” he replied in a mock-outraged tone.

You didn’t know why you let him get to you so much. You didn’t know why he did get to you so much. It had always been this way with him, nothing but a sliding scale from feisty jibes to outright loathing.

You weren’t like this with anyone else. You were a schoolteacher, priding yourself on being approachable and kind – a figure in the community who was happy to be a listening ear, who took her responsibility for the town’s children and their education very seriously. You were heavily involved in the church, in the PTA, volunteered at the old folks’ home when you had time. This strange feud with the Sheriff was the one misshapen puzzle piece that didn’t fit with the rest of the picture. A fault by the manufacturer.

And it had been like this since day one, since you moved to town just over a year ago. You had been keen to meet the local Sheriff, hoping to ingratiate yourself with him and work together to benefit the community – but he’d shut you down almost immediately when you’d introduced yourself at a town meeting. He’d lazily looked you up and down in a way that could only be described as with contempt. Your smiled had faded as he introduced himself with disinterest, moving back to talk to his deputies like you were some chore he couldn’t wait to finish. You had no idea what you’d done wrong.

Since then, you had just never met eye to eye. Never been on the same wavelength. He just had a way of getting under your skin, of draining your patience in a way that even a rowdy group of six-year-olds couldn’t pull off. Although you generally aimed to always be the bigger person in life and rise above petty things, Sheriff Bodecker seemed to be the exception to that philosophy. Maybe his dismissal of you before he’d even properly spoken to you was what provoked such strong feeling, but you couldn’t explain the inevitable descent every time you met him.

You bickered every time you crossed paths. Arguing in line at the market, squabbling in the street, once there had even been (hushed) strong words at the back of church during a service.

You’d turned up to the station one afternoon to meet with Deputy Carter about arranging a school safety talk and the officers on the front desk had audibly sighed knowing what was going to happen. The whole town was aware of this rivalry, and just sort of took for granted that this was just how things were with the Sheriff and that schoolteacher.

…and yes. The officers were right. You and the Sheriff had managed to get each other’s backs up after a mere few minutes because you had laughed a little too loudly when his hat briefly slipped off his head. Business as usual.

You couldn’t really admit it to yourself. But maybe you also kinda enjoyed it. Just a tiny bit. Sometimes.

“Oh whatever…” you hissed, trying to focus on the task at hand. You didn’t have time for this, you can’t let Lee distract you when you have so much still to do. “Go. Stay. I don’t care either way. I need to hide the eggs and-”

You froze as you tugged at the trash bag containing the coloured eggs that you were going to hide for the hunt. It didn’t feel…right. The weight was off. It didn’t sit like a bag of small toy eggs.

You untied the bag and gasped when the contents were revealed.

Not eggs.

Not even close.

…a bag of trash.

You let out a pained moan as you fell to your knees, rifling through the bag in the weak hope that the eggs were at the bottom, and someone had put trash in the wrong bag by mistake. But no. Not a one there.

How could this-

And then it all fell into place at once. Jake, the enthusiastic but somewhat hapless school coach who had offered to help with the planning. Yesterday, after school you’d given him the eggs as you bagged up the classroom waste bin…he then offered to take it out for you as he was parked near the dumpster…so he must’ve mixed up…

Oh.

Oh God.

…And trash pick-up had been early this morning.

Those eggs were long gone.

Even if by some miracle you managed to somehow track them down, they’d most likely be crushed by the truck anyway – or all mixed in with the town’s other garbage. Covered in God knows what.

You stomach churned. You thought about the kids in your class, how excited they were about the hunt. They’d all been talking about it for weeks, all claiming they were going to win and find the most eggs – win the ‘mystery prize’ that the flyer tantalisingly offered (a brand-new bike, sponsored by one of the richer families in Brewer Heights. You had been so proud to source that).

How could you let them all down? See the disappointment on their little faces when they realised?

You couldn’t.

So, you switched into problem solving mode. As satisfying as it would be to tear Jake a new one for his mistake, that wouldn’t help the kids. Where could you get more eggs? You had already bought out almost the entire supply locally to ensure as many kids as possible could participate. You could drive to another town, but would you make it back in time? What if they were sold out too? This close to Easter…how many eggs were going to be left in stores exactly? Would they even be open? A lot of places had already closed up to spend time with their families. It was that way around these parts, these were mom and pop operations - not national chain stores. You could call ahead but-

“Well. That’s gonna be a weird egg hunt,” Lee interrupted your internal monologue as he toed at the now ripped open bag of trash. “I know the school budget has been cut, but damn…”

You closed your eyes. You’d been so caught up that you’d almost forgotten he was still here. “Just…not now, please,” you snap without looking up.

“Didn’t need to close the street just for you to hide garbage. Ain’t that just littering…?” he chuckles.

You look up at him, tears of frustration swimming in your eyes. “Coach Jensen must’ve switched the bags by accident,” you say softly.

Lee furrows his brows, his ever-present smirk shrinking as he takes you in. Maybe for the first time ever. His features soften as he starts to absorb that look on your face. The look that tells him this is serious. “That guy’s an ass…” he replies, his voice low.

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered. “God…The kids are so excited…”

“You can’t just call it off?”

“No!” you said incredulously. “This is all they’ve been talking about in class, all through school! I can’t just cancel it. I just need to figure out how to find more eggs before the hunt. There’s none left in our store but maybe I could drive to the next town over…”

He put his hands on his hips, his stance authoritative like he was doing a traffic stop, or talking to a perp. He checks his watch. “At this hour? You won’t make it back in time…”

“Thanks for your help Sheriff, as always,” you snarl.

He sighed defeatedly. “Could you just…hide something else for them to hunt? Matchsticks or something? I dunno…”

“It’s Easter! They were promised eggs!” you huff, “what kind of easter egg hunt would that be?”

You are unable to stop the few tears that break through the barrier and onto your cheek. You’re just so frustrated, so tired after staying up late to prepare all of this. And all your hard work is coming unravelled because of a few lousy eggs and a feckless man who doesn’t check garbage bags.

God, what a mess. Why do you even care so much? This is silly. Mistakes happen. The town will understand.

Right?

“Hey, hey,” Lee coos gently and takes a step closer to you, “don’t get upset…it’s just eggs…” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, it barely sounds like him at all.

You feel a wave of shame, mortification that he is bearing witness to this. The unfamiliarity of his tone is so unexpected, so jarring, that it adds to your embarrassment rather than soothes it. Why did he have to be here? Why him of all people? And what, he pities you now? More ammunition for his side in your little war – the silly, emotional teacher who cries over easter eggs. A chink in your armour, vulnerability for him to mock and dine out on for years to come…as if he didn’t already think you were a fool…

“It’s not just eggs,” you reply dully. Your eyes lock onto his. He simply doesn’t understand how important this is. How many children are counting on you. He doesn’t understand anything about you.

You turn away from him, taking a deep breath as you quickly wipe away your tears with your knuckles. You won’t let him have any more of you than you’ve already given. You shakily get to your feet.

“I’m gonna go around to a few parents’ houses and see what I can find,” you say out loud, more for you than for him. To anchor you, make you feel like you have a plan – however weak. “I should be able to rustle up some from their Easter decorations at least. I’ll be back to finish setting up”.

Lee stares at you. It seems like he has more to say, but he remains quiet. He clears his throat, nods. “Uh. Alright. Well, I’m going to go back to the station. Check on a few things. Good luck…with the eggs…it’ll work out.”

You nod, but don’t turn around as you leave him behind. You don’t believe him.

🐇.•*¨`*•.¸ 🐇.•*¨`*•. 🐇¸.•*¨`*•. 🐇

A little while later you make your way back to the fair. You feel so downtrodden that there could almost be rocks in your pockets, every movement takes effort and energy you no longer possess. You dread every step closer as you trudge heavily across town.

Despite a committed campaign, working your way across several neighbourhoods, you were only able to source a pathetic few eggs. Nowhere near enough to sustain a full-on egg hunt for all of the town’s children. Maybe even neighbouring towns if word got out. You check your watch; and you’re running late, too. You were going to have to explain to dozens of disappointed kids (and their angry parents) why their most anticipated Easter activity wasn’t happening. You practiced your speech in your head as you walked.

As you rounded the corner to the roadblock, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself for the worst. Your stomach swam with nausea, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You should’ve called Jake and made him do this. It was his fault after all.

You brace yourself for the crowd of confused children, when…

You can’t quite believe your eyes.

The kids are here, yes. But they’re running around, yellow baskets in their little hands as they shriek and holler, darting underneath doorsteps and plant pots to hunt. A small pile of coloured eggs sits in each of their baskets. Every single one of them is having a blast. Their parents watch on proudly, sharing their joy.

Are you going insane?

Some of them notice you and wave excitedly, calling your name and shouting over to you about how much fun it is. Their parents echo similar sentiments, and you just wave back gormlessly, trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

Is this some sort of hallucination?

“Phew. Told ya it would work out.”

You turn to the figure who has sidled up next to you, your eyes wide with surprise as Lee watches the joyful chaos unfold in front of you both.

“How…what…” you splutter.

“I remembered we did a similar thing a few years back,” he says casually without taking his eyes off the fun. “It was a police fundraiser around Easter time. One of my dim-witted deputies thought he ordered 100 eggs…turns out he ordered 100 cases…”

Your mouth falls agape as realisation slowly dawns.

“Shoved ‘em in the old outbuilding and forgot we had ‘em if I’m honest, ‘til this morning. Never thought we’d use them all, but here we are”. He laughs and rests his hands on his belt buckle.

“You…you did this?” you whisper, your throat tight with shock.

He shrugs, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Sure. Rounded up a bunch of the boys and we got ‘em all out. Not the most creative hiding places, you probably woulda done better – but the kiddos don’t seem to mind. Some of them are a bit dusty from storage – but again, kids are paying that no mind. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell no one. So, you’ll still get all the credit, you deserve it anyway – you put all the work in”.

Your eyes round as you stare at him. He stands there nonchalantly, like he didn’t just save the day. Didn’t just save you.

“You did that…for me?” you ask, bewildered.

“Sure. You needed help. That prick Jensen wasn’t gonna fix it, was he?”

“B..but. You don’t even like me?” you stammer weakly. Your brain simply can’t absorb any of this.

He finally turns, an eyebrow cocked in confusion. His blue eyes squint as his lip curls. “What? ‘Course I like ya”.

You feel like you’re going insane. “What?? We fight, all the time! You are always jabbing at me, making fun of me, riling me up…”

His face mirrors your own puzzlement but for a different reason, “yeah, but it’s just fun, isn’t it? Banter. I love fighting with you. It’s always a highlight of my day. You’re so…fun. Feisty. I love it. I never actually meant any harm…”

If you’d been sitting on a chair at that moment, you would’ve fallen out of it.

“WHAT?” you roar so loudly that some people turn around. You hush yourself immediately, trying to avoid a scene. “You were SO RUDE, the first time we met…it’s been hell ever since…”

He finally has the decency to look embarrassed as his eyes drop to the ground. “Oh, right. That. Yeah. That was shitty. I should’ve apologised…you just caught me off guard…”

“What do you mean?! All I did was say hello?” you sneer through gritted teeth.

“Yeah…and be gorgeous. Nobody told me the new teacher was a goddamn beauty. I panicked, couldn’t form words. You made me feel like a damn teenager with how nervous you made me”.

You just stare at him as you try and process what he’d just said, your mother would say you could catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.

“Wait…You were rude because…you thought I was pretty?”

“Damn beautiful, actually. And I didn’t mean to be rude. Really. My brain just damn near stopped working”, he says bashfully.

“So, wait, this whole time you…”

You trail off as you suddenly reframe every interaction with him in your memory in a matter of seconds. The strange, unidentifiable buzz you felt with him sometimes. The way he got to you like nobody else. His smile widening every time he saw you, which you’d always assumed was just him getting ready to rile you up. How he would always gravitate to you if you were in the same place. The way he seemed to take so much pleasure in making fun of you, of talking with you…

…being with you?

“I should’ve just not been a coward and spoken to you properly, I’m sorry,” he sighs as he looks down at his feet. His voice more passive than you’d ever heard it. “Ask you on a date. Treat you nice, court you a little. I guess I never thought a pretty girl like you would go for a schlub like me, and I always had your attention when we argued – so why risk it?”

You look over at the giggling kids, the proud parents, the townspeople enjoying the stalls, sipping lemonade and laughing. You look back at him. You think of him hauling those old boxes from the station, getting his staff to help. Trying to find good hiding places for the eggs, wiping the dust from them. Greeting the kids and their parents as they arrived, giving them the little baskets. Doing it all for you without being asked, doing it for you because he wanted to.

Maybe he understood more about you than you realised.

He cautiously stands in front of you, you look deep into his cerulean eyes and before you know it, you’re kissing him. He wobbles slightly in surprise but corrects himself and finds his feet, kissing you back, his arms around your waist like they’d always been there. The rest of the world melts away and suddenly everything feels right. You don’t care that they can all see. You don’t care about anything else.

You break away and rest your forehead on his. You both laugh at the hooting and hollering from behind you, the cries of ‘about time!’ from his deputies. Apparently everyone could see it but you.

“Don’t I get a thank you? For fixing it?” he grins.

“Why? It’s just eggs,” you beam.

“…it’s not just eggs,” he chuckled as he moves to kiss you again.

THE END

108 notes · View notes

sashaisready · 9 days ago

Text

Bucky 😪 my bebe…

A Hand in the Dark (#7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.5k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up to an empty bed, the other side was faintly creased and already cool. It didn’t surprise her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and padded to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Everything was quiet.

He wasn’t there.

She pulled on a cardigan and opened the curtains, enough to let the morning light spill across the floor. The kettle went on. Bread into the toaster. She moved through the morning ritual without much thought.

Then the lock clicked.

She turned her head from the table as he stepped in, with the collar of his jacket pulled high and the cap low over his face. Paper bags dangling from one hand.

“Hey,” she greeted gently.

“Hey,” he echoed, murmuring, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You want coffee?”

A beat passed before he nodded. Once.

He pulled off his jacket and hat in silence and hung them carefully on the rack. Then he disappeared down the hall.

She stood up and went to the counter, pouring him a mug. Set a bunch of cookies on a plate and set it beside the beverage across her spot on the table.

When he returned, he was empty-handed and sat stiffly, with his shoulders slightly hunched.

“It would be too nosy of me to ask what you bought?” she asked, referring to the bags now hidden in his room.

His eyes flicked to her, then back down to the mug.

“Just… stuff I needed,” he said.

She hummed a little. “Aha.”. Then picked up her phone.

He stared at her fingers moving over the screen, and something inside him felt wrong. He owed her the answer, more than this, probably. She’d dragged him, soaked and broken, from the alley. Sat outside the tub and scrubbed him while he sat there like an alienated person at a fucking mental asylum. Held him as he sobbed like a child and offered him her bed as if it were no big deal. He was pretty sure that normal "roomies" didn't have to do that kind of thing for someone who shared their roof with them.

So, he straightened in the chair a little. Cleared his throat.

“I’ve been remembering things,” he said, fixing his eyes on a scratch in the wooden table. “Some clearer than others. Some I’m not sure I want to recall.”

Her phone went still in her hand. Her full attention shifted to him, tilting her body slightly forward.

“Things from… before. And things I did.” His mouth twisted around the last word. “Stuff I can’t always tell apart yet.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes for a second. “It’s all mixed up. Comes and goes. So I bought some notebooks. To write it down. Try to make sense of it.”

She nodded slowly, not interrupting.

“I need to see it written… separate the things I did because of them, and the things that were just me. To figure… things out.”

She reached across the table and touched his wrist gently. “That’s a really good way to start.”

His arm went still under her hand, then relaxed.

Then she sat back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and gave a small, nervous smile.

“Well… since we’re being honest,” she said, glancing toward the hallway, “we need to talk about your accommodations.”

He went still.

“You’re sleeping in my hauling room,” she went on, watching him carefully, “and I think it’s time we tidy it up a bit. Make it more yours.”

He blinked. “It’s fine. I don’t need-”

“You deserve a real bed, not something that folds like a deathtrap,” she interrupted gently.

He stared at her like she’d suggested pulling out the floorboards.

“I- I prefer that cot,” he said stiffly. Too quickly. The words left his mouth before he could decide if they were true or just reflex.

She didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Still, I’m going to get rid of the clothes I’m not using and a few other things too, so you have room. If you’re writing now, you’ll need at least a little table.”

His fingers twitched on the side of his mug.

“I know it’s been kind of your bunker until now,” she added gently, “but you have to admit it’s a little… cluttered.”

Cluttered. That was one word for it. The room was layered in tension, items stacked with purpose, defense options mapped, and shadows at bay. It hadn’t been organized so much as fortified. Like a shell around his frayed mind.

“I put things the way I need them,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant. Almost uncertain.

“I’m not gonna move your stuff… much. But if you want a table, if you want shelves, I can help you make space.”

His chest rose and fell, too shallowly.

“I just… It’s the only part that’s mine,” he admitted, barely audible.

“And it stays yours,” she said immediately, calmly. “I’m not trying to take it away. Just making sure you can breathe in it. And besides, there are things there I have been meaning to sell for a while now, to make extra cash. I doubt you have a use for women's clothes and footwear," she quirked a brow. “Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in the room."

His jaw flexed. He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the mug between his hands.

She had a point.

It was her stuff. Her clothes. Her shoes. Her boxes. He’d been sleeping on a cot in her storage room, surrounded by things that didn’t belong to him. He just had nested there like a traumatized stray.

He could still hear her voice, calm, without pressure:

“Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in it.”

Did he really have the right to argue? He’d been using her home. Her food. Her quiet. Her patience. And now he was using her time and her money, too. No matter how much he tried to contribute, no matter how many groceries he bought with Hydra cash, he knew it wasn’t evening out. The extra meat. The extra heat at night. The laundry items.

All of it, bleeding slowly from her wallet into his care.

So if she wanted to sell a few clothes she didn’t wear anymore to make up the difference...

How could he tell her no?

He hated it. Hated that every instinct said guard the den, don’t let anyone touch it, don’t lose the only safe place you’ve had in years. But this wasn’t a bunker. It was her guest room. And she was offering to make space, not erase him.

His fingers drummed once against the mug. Then stilled.

“Take away the clothes and…” he muttered, “maybe I could put a shelf.”

Her eyes lifted immediately, and for a breath, she didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just looked at him, like she saw all of that war playing out beneath his eyes.

Then her gaze softened.

“Deal.”

He nodded once, tightly and mechanically. Told himself to breathe. Told himself this was fair. She wasn’t taking the space. She was clearing it for him.

“If you need help lifting anything,” he added, forcing the words through his lips, “I’ll do it.”

This time she did smile. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He ducked his head again.

“Probably I'll start sorting the clothing when I come home from work, so I can go to a second-hand shop the day after tomorrow." She commented, stretching her arms.

He stilled.

She was moving fast. Like she’d made a decision and wasn’t going to leave it floating in the air, vulnerable to his retreat. No room for him to squirm out of it, to backpedal.

He didn’t look at her. Just chewed. The cookie felt like chalk in his mouth.

It was happening. The sorting, the clearing. He’d said yes. He meant yes.

But still, that lurch of old panic curled low in his stomach. That urge to protect the corner he’d turned into a shelter, even if it was built with someone else’s things.

His nod was tight. One flick of his chin, like a box being checked.

"Okay," he said, hoarse. Still not looking at her.

She didn’t tease him. Didn’t say “don’t get too excited” because of his demeanor, or “look at you, being useful.” Just sipped her coffee and added, casually-

“There’s a shop near the building, so I’m taking you up on your offer. Maybe you could come with me, help with some boxes.”

The phrasing was wiser than she would ever know.

It wasn’t a “I need you to.” It wasn’t a “You have to.”

It was “maybe you could.”

He could. He would.

“Sure,” he said quietly, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

And this time, he managed to look at her. Not long, but just long enough to see her nod.

She trusted him with this.

He’d carry the boxes. Damn, he’d carry them all.

----

When she came home, she just dropped her bag by the door, took off her coat, and rolled up her sleeves. Walked purposefully towards the spare room and greeted him, opening the closet and beginning to tug hangers free in swift motions. Skirts, blouses, a couple of old jackets she hadn’t worn in years, some pairs of jeans she knew won’t fit her again, the hope has been in vain. She moved like she knew exactly what had to go. Then went to the boxes, some of them empty, some of them not.

Bucky sat silently on the cot. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. His eyes followed the motion of fabric piling on the bed, but he didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really.

It wasn’t his place to touch any of it. It wasn’t his to decide what stayed and what didn’t. He felt like a guest at his own eviction, even if that wasn’t what this was.

Could’ve left the room. Gone to take a shower. Waited in the kitchen. But something in him… didn’t want to. Couldn’t, maybe. Not when things were already shifting. Not when his nest, the space where he’d collapsed those first nights, door locked, body curled tight in the smallest corner, was being breathed open by someone else's hands.

He watched her, fidgeting. Picked at a thread on the seam of his pants. His prosthetic fingers tapped quietly against his thigh in a slow, erratic rhythm.

“You okay?” she asked once, glancing back at him with an armful of sweaters.

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

She then just kept going, folding, sorting into stacks. Keep. Sell. Somewhere near the bottom of one of the boxes, buried under a winter scarf and a tangled phone charger, she pulled out a wrinkled plastic bag and furrowed her brows.

“God, what even is this…”

She didn’t think much of it. Just tipped the contents onto the cot beside him.

Something crimson and lacy spilled out across the rumpled blanket.

She groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked sideways before he could stop himself. He hadn’t caught the full detail, just movement -color- and then it was there: red lace bra, crinkled suggestively on the cot’s edge. Delicate, impractical, and obviously meant for anything but support.

He blinked. She snatched it up immediately with two fingers and a scoff, like it burned.

“Can you believe this crap?” she said, holding it up. “My ex gave it to me for my birthday. Two sizes too small.” She shook her head, frowning. “Should’ve been a warning sign, huh? Probably he was already cheating me by then.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she chucked it into the garbage bag. “Don’t know why I still had it.”

Bucky looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. His back stiffened slightly. He tried to act unaffected, but his ears were red. So was the back of his neck. His hand crept up to scratch just beneath his jaw, an old, nervous tell.

Right. This was the twenty-first century.

He cleared his throat. “Is… is that a common thing now?” he asked stiffly, gesturing vaguely toward the trash bag with an awkward flutter of his fingers. “For… uh. Sweethearts to give each other those kinds of…” He trailed off, eyebrows knotted like he’d stepped into unfamiliar terrain with no map.

She paused, half-smiling as she turned to face him properly.

“Well,” she said, considering, “depends on the couple, I guess. Some people love that kind of thing. Some don’t.” She sat back on her heels. “But that was the first birthday we spent together. I mean, come on. A slutty red bra that doesn’t even cover your nipples? Not exactly the most thoughtful gift.”

She wrinkled her nose and reached for the next pile like that conversation hadn’t just torched the edges of his comfort zone.

She huffed, pushing the offending bra deeper into the trash bag like it might crawl back out. “And! I couldn’t even return it,” she added, offended all over again. “He’d bought it on clearance. No receipt. Probably got it for her, whoever she was, and when my birthday rolled around, went, oh right!”

She trailed off with a bitter little scoff, shaking her head.

Bucky blinked. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, then closed.

This was- this was too much information. On several planes.

First, the idea that it was normal now for a fella to buy his girl some racy lace contraption as a birthday gift. Not a brooch. Not a novel. Not perfume. Underwear. Bright, indecent underwear. On clearance.

Second, the mention of her ex. An abstract concept until now, but suddenly real, a guy with hands and a voice. A man who had touched her and laughed in her kitchen. Somehow, it irked him.

And third… the lace itself. That wasn’t the lace he remembered. Back then, lace was demure. Something a girl might wear under her Sunday dress, not on purpose for display.

He was spiraling in soft silence when her voice broke through.

“What would you have gifted to a girlfriend, you know… before?” she asked.

He shifted on the cot, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his fingers digging into tense muscle as he considered. Not a comb. He wasn’t some wide-eyed schoolboy chasing girls with pigtailed dreams.

“Depends on the girl,” he said finally. “But I- I remember once I dated this… nurse. Annie. Real smart. She loved going to the movies.”

His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile.

“I bought her a pair of gloves,” he said. “White leather. Real soft. She worked nights at the hospital, her hands were always cold. Got ‘em monogrammed with her initials, too. Classy stuff.”

He cleared his throat and looked away.

She blinked at him, then smiled.

“That’s… really thoughtful, I bet she loved them,” she said.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. It was ages ago, and it felt like… no, it didn’t feel like. It was another man. With a whole other life. One with warmth and windows and streets he knew by name. If he could even call himself a man now. Most days, he still wasn’t sure.

She cleared her throat, breaking the silence.

“Well,” she said, dusting off her palms and eyeing the three remaining boxes. “I guess I did most of the work today, so tomorrow I’ll sort the rest and we can go to the second-hand shop.”

Then, a careful pause.

“Are you sure you want to come?”

He didn’t look at her right away. His metal thumb rubbed absently against his fingers, tracing lines that weren’t there anymore. The memory of white leather still remained in his brain, the ghost of a smile from a nurse who smelled like antiseptic and powder.

“I said I would,” he mumbled finally.

His voice wasn’t sharp, just tethered to something he didn’t quite want to examine. He shifted on the cot and glanced toward the small stack of notebooks he had put near the wall.

He should write about it. About the gloves. About Annie. About how the man who gave her that gift used to mumble Peggy Lee under his breath and knew how to make a girl laugh without trying. Maybe if he wrote it down, he could figure out whether any of that man was still in him.

“I was thinking we could order pizza tonight,” she commented as she dragged some of the boxes to one side.

His ears perked at that, subtly, but unmistakably. The way his head tilted slightly, the faint flicker of attention lighting his eyes.

Pizza.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a slice. Couldn’t say he even remembered the taste clearly, but the idea of it… warm, cheesy, greasy comfort, it sounded enticing. Familiar, somehow. Safe.

“You up to it?” she asked, picking up on his silence.

“Yeah,” he said, after a second’s pause. His voice was low but sure.

She turned to him, half-smiling. “Anything you fancy? Just… nothing with some sort of charcuterie on top. I draw the line at mystery meats.”

He gave a small shrug. “Um… cheese?”

She laughed softly. “Of course it would have cheese, Bucky.”

Another shrug, a bit more pronounced this time. “Then… cheese.”

“Margherita, it is,” she declared, walking over to grab her phone. “Simple, classic. Can’t go wrong with that.”

He watched her as she scrolled through the delivery app, with one knee propped on the edge of the cot like this -this choosing of pizza- was something they’d always done.

“Well, I’ll take a shower while it arrives,” she said, stretching her arms over her head with a small sigh. Then, turning back at the doorframe, “Where do you want to eat it?”

He glanced up from where he sat, quirking one brow in mild confusion.

“It’s pizza,” she added with a little grin. “We can be creative.”

He seemed to genuinely consider it. His eyes dropped, and his brows knitted faintly like she’d presented him with a puzzle. Then, carefully, measured, “I… enjoy the table. As any other food.”

She almost teased. Almost told him he sounded like a man giving a military report on acceptable dining zones. But then she thought better of it. Of course, he’d choose the table. He would cling to something solid, familiar, structured. He needed that. A surface. A chair. A clear place and purpose.

“Table it is,” she said, gently. “Can you set it while I shower?”

“Yeah,” he said, already standing up from the cot, glad -maybe even relieved- to have something to do. His eyes flicked to hers for just a second, then away again as he moved toward the door.

----

The ring of the doorbell traveled through the apartment.

Bucky stiffened where he stood at the kitchen counter, a dish towel still in his hands. His eyes darted toward the hallway, toward the faint sound of water still running in the bathroom. She was still in the shower.

He froze for a beat -just a second- and then drew a slow, deep breath. It’s probably the pizza. He didn’t like the sound of the buzzer, didn’t like unknown voices through static, or anyone unexpected near the door. But this had a name. A reason. A purpose.

He walked over to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Pizza delivery!” came the muffled reply.

He hesitated -still felt the pressure of old instincts, the demand to verify a hundred unseen variables- but finally said, “Be right down.”

The stairwell smelled faintly of old cleaner and warm cardboard. Bucky descended quickly, hoodie up. The guy waiting at the bottom looked young, early twenties maybe, bored and holding the insulated bag like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Apartment two?” the guy asked, already pulling the box out.

Bucky nodded and reached out.

The kid hesitated, then handed the pizza over, eyeing him up and down like something didn’t quite click. Bucky nodded his thanks and turned to go.

“Hey,” the delivery guy said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bucky paused, looked back. Blank. “No.”

“Seriously, dude? No tip?”

“She- it was paid online.” He answered stiffly.

“Yeah, but-” the guy scoffed, already irritated. “Everyone tips, it’s decency, man.”

Bucky’s brows drew in, unsure. He hadn’t known. No one had said anything about an extra payment. Where he came from -when he came from- food just didn’t appear at your door like this.

The silence stretched awkwardly, then the guy huffed and turned away, muttering loud enough to be heard.

“Fucker.”

Bucky blinked. His grip pressed harder on the pizza box. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned, shoulders squared a little more rigidly now, and walked back up the stairs.

----

The smell was rich, warm, and damn near intoxicating. Cheese, tomato, oregano, familiar, yet distant. Bucky set the box on the counter but didn’t lift the lid. Not yet. His fingers twitched with the urge to peek, but he just stood there, with his arms crossed, waiting.

She came out a few minutes later, her damp hair pulled into a messy knot. Soft cotton sweatpants, an old tee. Comfortable. Her gaze landed on the pizza box instantly.

“Oh,” she said, a bit surprised, “they must not have had many clients tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted on his feet.

“You… did alright with it?” she asked, eyeing the box.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Didn’t know I was supposed to give the guy some money. You paid on your phone, so I thought… that was it.”

She grimaced. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to tell you because I figured I’d be the one getting it. Was it very uncomfortable?”

He gave her a look, blank but pointed.

“Right,” she winced. “Okay, fair. I’ll take that as a yes.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck, a little sheepish but mostly frustrated. “The guy looked at me like I’d pissed on his boots.”

“Well… now that we’re at it,” she said, moving to fetch a cutter, “every time you order food, it’s expected to… tip the delivery guy.”

He frowned at that. “Isn’t he an employee of the shop?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Technically. But they make shit money, so tips are kind of how they survive. Think of it like… standard courtesy.”

“Hm,” he muttered, clearly not sold. “That wasn’t a thing back then.”

“Nope. And neither was pineapple on pizza, but we all have to make peace with modern horrors.”

He snorted quietly, surprising even himself. She grinned and handed him a plate with a slice.

“Come on, sit. Here is your margherita.”

He took the plate and followed her to the table, still chewing on the whole tip situation like it was stranger than the idea of a pizza arriving hot at your door.

----

The next day, just like they’d agreed, they headed to the secondhand shop not long after she got back from work. She dropped her bag, changed into something more comfortable, and they began the careful balancing act of getting all the sorted boxes to the door without tripping over themselves.

The way her schedule rotated still threw him off. Some mornings she was gone quickly after breakfast, and other days she didn’t come in until the moon was up. When he’d asked, she’d explained it was something her boss had set up so employees could actually have real lives: plan appointments, errands, family things. Mornings off, afternoons off. Rotating freedom. It sounded nice. Too nice. Structured and unpredictable all at once. Made sense in theory, but it still left him uneasy.

He’d insisted on carrying most of the boxes, stacked awkwardly in his arms. She only took one, guiding him carefully with a hand around the sleeve of his jacket so he didn’t walk blindly into street poles or mailboxes.

She knew there was a lot, hell, there were even clothes from her granny in there, some other untouched since her last move, and she doubted she’d get much for it. A few bucks, maybe. The real goal was to clear the room out, but she didn’t tell Bucky that. He already walked around like any effort she made on his behalf was tipping the scale too far. He didn’t need to know it was more about making space than making money.

The secondhand shop was warm and smelled faintly of old denim, wooden hangers, and lavender sachets, trying to do their best. The clerk behind the counter looked up at the bell above the door, gave them both a once-over, and quirked a brow at the armfuls they were hauling in.

“Spring cleaning?” she asked, dry and unimpressed.

“Something like that,” she replied, shooting Bucky a look and a half-smile.

He stood stiff, scanning the place like there might be a Hydra agent crouching behind the dress rack. But he said nothing, and didn’t shift the boxes even once. Just waited for her to lead.

----

As she haggled gently with the clerk. Bucky let himself drift from the counter. Just a slow, careful wander meant to stay out of the way.

The store stretched deeper than he expected. A side-room opened off the main space, cluttered with more than just racks of clothing, there were tables covered in brass trinkets, crates stacked with mismatched kitchenware, and shelves crowded with lamps that hadn’t lit a room in decades.

They didn’t just deal in clothes, then.

He stepped over the threshold, letting his fingers skim the edge of a chipped enamel basin.

Some of the things he couldn’t place at all, odd plastic gadgets with tangled cords, neon-colored toys that looked radioactive, piles of things that he couldn’t imagine a use for. They seemed old and well-used, but clearly, they weren’t as old as him.

But then, he saw the corner.

A dusty table with a few shaving kits stacked in a wire basket, old double-edged razors, the kind he used to have in the barracks. A hand mirror with silver leaf peeling from the edges. A transistor radio with the RCA Victor logo faded but still visible.

His breath hitched, his brain assaulted with a memory.

One of the shelves held what looked like the skeleton of a mixer, bulky, steel-bodied, the kind his ma used to keep in the pantry, only hauled out for Christmas or when someone died and the neighbors brought over casseroles. It still had the same round dial, the chipped paint around the base.

And next to that, a battered box marked Vinyls - 10 each.

He crouched and let his hand travel over the stack. Things that once played on jukeboxes and radios before he was-

Well. Before.

He must’ve been crouched by that crate longer than he thought, because she showed up at his side eventually.

“Anything that caught your eye?” she asked, resting her hands on the edge of the table.

He gave a small shake of his head, his eyes still on the covers. “Not really.”

Most of the names meant nothing. Maybe they once had. A couple looked vaguely familiar, but it was more like spotting a stranger who reminded you of someone you used to know. And the few he did recognize… Well. He didn’t have a record player. Didn’t know if he even wanted one.

“Jus’ lookin’,” he muttered, clearing his throat. His knuckles brushed over a worn cardboard edge before letting go. “Are you done?”

“Yup,” she replied, stepping beside him. She picked up something from a cluttered tray, a silvery, chrome-toned brooch shaped like a curling vine. The lines were smooth, elegant, the way things used to be made when details mattered. Nestled between the swirling leaves were three tiny blue glass stones, imitation sapphires maybe, catching the light like dew.

One of those little coquetry items women used to pin on their blouses. Not flashy. Not cheap either. Just... feminine. She turned it in her hand, smiling faintly, brushing her thumb on the back where the pin mechanism still held.

He glanced at it, then at her.

And thought -unbidden- that it suited her.

Like it had been waiting there this whole time just for her to pass by.

He looked away before she caught him staring, and swallowed.

“Want me to carry the boxes back?” he asked.

“Oh no, the boxes stay here, we have no use for them,” she declared, setting the brooch back on the tray with a soft clink of metal against metal.

Bucky’s jaw twitched, his eyes remaining on the cardboard stacks near the counter. He didn’t like the idea of leaving them behind. Had stacked them against the walls like a shield when he first got to the apartment. They made the space feel contained. Like a perimeter he controlled. Maybe he had thought unconsciously that he could put them back. Reinforce the nest. Hole up again.

But they were staying. She was right. There was no point. They were just clutter now.

“Want to linger a little more or…?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

He dragged his eyes off the boxes, idly rubbing his thumb at the seam of his sleeve, and gave a small shake of the head. “No. I- I’d like to go home.”

Her eyebrows lifted, a smile pulling at her mouth, soft and surprised. “Home, huh?”

He ducked his head slightly, ears pink.

“Alright, big guy,” she said, patting his metal arm as she passed. “Let’s go home, then.”

He followed her out, keeping close as always.

----

“Oh!” She stopped just outside the second-hand shop, hand catching his sleeve lightly. “Wanna check if they have a shelf? Since you mentioned putting one up.”

He shifted his weight. “Not right now,” he muttered, glancing past her. “I- I’d really like to go back.”

She looked at his face for a moment, then gave a silent nod. “Alright then.”

She didn’t press.

He followed her down the street, this time consciously keeping his pace beside her instead of falling into step behind like a silent guard. But the shift didn’t come easily. Every few strides, his eyes flicked to the buildings, the parked cars, the strangers walking ahead. Always scanning. Always searching for a threat.

His mind drifted as they walked. To the room. Emptier now. He couldn’t think past that, not really. Not yet.

Even if the apartment felt safe now -even if he’d called it home- he still needed the perimeter. The foxhole. Some corner that felt like a fallback position. Somewhere to retreat if things tilted sideways again.

God, he thought. It’s so fucked up.

He exhaled through his nose, scanning the sidewalk again. A man with a too-long stare. A car slowing too close to the curb.

Whatever was broken in him, fine. He could live with it.

But if something touched her?

No. Not on his watch.

----

The hallway light flicked on as they stepped inside the apartment. She shrugged off her coat and tossed the keys in the bowl by the door, glancing at the clock.

“Think I’ll put on some MasterChef UK,” she said casually, already walking toward the couch. “The British one’s better. Less screaming. More actual food. I think you might like it.”

He offered a small nod but didn’t follow. His eyes followed the space ahead -warm and lived-in- before passing straight to the back instead.

“I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely toward the hall. “Gonna be in my room for a bit.”

“Sure,” she said, not pushing. “If you want snacks or something, I’ll be out here.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he closed his eyes.

His room felt bigger now. Not better. Just emptier. Exposed. The absence of the boxes made the walls feel farther apart, the corners darker somehow. Bucky stood in the middle for a moment, with his arms loose at his sides, and then moved.

He dragged the cot to a new wall. It didn’t scrape much; he’d lifted it slightly, mindful of the floor. Then the laundry basket, tucked beneath the window, now. The old lamp, once half-hidden, stood upright in the far corner. The chair, the mirror, both repositioned like he was setting pieces on a board, trying to define the space again.

It had to do. It wasn’t the bunker anymore, not really. But it had to be something. Something his.

He exhaled through his nose, sat on the edge of the cot, and reached for the notepad. The one he’d already started to write in. The cover was creased from where he’d gripped it too hard earlier that day.

He opened it and began scribbling. A list, a few half-sentences, and then fuller ones. Observations about the second-hand shop. The record sleeves. The appliance that reminded him of his ma. The radio knob, exactly like the one in his neighbor’s kitchen back in Brooklyn.

None of it hurt to remember. Not yet.

Next Chapter

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dividers by @/strangergraphics

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sashaisready · 10 days ago

Text

oh god the yearning 🥲

Halfway to Saying It

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: pining; emotional hurt/comfort; unresolved feelings; self-worth worries; perceived unrequited love; jealous!Bucky; sad!Bucky; two idiots in love

Author’s Note: This took me a while to write and post, but now it’s here, so please bear with me. It’s part of my little roommate series A Window Open to the Moon, but can be read as a standalone. And y’all, these two are idiots here, I’m not even exaggerating. But they’re idiots in love, and I’ll be honest, this could be me lmao. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“I’m feedin’ the cat.”

Bucky’s voice sounds like he is announcing something so important it should have come with a press conference.

You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a half-empty iced coffee sweating in your hand, the strap of your bag still hanging off one shoulder. You’re not even sure why you came in here. To tell him, you think. Because you always tell him things. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

And this might be the stupidest thing yet.

“He asked me while I was waiting for my order,” you continue softly. “Said he liked my sweater.”

Bucky still doesn’t look at you. He’s bent over Alpine’s dish as though he is performing surgery, shaking dry kibble into the bowl with intense concentration, as if getting the measurement right might save a life.

The tiny white kitten trots up on quiet feet, tail high, and starts crunching away.

“I’m feedin’ the cat,” he mutters again, scooping out the tiniest bit of pâté as though it is a peace offering.

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

You chew on your bottom lip, watching his broad back and how his shirt pulls at the shoulders when he moves.

“And, um,” you keep going. “I said yes.”

His hand stills mid-pour.

There is a pause. A second. Maybe two.

Bucky is still crouched there, as though Alpine’s lunch is the most emotionally taxing task of the century. As though he isn’t listening, but you know he is. Bucky always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.

You cross your arms, trying not to feel the cold silence between you. You try to fill it.

“He was nice. Funny. A little awkward, but sweet.”

Nothing.

You blink. A small laugh slips past your lips, a little uncertain. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make a joke like he usually would. You watch the way his jaw shifts, that muscle in his cheek ticking just barely, and for some reason it makes your stomach flutter in the wrong kind of way.

“Sounds great, doll.” He sounds distant. Bucky gives Alpine a little scratch behind the ears. She mewls softly, nuzzling his fingers as though she tries to reassure him.

“I’m not gonna marry him or anything,” you add with a nervous chuckle, because now you feel ridiculous. You wish you hadn’t said anything.

With a grunt, he scoops another time.

“Buck, I think she’s had enough.”

“Nah,” he says, but his voice is quieter. “She’s small. She’s still growin’.”

He won’t look at you. That’s the part that starts to hurt. Really hurt. Bucky always meets your eyes, always smirks a little, always throws you some teasing quip that makes your chest ache in the most confusing ways. But he’s not doing any of that.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

His head tilts just slightly. Still facing Alpine. He shrugs one shoulder and it seems the movement costs him something. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you answer quietly. “You tell me.”

The sound of Alpine’s chewing seems almost exaggerated now, as though she is mocking you with tiny, delicate crunches.

“He really seemed nice,” you offer, unsure who you’re trying to convince.

“Hm.”

“He has a rescue dog named Harold.”

“A real winner.”

You pause.

“Bucky.”

He stands. Slowly. Still doesn’t look at you.

The kitchen is too quiet, too warm. The sunlight is cutting across the counter in slanted golden lines, hitting the edge of the fridge where you stuck a magnet that says Do not eat my leftovers unless you wanna lose a finger. His handwriting. Sharpie. Bold strokes.

He finally turns, arms folded across his chest, his hair a little messy in the front as though he’s been raking a hand through it. His grey shirt fits him too well and he’s wearing those flattering pajama pants and socks with tiny cartoon bananas on them.

The domesticity of him hurts your feelings.

“So,” he acknowledges, voice too level. “You’re going on a date.”

You try to smile, and it feels crooked on your face. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

He nods. One of those tight, one-second-too-long kind of nods.

“That’s great,” he says, and it is, objectively, the worst lie anyone has ever told.

You tilt your head at him.

He looks down at Alpine’s bowl, which now contains enough for a three-course meal and a snack for later.

He leans down to pick up a kibble Alpine flung on the tile and you watch him fuss with the bowl as though it holds the answer to every question he’s too scared to ask.

She has enough food in her dish to survive at least three mild apocalypses. One more scoop and she might unionize.

You lean your hip against the doorframe, iced coffee sloshing in your hand. “You know, I think she’s good, Buck. Pretty sure she’s full.”

Bucky shrugs again. His favorite gesture when he doesn’t want to tell you something. And he doesn’t. Not always. His silences can be long, sleepy rivers you’re always tempted to wade into, just to see if he’ll pull you under or let you drown in the quiet.

“I’m makin’ sure.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

Bucky sighs. Scratches the back of his neck as though it itches with something.

You look at him for a long moment. Let yourself really look. He won’t really meet your eyes which means you can see everything else. The way his jaw keeps tightening, loosening. The faint pink blooming high on his cheeks like embarrassment is trying to sneak out of him. The way his fingers twitch as though they want to do something - as though he is trying to put the world back in order but keeps dropping all the pieces.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he remarks eventually, and it comes out too fast. Too quiet. As though maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Your heart gives a little jolt. Stupid thing. Useless thing. Always hoping.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, fiddling with a spoon for no reason at all. “I dunno. Just- Never thought you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know what type he is.”

“I can guess.”

You keep your arms crossed. “And what do you think my type is?”

And Bucky looks at you. Right into you. And there is something like grief in his expression. As though you dropped a stone in his stomach and now it’s sinking, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Not guys who can’t spell their own name without checking their Instagram bio.”

You snort. “You don’t even know if he’s that kind of guy, Buck.”

“Again,” he repeats flatly. “I can guess.”

You bark out a laugh, mostly because it’s that or burst into tears. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grins, just for a second, and you want to wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it in a drawer. Keep it safe. Look at it later.

There is a pause. Long and soft. The kind where breathing feels like breaking the rules.

You pick at your fingers. “He just asked. I thought - maybe I should say yes. Try something new.”

Bucky nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah,” he states, voice low. “Makes sense.”

He then he watches Alpine - sweet, nosy, manipulative Alpine - as she rubs up against his ankle and then immediately loses interest, padding off to lie dramatically in the sunbeam on the floor as though she is done with both of you. Probably is. Probably thinks you’re idiots.

“She’s gonna get fat if you keep feeding her like this,” you state plainly.

“She’s emotionally complex,” he mutters, but his voice sounds far away.

There is something hanging in the air now. Something heavy and slow, like a fog rolling in off the coast of a conversation you weren’t ready to sail into.

You look down at your coffee cup. Consider how this all feels. How he feels.

Standing, but stiff, his back drawn tight. The sleeves of his soft shirt stretch over his shoulders. He is so present. So here. A permanent thing in your life. Familiar. Necessary. You’ve had him next to you for years, the way you have your favorite hoodie, or the chipped mug you refuse to throw out because it feels like home in your hands.

You take a breath.

“Look,” you start sweetly. “I know you worry, Buck.”

He freezes. Lets out a heavy breath. His shoulders shift.

You assume he knows just how worried he gets. He worries when you get home late and forget to text. He gets all twitchy when you wear that one coat that doesn’t zip right. He always makes sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He kept checking your brakes after you mentioned your car made a weird noise, even though you were sure it was harmless. He drove six blocks looking for you in socks that time you said you were going to walk home from the train station.

He has always been like that. Big feelings, quiet hands. Careful with everything but himself.

“And I know that’s why you’re acting all weird about this.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I was just feedin-”

“Bucky-”

He exhales again, this time longer. As though maybe he is letting something go. Or trying to hold something in.

“I just-” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his face, as though he can smooth out the thing he doesn’t want to admit.

“You don’t know him,” you begin, before he tries to dodge the conversation again. “But I really think he’s nice. Not like, take-home-to-meet-the-cat nice. Well, yet. But… kind. Polite. Smart, I think. He asked me out in a normal way. Respectfully.”

Bucky makes a face as if respectfully is offensive.

“He told me I had a nice laugh,” you add.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just clears his throat and stands a little straighter. His knee cracks and Alpine bolts across the floor as though someone dropped a vacuum.

You take a few steps into the room and set your coffee down, because your hands feel too warm all of a sudden. “You don’t have to like him, Buck. I just thought… I don’t know. You’d maybe ask what I’m gonna wear. Or tell me to send my location in case he turns out to be a serial killer.”

He is stone in sweats and a shirt, and somehow it breaks your heart.

“I was gonna get there,” Bucky mumbles. “Eventually.”

You can feel your heart sink just a little. Just enough to know you shouldn’t have expected anything. Not from him. Not about this.

You didn’t want him to be protective.

You wanted him to care.

Not because he’s your roommate. Not because he’s your best friend. Not because he worries.

But because he likes you.

Because he’s been pining the same way you have.

You glance down at Alpine who is now sitting next to the counter, licking her paw, uninterested. Maybe even she can’t fix this one.

“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” you tell him. Soft. Small. A little hurting. “It took a lot to say yes, you know? I never say yes. But I thought- maybe- I should try.”

Bucky looks as though he’s been punched.

His eyes are wide, unsure, as though he just realized he made you feel like you’re not worth celebrating. That he let his feelings sit too long in silence, and now they’ve curdled into disappointment instead of support.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink, hair falling into his eyes. “Shit, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. Try to smile. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to be excited.”

But that’s not what he wants to hear. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something and then closes again like it hurts.

He looks off balance. As though he is trying to stand on something that’s not quite there.

“I just don’t want you to go out with someone who makes you forget what you deserve.” His voice is soft, too soft, and his eyes are tired and deep in that tender way that makes you want to cup his cheek and ask him what’s really wrong.

You blink. “What?”

Another shrug. But it’s heavier now. “Some guys are good at bein’ nice. For, like, a while. ‘Til they get what they want. And then they change.”

“Bucky-”

“I’m not sayin’ he will,” he adds quickly. “I’m just… I dunno. Maybe I’m just being an ass.”

You frown at him a little. “You’re not-”

“I just-” he interrupts, gesturing haphazardly at Alpine, the bowl, the sunlight on the floor. “I like when you’re happy, y’know? That’s all. Even if it’s not ‘cause of me.”

You stare at him.

He is staring at the wall behind you.

Alpine yawns with a little squeak.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. You don’t want him to know that your heart’s being weird again. That it did that little skip-jump-stumble thing it always does when Bucky says something just a little too soft, a little too close to the line you swore he wouldn’t cross.

He glances down at the kitten, then back at you. “Look, I’m just- I’m not good at this kinda thing, alright? Feelin’ stuff. Sayin’ stuff. Especially when it’s not what I wanna feel.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice is confused. Your mind and body are confused. Because where is he going with this?

He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair as though he tries to rearrange all the thoughts he doesn’t want to have in the first place.

“I mean-” he begins, then shakes his head, not looking at you. “Nothin’. Forget it. Just- don’t go thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. You know that, right?”

You nod slowly. Still not enough.

Bucky shifts on his feet. Alpine meows as though she’s giving him a nudge. Bucky stops, scoops her up in one arm, and meets your eyes with a drawn out sigh.

“You’re right. He’s probably a good guy. Deserves a shot, yeah?” His voice is low, quiet. A little flatter around the edges. “You should go.”

Something in your chest crumbles. Because he means it. He’s trying. Even if it’s killing him. He is working so hard to sound okay even when he’s clearly not.

You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to say forget the date and stay in and watch a bad movie and eat cereal on the couch with your knees touching and your feelings buried under laughter. But you can’t. Because you said yes. Because you have to try. Because he never did.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “But if Alpine throws up, it’s on you.”

His mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Kid’s got an iron stomach.”

Alpine wiggles in his grip and lets out a soft mrrp. You both laugh.

And then - like he flips a switch - Bucky straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, in a voice two notes too cheerful. “You want me to help you pick an outfit, or you wanna go full surprise?”

“What?” You laugh softly.

“I mean, if this guy’s gonna be all respectful and admirin’ your laugh and whatever, he better lose his mind when he sees you, too. That’s basic manners.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”

He grins, a little forced. “C’mon. I’ve got taste.”

“Oh yeah? What are your qualifications?”

He leans against the counter next to you, arms still around Alpine, pretending to be cool even though you can see his ears turning red.

“I live with a style icon,” he says, nodding at you. “And a cat with a crown-shaped food bowl. I know fashion.”

You laugh despite yourself. Despite everything.

He smiles too, but quieter now. It is a soft, deflated thing curling up at the edges of his mouth. Something that says he is trying, even though part of him is crumbling like paper in the rain. And the spark in his eyes that always flares when he makes you laugh is gone.

You glance at Alpine. Her tail flicks as though she knows something. She meows as though you’re wasting her time.

Bucky is holding the cat in his arms as though he’s holding onto both of you as best he can.

****

You open the bathroom door with slow fingers, the soft click of the handle echoing into the hallway like the opening chord of a song that might end in heartbreak.

The light spills out behind you, golden and warm, hanging onto your silhouette like some kind of halo.

Your cheeks are warm and flushed from the heat of the curling iron and your heartbeat, and your dress clings just right on the places that matter.

You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door and hope this better be enough to distract a man from looking at his phone every four seconds.

You feel it before you even step out. His eyes.

They’re on you the second you cross the threshold, and you try not to shiver under his attention. Even though you spent the last hour preparing for this - shaving, moisturizing, curling, painting, fluffing, glossing. You did the work. You look good. You know that. You feel the rare glimmer of confidence like a sugar rush in your veins.

But when you look up and meet his eyes it’s like your breath jumped out the window.

Bucky is standing near the living room archway, leaning against the frame as though he didn’t mean to be waiting, as though he just happened to be passing through at the exact moment you emerged, and it’s a poor performance. He is terrible at casual. His arms are crossed, muscles tense, jaw locked up tight, Alpine balanced like a bread loaf on one broad forearm, completely disinterested in the tragedy of the moment.

In his other hand he is holding a glass of water he clearly doesn’t need. Something to do with his hands, maybe.

You fully step into the hallway.

Bucky blinks once.

Twice.

His mouth opens and doesn’t quite recover.

The silence eats a hole right through your stomach.

You stand there for a second, your fingers fiddling with the chain around your neck, your heart in your throat, your entire body one big, glittering question mark.

Bucky is frozen as though someone just hit pause on his thoughts.

“…damn,” he lets out, voice low, hoarse like he forgot how to use it. “You, uh-”

He shifts Alpine as though she’s in the way of his words.

“You look-” He swallows. “You look beautiful, doll.”

Heat curls up your neck so fast you feel dizzy with it.

And then he shakes his head a little, forcing himself to regroup. “But- like, I mean- you don’t even need all that, y’know?” His hand starts gesturing to your entire body and then retreats as though he’s been caught stealing. “You look good, all the time. You didn’t have to do all this. Not for some guy.”

His voice trails off into something smaller, sadder. Something unpolished.

You laugh gently, mostly because you don’t know what else to do with the way your heart is behaving. It’s skipping. Misfiring. Tapping out a beat as though it wants to be caught. And for a second, you wonder what he would have done if you were dressed like this for him.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “That’s sweet.”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Too fast. As though he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine. Like it’s all good. Nothing tragic happening in his chest at all.

He looks at you as though he wants to say something more and keeps deciding against it.

You are smoothing your dress down, adjusting the hem even though you’ve done it twice already. There is this little flutter of panic in your chest that came out of nowhere, like maybe you went overboard. Like maybe he’s saying it out of politeness.

“Is it too much?” you ask, forcing the question through an anxious breath. You look down at yourself - your hair done, makeup soft and glowing, dress hugging you just right. “I mean- like, the dress, the heels, all of it. I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve worn jeans and a shirt. He’s just some guy I met at a café and I probably look like I’m trying too hard-”

“Hey, doll. No, no, none of that.” Bucky sets the glass down. He doesn’t even notice it lands crooked on the table, and steps closer, that familiar furrow between his brows. He meets your eyes and something inside of them is splintering. Quietly. Devastatingly.

“Doll, you look stunning, alright? You’re gorgeous.” He shakes his head as if the words won’t land unless he unsticks them from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat bobs. “And not just tonight. Always. You didn’t have to do a damn thing to knock the wind outta me, but here we are anyway.”

His voice breaks a little at the end. Softens. And for a moment there is something in his expression that looks like surrender.

Your heart does complicated things and you look away, biting down on a smile that is equal parts joy and ache. “That’s a bit dramatic, Buck.” But your voice is a little too close to breathless.

He huffs a laugh, but it’s dull. He rubs Alpine behind the ear as a distraction.

“It’s just the truth, doll.” His voice is quieter now. “You could never be too much.”

You smile, but it’s the brittle kind, the one that feels like holding your breath too long.

He is standing close. Close enough to feel him. Inside your body.

“Thanks, Buck,” you say again. And you mean it. But you need to get this conversation out of your head before you start climbing him and forget the other guy.

You walk over to the table to grab your bag, and he follows a few steps behind, like Alpine when she’s pretending not to beg.

You check your earrings in the mirror beside the door, fluffing your hair where it is curled at the ends. You feel his stare like pins on your skin.

“You sure this guy’s okay?” he asks, as if he’s just casually curious. As if he isn’t dying.

You glance at him through the mirror. “I think so. He seemed nice.”

Bucky’s eyes dart away. His fingers are fiddling with the ring on his index finger. “Just sayin’, if he does anything shady, you come home. Immediately. No questions. I’ll make you popcorn. We’ll put on a bad movie. Just us.”

Your chest stings.

“You got pepper spray?”

“Bucky-”

“Does he know you’re allergic to fake cinnamon?”

“I don’t think we’re going to a candle store.”

He breathes out a laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

You hesitate. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just hangin' in. With Alp. Probably gonna order takeout. Watch some crime documentaries. Y’know, real cheery stuff.”

You nod slowly. “No Steve? No Sam?”

He shrugs, noncommittal. But it’s like something in his chest caves with the movement. “They got stuff goin’ on. I’m good here,” he declares in a voice too casual. “Gotta be here when you get back, right?” he says, trying to grin. Failing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over your heels comin’ up the stairs.”

You stare at him, at his subtle sadness and twitchy hands and the way he looks at you as though he is memorizing the moment in case he never gets another. As though he is already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

The part of you that wanted this date feels smaller now.

Alpine meows.

You don’t know whether to hug him or stay perfectly still or cancel the date and climb into his lap.

You want to curl up with Bucky and Alpine and forget the whole damn date. But instead, you slip your phone into your clutch with hands that suddenly feel too clumsy to belong to you.

“Text me, alright?”

You glance up at him, confused. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping forward, Alpine tucked into his arm like a security blanket. “If this guy makes you uncomfortable, if he talks with his mouth full, if he looks at his phone too much- you call me.”

“Bucky-”

“I’ll come get you,” he insists, eyes fierce now, worried. “I’ll walk there and drag you out myself if I have to. Just promise me. You text me. You don’t sit through some crap date because you’re tryin’ to be polite.”

You smile, helpless under the sheer care in his voice. It tugs at your ribcage.

“I promise.”

His jaw ticks as though it’s not enough. As though even your promises aren’t safe anymore. He is still staring at you.

There is a second when he opens his mouth again. And you swear you see it rush over his expression - that he’s right there, teetering on the edge of saying something different. Something deep. Something important. Something sharp and glittering and buried under years of I shouldn’ts and she wouldn’t want me like that and she deserves better.

And you almost find yourself hoping another aching time.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he presses his lips together. As though sorrow has already folded itself under his tongue.

His eyes flick toward the door, and it stings.

“I think he’s a good guy,” you reassure quietly, trying to fill the silence with something easier. Safer. “He seemed sweet. You don’t need to worry, Buck.”

He snorts. Humorless. Looks at the kitten in his arms as though she needs all his attention right now. Alpine mewls once as if to agree.

“Yeah. Sweet,” he mumbles, brushing a hand through her fur. “Still- just… be careful, alright?”

You nod. He doesn’t look up.

“If he’s late, or he says anything that makes you feel weird, or you’re not havin’ fun - you let me know. Just give the word, I’ll come swingin’. In sweats and all.”

That earns a small laugh from you. But he still won’t meet your eyes. He scratches Alpine behind the ears while she blinks at you with innocent, unknowing affection.

“I will, okay? Promise. But really, I mean, the date could be great,” you offer, voice a little unsure.

His expression changes so subtly you would miss it if you didn’t know him that well. His shoulders deflate, the corner of his mouth tugs downward as though gravity finally got to him, as though someone popped a balloon in his chest and now he’s trying to remember how to stand.

“Yeah,” he says, too quiet, too distant. “Could be.”

There is a knot forming in your chest. A slow-growing tension that seems half regret and half longing. Bucky is towering over you, but he still seems so small like this. Folded in on himself. As though he is trying not to break in front of you.

You take a step toward him, heart hammering in your throat. You lift up onto your toes, lean in, and press a kiss to his cheek.

Soft. Careful. A brush of lips against faint stubble and skin that smells like cedar soap and him.

He goes still.

You feel his breath hitch. As though you just reset his entire nervous system. You feel the way he sways slightly toward you before catching himself, grounding himself back in the tension he wears.

You pull back and offer him the kind of smile that means everything and nothing at all.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, nods once.

“Have a nice night, Buck,” you add, backing toward the door.

His voice is thick when he finally answers, barely above a rasp. “Yeah. You too, doll. Have fun.” It sounds like he’s underwater.

Alpine yawns as though this is all so exhausting.

You reach the door, one hand on the knob.

“And if he’s a jerk-”

“I call you. And I come home.”

You open the door and as it clicks shut behind you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back.

You lean against the door for a beat, heart knocking against your ribs in a pattern you’ve come to recognize.

Bucky doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after you.

But inside, you know he’s still standing where you left him with Alpine clutched close, staring at the empty space you left behind.

And you want to go back inside. You want to spend your evening with him. You want to cheer him up and ease his mind with staying in.

But he didn’t stop you. So you don’t stop yourself.

****

You don’t remember most of the walk home.

The city buzzes around you in blues and golds, in late-evening puddles and the traffic lights changing colors.

The dark sky is soft and full and sighing, and the moon hangs above, following you home.

You hug your coat tighter around yourself. Your dress itches where it clings to your ribs, and your heels sound like guilt against the sidewalk.

You didn’t text him you were coming back early. You didn’t know how to say it without saying too much. Without exposing yourself for the fraud this entire night has made you feel like.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s not that big of a deal, that the date just ended early, naturally, like the way a song fades out instead of ending with a bang.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

You’re not sure which ones you believe.

Because the truth is - the guy was lovely.

He was kind. He smiled a lot, and asked good questions, and listened when you spoke. He pulled out your chair and paid for dinner and didn’t make weird jokes. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t get too close too fast. He laughed with you. He was attractive. Safe. Sweet.

He was everything you’re supposed to want.

And still, you spent most of the night nodding at his stories while watching the condensation collect on your glass, wondering if Bucky had remembered to let Alpine sit on the windowsill and watch the city before shutting the blinds. Wondering if he was watching TV with the volume too low again because he gets a headache from the noise. Wondering what he has been eating tonight. Wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him - constantly, painfully, like something in your head with no off switch.

Your date had asked you about your weekend plans, and you’d said “Oh, probably just hang out with my roommate.”

And your heart had tripped over the word, knowing it meant so much more than that. As though roommate is short for the boy I’ve loved for years but never touched.

The moment your date leaned across the table to compliment your eyes, you - soft idiot that you are - instantly heard Bucky’s voice instead. The way he always says stuff like that in passing, tossed casually between asking you if you’ve seen the TV remote or if there is leftover pizza in the fridge.

And it sits deeply in your chest. Sinking further with each passing beat - the truth.

You can’t give this guy a chance. Not the way he clearly deserves.

Because your heart is still living in a brownstone apartment with creaky floors and a broken light switch in the kitchen. With soft sweatshirts that aren’t yours but always end up draped over your desk chair. With a man who feeds your kitten as though it might end all the hunger in the world and treats you like you’re his favorite person.

You pull out your phone and reread the messages from Bucky, sent in ten-minute intervals.

“all good? Guy still got both kneecaps?”

“everything okay?”

“he better be treating you right.”

“or I’m showing up in crocs.”

You had smiled. Told him all was well. That the guy was nice. That you weren’t being kidnapped.

He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then-

“lemme know when that changes.”

“and if he’s a jerk.”

“and if you need me to fake a plumbing emergency or something to get you out of there.”

You didn’t tell him you were already heading home.

Didn’t want to see the dot-dot-dot of typing, and then the silence.

Didn’t want to see hope, or disappointment, or relief.

Didn’t say you were going to try harder. That you’d hit your emotional limit somewhere between dessert and the walk to the subway.

You’re on your street now. The one with the crooked lamp post and the peeling red mailbox and the cat that’s not Alpine but sort of looks like her in bad lighting. You know this street by heart. You could walk it blindfolded, dizzy, drunk of heartache.

And there is your building. Soft lights glowing in the window above.

He’s up. Maybe waiting. Maybe not.

You pause outside the door. Let yourself lean against the brick for a second. Let your breath stay lodged in your throat. Because you’re not ready to walk in. You’re not ready to look at him and feel it again. Having the certainty that you are absolutely screwed, because you’re not able to get over your best friend even when going out with a nearly perfect guy.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the way he acted earlier. The way his voice broke so subtly. The tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the tense silence around his body.

And you’re not supposed to hope.

You’ve told yourself that. Too many times to count. But tonight it sits so close to your heart, so deeply embedded, so hushed and burning.

Maybe his reaction wasn’t only about worry. Maybe it wasn’t just protectiveness. Maybe it wasn’t just Bucky being Bucky.

Maybe he was jealous.

You are trying so hard not to let that possibility bloom, trying not to name it or feed it, but it still grows.

Your heels clack against the building’s stairwell as you climb, one by one, pretending you aren’t listening for signs of life. Pretending you aren’t about to see him again after hours of spending your time with another guy but only thinking about him.

You reach the door.

The apartment is quiet on the other side, dim under the light of the single hallway lamp that always flickers twice before it stabilizes.

You slip your key into the lock and step inside on a breath.

You open the door with quiet fingers. The kind of careful that says I’m not sure what I’m walking into even though you know. Even though you always know. Because it’s home. Because it’s him. Because his jacket is still slung over the coat rack the same way it was when you left, and Alpine’s scratching post leans slightly to the left, and the lights in the living room are still on, soft and amber.

And there he is.

Sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt still, one leg pulled up, socked foot balanced on the edge of the cushion. His phone lies screen up and plugged in right in front of him as though he has been waiting for it to light up again. As though he didn’t want to miss anything. As though it has already burned a hole into the cushion with how long he’s been staring at it.

He’s illuminated in the soft light of the TV where a half-hearted commercial flickers across the screen. He’s not really watching. The remote is in one hand, limp.

Alpine is a perfect little loaf on his chest, her head tucked against his sternum. His hand strokes her in slow, nervous passes, more fidget than affection right now.

He looks up the second the door closes behind you.

Not startled, exactly. More like the kind of flinch you feel under your ribs. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. As though your return is both a relief and a complication.

Alpine makes a soft, delighted chirp when she sees you, lifting her head and blinking sleepily.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is quieter than usual, as if he has forgotten how to speak at full volume.

You smile timidly. “Hey.”

He shifts his arm as though maybe he’s going to sit up, maybe he’s going to say more, but he just watches you. Not with the smug little smirks or teasing remarks he would usually toss your way. Not even with the tight, overprotective frown he wore earlier.

No, this is worse.

He’s trying so hard not to look like he’s waiting.

The soft clink of your keys in the bowl by the entryway is too loud in your ears.

“You’re back early,” he utters after a pause. His voice is low, rough with something not quite sleep and not quite surprise.

You nod and toe off your shoes slowly. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when you see the way his eyes drag over your face as though he’s trying to read your mood.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess I was tired.”

He nods. Swallows. Looks as though he wants to ask something and then immediately regrets it. His hand moves to scratch Alpine between the ears but you beat him to it, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch.

“Hey, sweetie,” you whisper, burying your fingers in her soft fur and scratching the spot beneath her chin that makes her purr like a lawnmower.

Your hand brushes his against the fur.

He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

When you look up, his eyes are on your face, darting around your expression as though he is searching for bruises that aren’t there. Words that haven’t formed yet. Meaning you haven’t chosen to give.

Alpine meows and you start moving your hand again, not having noticed your hand stopped under his gaze. You reach out to scratch the top of her head and your knuckles brush his chest. He twitches. You both pretend not to notice.

“She missed you,” he says softly, swallowing gruffly as though it might steady the wobble in his voice.

You give him a small smile. “Missed her too.”

Alpine leans into your touch and, because she’s draped over him, your fingers trail briefly over his shoulder when you scratch under her chin. He is warm. Stiff, but warm.

You don’t sit. You hover. You don’t know why. Maybe because sitting means staying and you haven’t decided yet if your heart is capable of holding everything tonight.

“You okay?” Bucky asks. It’s gentle. So careful. Too careful. As though if he speaks to you wrong, you’ll pull away from him forever.

You shrug, eyes on Alpine. “Yeah.”

He nods slowly. Waits. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say more, but you don’t know what more would even look like. It’s a shape you can’t hold yet.

“I mean, he was nice,” you add, because you feel like you have to. Like it’s some sort of requirement. Like you need to prove to yourself and him that you tried. That it mattered. That it didn’t.

“Good,” Bucky replies. He clears his throat. “I mean- I’m glad. I figured he’d, y’know… be decent. Or whatever.”

You shift a little closer. Your knees brush the couch.

“Yeah, he was,” you admit quietly.

Bucky nods, but it seems to be a heavy gesture for him. There is something anxious behind his eyes.

“So…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat roughly, as though it got stuck somewhere behind his teeth. “…You seein’ him again?”

The question is soft. Uneven. Barely anything. As though he’s asking if the sky plans to rain. But it sounds practiced. In front of a mirror, maybe. Or mouthed to the ceiling between glances at his phone.

You pause. Draw in a breath.

You don’t look at him.

Your fingers drag down Alpine’s soft spine, slow, as though it might stop your thoughts from chewing on themselves.

There is something about the way he asks it. Something that pulls at a string inside you that was already frayed and coming undone the whole way home.

You sigh. A long, slow exhale that sounds like defeat.

You feel his eyes on you.

And then you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so.” And it feels like something falling out of you. Soft and resigned and a little afraid.

You see him in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. The quiet stretches, elastic, until it almost snaps. His hands have gone still. He has gone still. Completely.

“I mean, he really was a nice guy,” you affirm, as though the explanation might make the no easier to carry. “He was early. He paid. He even pulled my chair out. Held the door. Laughed at the right moments. He talked about his sister. It was- it was good.”

You stop. Swallow hard. Sigh harder.

You say all this as though you’re reading the bullet points off a recipe for happiness. And still, nothing. No spark. No fire.

“But?” Bucky prompts on a breath, so soft.

You lick your lips. Shake your head.

“I don’t know. He did everything right. But the whole time I just…” You trail off. Look down. His gaze dips, searching your face. “I guess, I wasn’t really there, tonight.”

Bucky says nothing.

You don’t tell him that the reason you couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay present, couldn’t even taste the food properly was because you kept hearing his voice in your head. Kept imagining what he’d say about the music in the restaurant, or how he’d roll his eyes at the way your waiter pronounced gnocchi.

Or that you kept thinking about Alpine knocking Bucky’s cereal bowl over yesterday. And the fact that he always hides the yellow skittles because he knows you hate them. And him laughing at those bad commercials, and the weird humming noise he makes when he brushes his teeth.

You don’t say any of that.

But maybe he hears it anyway. Because he’s still watching you with that sweet, unreadable look. As though he’s trying to figure out which part of you he’s allowed to hold.

“Okay,” he murmurs, after a moment. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just warm. Gentle. The way someone sounds when they’ve been holding their breath and they finally get to exhale. And he does seem to breathe easier. Looser.

His eyes drop. Then rise again, fast. “You look beautiful, by the way. Meant to say that earlier. I mean- I did. I said it. But-”

You smile, small. “Thanks, Buck.”

He clears his throat and shifts on the couch as though he suddenly remembers he has a body.

He looks at his lap, then back at you. “I, uh- I got takeout,” he says, as though he’s trying to move the conversation onto safer ground. “Just in case. Thought maybe you’d be hungry after.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to-”

He shrugs, looks at Alpine. “Didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice softer than you meant for it to be.

“Welcome,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “And well, you always say you’re not hungry and then you eat half my spring rolls. So.”

That earns him the tiniest giggle from you.

He lights up a little.

You stand slowly, dropping your purse to the floor with a thud. “I’m not hungry,” you admit, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “Just tired.”

And you are. But not just from the night. You’re tired of pretending. Of swallowing how you feel. How he makes you feel. Of dancing around truths that tremble between you two like overfilled cups.

You reach for the remote, brushing against his thigh as you do. He stills as though your touch is a match to his skin.

The screen flashes something mid-scene - some low-budget crime show with horrible lighting and a suspiciously attractive cast.

You shift deeper into the couch, your knee brushing his. The screen continues flickering. Someone’s shouting about getting the suspect and a car explodes a second later with all the realism of a microwaved burrito.

You squint. “What even is this?”

Bucky briefly glances at you when he answers. His voice is half a mumble, half a smirk. “Special Crimes Unit 9. Or maybe 11. They keep changin’ the number every season.”

You turn your head to him. Utterly unimpressed. “Is this the one where the coroner uses a cookie cutter to get evidence out of a corpse?”

He grins. You see it. You feel it. “You remembered.”

You sigh, overly dramatic, because it’s the only appropriate response. “How could I forget? I think about it at least once a week. You owe me therapy for that.”

Bucky chuckles - low and breathy and genuine. You think maybe it’s your favorite sound in the world. You’ve heard it hundreds of times and it still makes your spine sit up a little straighter. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You both watch in silence for a moment. There’s a woman on screen wearing six-inch stilettos to a crime scene. You raise an eyebrow. Bucky hums.

“Very practical,” he states dryly.

“So tactical,” you reply, deadpan.

You glance over and find him already looking at you. His smile is quiet, more of a curve than a grin. It reaches his eyes a little bit, just a little, and softens the space between his brows. He looks more relaxed now, eased further into the cushions. You don’t look away, even though you should. You should.

But he’s so close. And he’s warm. And your body always seems to tilt toward him like a sunflower.

Then Alpine, that little traitor of a feline angel, climbs into your lap with all the elegance of a marshmallow being lobbed onto a plate. She settles in, promptly making biscuits on your thigh. Her paws press in soft little patterns and her tail swishes over Bucky’s leg.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, petting her head. She tips her chin up like a queen receiving tribute. She’s purring loudly.

“She’s so attached to you,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Alpine headbutts your hand almost aggressively while you stroke her fur. “Startin’ to think I’m just the guy who opens her food.”

He’s got that half-smile again. But it’s just a little smaller now. Not the usual smirk. Just soft. Something that doesn’t know it’s been seen.

You smirk, scratching behind her ear. “Well, you do open her food like a pro.”

“That’s my one skill. Impressive, huh?”

You giggle. It tumbles out of your mouth and echoes softly in the living room, bumping into corners and creasing into his smile. “So very impressive, Barnes. I’m proud of you.”

He laughs. And it’s real. And it makes your skin prickle. It makes goosebumps rise.

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way you sometimes catch people looking at you. Not the idle glance, not the curious sweep. This guy is looking at you as though you’re the whole screen. As though he is memorizing your laugh because he wants to play it back later when it’s quiet and you’re not around and he misses the way your eyes crinkle.

The soft light makes his eyes darker, deeper. His hair is pushed back, messy from fingers you can’t stop imagining in your own hands.

He looks at you as though you already said the thing he’s been waiting to hear.

Your heart trips. But it doesn’t fall. It tries to recover.

He’s closer than before. Not by much, just a few inches maybe. But enough to notice. Enough to make you wonder if it was intentional or if the gravity between you is just inevitable.

There is a beat. A second. A heartbeat in between two breaths.

The TV keeps playing. Sirens and dramatic synth music. But it’s not present in your mind. The real show is here. His eyes snap to your mouth. Just for a second. Just one.

You swallow. Look away.

He blinks. Clears his throat. Shifts again.

“So,” he says, voice a little raspy, nodding at the screen. “You wanna know what happens next or should I save you the trauma and tell you now that the killer’s definitely the janitor?”

You snort. “Always the janitor.”

“Guy’s just tryin’ to mop floors and everyone’s framing him for murder.”

You both laugh, too loud for the scene currently unfolding on TV. Bucky’s hand drapes over the back of the couch and it shifts slightly behind you. Not touching, but there. And you could lean back if you wanted. You could rest against him.

But you don’t.

Because your chest is already too full. Because if you speak, you’re scared you’ll say something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sit with him in the quiet, both of you surrounded by the purring of a small white kitten and the flickering nonsense of a terrible crime show.

And you let the silence say what you’re still too afraid to.

At least for tonight.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

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sashaisready · 13 days ago

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Sebastian Stan at a Chelsea bar, circa 2015/2016 (stolen from X)

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sashaisready · 14 days ago

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sashaisready · 14 days ago

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CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD (2025) dir. Julius Onah

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sashaisready · 14 days ago

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pervert 😮🫵🏼

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sashaisready · 15 days ago

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Ooh V what a lovely ending for these two…I’m so glad all that yearning paid off 😮‍💨🥵

also I love them taking care of each other in their own ways. It’s my view that Bucky’s love language is acts of service (regardless of AU) so I always enjoy reading that in my fics.

So glad to see you back writing. Another brilliant series as always ❤️

A Star Without a Sky (#7)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: 11.2k.

note: And the story reached its end. Thank you to all of you who read and interacted in this journey. It took me a little more than expected to write it due to known circumstances, but here it is. Love you all🧡

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up with her cheek resting on his shoulder, and one arm still draped across his middle. The bandage beneath her hand rose and fell with his breathing, slow and stable.

He was still asleep.

For a long moment, she just lay there, watching his face, so rarely at peace. The bruise on his jaw had bloomed darker overnight, and the cut on his brow was an angry slash of red, but even with all that, he looked younger somehow. His lips were parted just slightly, the faintest crease between his brows, like he was frowning in a dream.

Her gaze remained on his mouth, and she remembered the kiss.

Gentle at first, then hungrier. The way he’d held her, the press of his hands on her waist. How he’d whispered her name like a secret.

She almost reached out to touch his cheek, to brush her thumb beneath the bruise, to tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear. But stopped herself. Let him rest. He needed it.

So, she slipped quietly from under the quilt, careful not to jostle him. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the floorboards as she padded into the kitchen. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, so she fed it kindling and coaxed it back to life, warming her hands while it crackled awake.

Outside, the world was still frosted in white, but the light was changing. Sam would arrive before long, and when he did, they’d need to haul Rumlow back to town. Sort it out. Make it official.

She turned toward the stove, set the kettle on, and pulled down the tin of coffee. Bacon would follow, and bread. They’d need the strength. Her hands worked quietly, while her mind was still tangled in the warmth of the bed, in the rasp of his voice when he’d asked her to stay.

---

Behind her, in the silence of the bedroom, Bucky stirred once and sighed.

It took him a few seconds to recognize where he was.

Comfortable mattress. Warm bedding. The faint smell of pine salve and faint traces of her, lavender, and something sweet. His body sank deeper into the mattress for one blissfully blank second-

And then the night came back like a hammer.

The barn. Rumlow. Blood. Her voice. Her hands. Her kiss.

He blinked at the ceiling, groaned low, and tried to shift.

Pain lanced through his side, sharp enough to draw a curse through clenched teeth. Rolling in the frozen mud while trading punches did that to you. Not to mention-

He tilted his head and looked down at his bandaged flank. The stab wound was still there. Of course it was. A dull throb pulsed just under the clean wrappings. Not deep enough to threaten his guts, but nasty all the same.

“Goddamn snake,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing.

He caught the faintest sounds of movement from the other room. He threw back the covers with a grunt, already regretting it as cold air hit his bare skin and the dull ache in his side sharpened like a hot poker.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge.

The room spun once. Then stilled. He blinked hard, braced a hand on the nightstand, and cursed again when he caught sight of the frayed seam in his old drawers.

Great.

Just great.

She’d seen that last night. Probably seen worse, sure, but still, he was a grown man with a badge, not some drifter with holes in his underthings. He scowled as he reached for his trousers, dragging them up with effort, each movement tugging at the stitched flesh of his side. Shirt next -buttons half-done, collar crooked- took him a full minute longer than it should have. But he managed.

Mostly.

He limped down the hall, slow and quietly, keeping one palm flat against the wall when the floor creaked or tilted under his feet. The smell of coffee and wood smoke was stronger here. Comforting. Familiar.

She was at the stove, back to him, humming something low and tuneless. Her hair was still down, loose over her shoulders, and she was barefoot. He watched her for a second longer than he should’ve.

Then she turned, and jumped.

“James Barnes! What the hell are you doing up?”

He flinched theatrically, one hand going straight to his side. “Ah! shit, ow-”

She gasped and was at his side in two steps, wide eyes full of concern, fluttering her hands near his arm, his waist, trying to see where it hurt.

“Let me see -sit down- what the hell were you thinkin’, getting out of bed like that, you damn mule-”

He caught her.

One arm wrapped around her waist, the other around her shoulders. Pulled her in tight, burying his face in her neck, ignoring the flare of real, deep pain that came with it.

She stilled in his arms. Her breath caught.

“I needed this,” he mumbled into her hair.

“I thought you were-”

“Hurts like hell,” he admitted. “Still worth it.”

She didn’t push away. Just let herself press against him, soft and warm and real.

His nose brushed the crown of her head, his grip on her eased just enough so she could breathe, but not enough to let her go.

She shifted slightly in his arms, still tucked against his chest, one hand absently resting over the fabric of his shirt, like she hadn’t quite decided if she was going to scold him again or not.

He tilted his head, murmuring roughly against her temple. “Ain’t I gettin’ a good mornin’ kiss?”

She leaned back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wide, unreadable. A little wary. “That’s different,” she murmured.

He let his hand smooth over her back once. Slow. Gentle. “Different how?”

“You were hurt last night,” she said softly. “And it felt like… I don’t know. It was a moment-.” She swallowed, her cheeks warming. “This… this is just morning.”

“That right?” he asked, voice low and coaxing. “Seems to me morning’s the perfect time for one.”

She hesitated. He saw it, the flicker of doubt, the shy downturn of her mouth. But she didn’t pull away.

“Come here,” he said, barely above a whisper. His hand lifted, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Ain’t askin’ for more than you want to give.”

That was the thing with him. He didn’t push. Didn’t press.

He just… waited.

So she rose a little on her toes and closed the distance, pressed her lips to his slowly, softly, and uncertainly. It wasn’t like the night before, all pain and heat and feelings. This was gentler. A little clumsy.

When she pulled back, her voice was almost breathless. “Alright, that was your kiss.”

He gave her a look. One that made her stomach flip, even with the bruises on his face. “Only one?”

"Well, if you are not satisfied, I think maybe you should take it yourself."

His eyes darkened just a touch at that, something slow and deliberate swimming behind them.

He leaned in, bracing one palm on the table beside her hip, careful not to crowd her, but close enough she could feel the heat of his body, the way his breath ghosted over her cheek.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something else. “You givin’ permission, then?”

She arched a brow. “I said maybe.”

“That’s all I need.”

He closed the last inch, brushing her nose with his before his lips found her mouth again, slower this time, a little deeper. Not demanding, but sure. Her fingers grabbed the fabric of his shirt before she could stop herself.

When he finally pulled back, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. “That was me takin’ the offer.”

She was still catching her breath. “Alright then,” she managed, eyes darting away before settling back on him. “Now sit down before I melt the damn coffee kettle.”

He did, lips still twitching, fixing his gaze on her like he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real.

----

As they settled into breakfast -steam curling from her enamel mug and the stove cracking low behind them- Bucky cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to the edge of his plate.

“I’ll go with Sam,” he said calmly, like he was mentioning the weather.

She blinked. “Go with Sam where?”

“To town. With Rumlow. When he comes to haul him in.”

Her fork paused mid-air. “You what?”

He looked up then, slowly and evenly. “We’ll need your cart.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.” He took a bite of biscuit, chewed, and swallowed. “Can’t send Sam on his own. Man like Rumlow? He won’t go quiet.”

“And you-” she set her fork down sharply, brows drawn. “You were stabbed. Bucky, you’re stitched together. You should be resting.”

He shrugged one shoulder, slowly from the ache. “Ain’t made of porcelain.”

“You’re not made of porcelain,” she echoed, folding her arms. “But you’re still held together with some thread I had to stitch.”

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, one hand already reaching for the fork. “You did a fine job.”

“Don’t butter me up,” she huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere.”

He chewed, then swallowed. “When we met, I was half-dead. Shot, fevered, couldn’t stand on my own. This,” he said, nodding toward his side, “this ain’t that. I’m sore. Not broken.”

She looked at him long and hard, and the line between her brows deepened.

He went on, gentler now. “I can’t hide under a skirt in a warm kitchen every time I catch a scratch. I wear the badge. Can’t mean nothin’ when it’s easy and get dropped the minute it’s not. Folks count on me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood, took his empty plate, but before turning, narrowed her eyes. “But if you tear those stitches-”

“I’ll get the blunt needle,” he finished with a faint smirk.

Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Exactly.”

As she moved to the counter with his empty plate, he shifted in his chair, wincing slightly but keeping his voice even.

“Hey,” he said, stopping her mid-step.

She turned, and raised he brows in quiet question.

“When Sam gets here,” he went on, tone lower now, firmer than before, “and we get that son of a bitch out the barn... I don’t want you outside.”

Her head tilted, but he didn’t let her interrupt.

“Don’t want him layin’ eyes on you again. Not even once more.” His jaw worked. “He doesn’t get that. He doesn’t get a look at you, or a word, or a damn thing.”

She looked at his face, with something flickering in her gaze, surprise, maybe. Maybe something else.

“You understand?” he asked, voice softer now, but still stern.

She nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He nodded once, like her promise had quieted something ugly in his chest, then reached for the mug she’d just refilled.

“I’ll telegraph once I arrive in Town,” he muttered, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “The jail’ll have a cell ready for Rumlow. One with a good lock and no window view.”

She leaned against the counter, drying her hands. “Not the cell at the office?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want him sittin’ there like he’s some regular drunk soberin’ up. And I’m sure as hell don’t want anyone payin’ him visits. Not Pierce. Not some courier with a coin purse and a smile. Not takin’ any chances.”

She crossed her arms loosely, watching him. “You’re not takin’ him yourself, are you?”

He snorted once, and winced at the motion. “What do you take me for, a fool? I ain’t that eager to be back in a saddle today.” Then, more seriously: “Sam and Walker’ll handle it. I trust them enough to see it through.”

“You trust Walker?”

He shrugged. “Enough to escort a tied-up bastard to a locked box.” His eyes flicked up, and something like a shadow of amusement crossed his face.

----

Sam showed up right on time, just as the shadows had begun to shorten and the frost gave way to a thin sheen of melt on the rooftop. The echo of hooves announced his arrival before the knock did. She met him at the door with her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

Sam tipped his hat, giving her a once-over with narrowed eyes.

“Mornin’. You alright?”

“I am,” she replied. “Come in. Coffee’s hot.”

He stepped inside, shedding the cold with his coat, and his gaze landed on Bucky, still sitting at the table.

“You look like hell,” he muttered plainly.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Sam shot back, then looked between the two of them. “Mind explainin’ what happened last night?”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “Rumlow came ridin’ up like he owned the place,” he started. “Knocked on her door, asked to be let in. Told her he saw men near the property, figured she needed lookin’ after.”

Sam’s brows crept up. “And?”

“I was in the barn,” Bucky continued. “Saw him. Came out before he could start pressin’ her more. And he didn’t like bein’ turned away.”

“That before or after you brawled in the mud like a couple’a feral dogs?”

Bucky ignored the comment. “Had a blade up his coat. Got me on the side.”

Sam swore and took a sharp step forward.

“I’m alright,” he cut in before the deputy could fuss. “It’s deep but clean. She took care of it.”

Sam glanced at her. “Of course she did.” Then back at Bucky. “So where is he?”

“Tied up in the barn. Secured. I want him taken straight to jail,” Bucky said. “Can’t risk him in our cell where any of his friends could sneak by or try somethin’ stupid. I’ll ride in the cart with you, send a wire from the office, and arrange it with the jailkeeper. Then you and Walker take him the rest of the way.”

Sam gave a short nod, already checking the edge of his coat for his gloves. “You sure you’re up for the ride?”

“Was stabbed, not shot. I’ll survive the damn cart.” He sounded more like himself now. Grim. Determined.

“Alright, then,” Sam muttered. “Let’s load him up before the sun climbs higher. You wanna stay inside?” he added, glancing her way.

But it was Bucky who spoke, eyes locked on her, jaw clenched again.

“She’s not comin’ out.”

Sam raised a brow.

“I don’t want that snake layin’ eyes on her,” he said, low. “Not even once more.”

She turned around. “I’ll get you something warm for the road,” then added, already fixing something in the pan.

Neither of them thanked her. But they didn’t need to.

----

It had been a couple of weeks since Rumlow was hauled off to jail, tied up with enough charges to keep him from circling her doorstep ever again. The town had already moved on. Talk faded fast when nothing scandalous came of it, and folks just settled into the idea that the sheriff and the widow were sweet on each other.

Which -by then- wasn’t exactly wrong.

Now he sat behind the sheriff’s desk again, shirt tucked neatly but sleeves rolled, squinting at a stack of forms that never got any shorter. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the herbal sachet she’d left, lavender and cedar, neatly sewn, with tight and fine stitches. It smelled like her. Or maybe he was just starting to think of that scent as hers, because she always carried it in the folds of her skirts.

Sam leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching him with that infuriatingly knowing look.

“You know,” he said, “I thought the fake courtin’ was bad enough, but now that it’s real, she’s settin’ up camp.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “She ain’t settin’ up camp.”

“Man, she brought you a thicker blanket, a rug for your cold-ass floor, a new mug ‘cause your old one had a crack the size of Kansas, and now she’s leavin’ sweet-smellin’ bags in your drawers. What’s next? Mending your shirts? Darning your socks? You think she’s doin’ charity?”

Bucky shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer. “She’s just… makin’ things comfortable.”

“She’s featherin’ your nest,” Sam drawled.

“She’s not-” Bucky cut himself off. The denial died on his tongue because even he knew how foolish it’d sound, especially since the office smelled more like her each day. Since he’d found a spare hairpin tucked behind the basin in his bunk room. Since she’d started folding his damn shirts without a word.

His gaze dropped to the sachet. He ran a thumb across the seam, ears burning faint pink. “…Ain’t complainin’.”

Sam grinned. “Didn’t think you were.” Then, he cleared his throat. “So… she knows that with your sheriff’s pay you could be livin’ like a decent man, not a friar in a broom closet ‘cause you’re broke, right?” he asked, leaning back on his chair, one boot scuffing the floor. “That it’s a choice, not a circumstance.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Suppose.”

Sam raised a brow. “’Cause from where I stand, it’s lookin’ like she’s dotin’ on some orphan boy who can’t tie his own boots.”

Bucky stopped writing.

Lifted his eyes just enough to meet Sam’s, cold and clear. The comment stuck somewhere it wasn’t meant to dig in. It wasn’t that he minded her small kindnesses. Hell, they undid him. But the way Sam framed it, like she saw him as someone in need of care instead of someone who could give it in return…

He dropped his eyes back to the paper. The ink bled slightly in the margin under his grip. “I can take care of her,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam didn’t grin this time. Just nodded once, easy. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the scratch of the pen again as Bucky went back to the paperwork like the chat hadn’t touched a nerve.

----

She was in the middle of scrubbing the pot she’d used for stew the night before when it hit her, she was humming. Just some silly thing her mother used to sing while doing chores, something light and forgettable, an old tune she hadn’t heard in years. She rinsed the pot slowly, smiling.

It had been weeks now.

Weeks since the night Bucky bled on her porch and they kissed.

Since Rumlow had been taken off her land in irons, his voice silenced by bruises and the weight of charges no backdoor deal could wash away.

Bucky hadn’t been back to the house since then. First, because the wound needed tending and no saddle was kind to healing flesh. Then, because the new judge was a paperwork fiend and seemed to think Bucky’s badge was sewn from parchment.

So she went to him. To the office with its bare cot and cold walls. She’ll drop by with pie, claiming she was already headed to the general store. Taking the opportunity to leave little things… A thicker blanket. A rag rug for the edge of the bed. Bundles of dried herbs to keep the drawer linens from the clothing moths.

It wasn’t anything extravagant, just the kind of small comforts she figured no one else had ever thought to give him. There was something about that cold little back room that unsettled her. It looked like a place a man passed through, not one he was meant to stay in.

And he didn’t comment on any of it, not directly, but he used them. The blanket stayed on his cot. The sachets didn’t move. His coffee cup, the new one she brought in to replace the one with a crack, was always on the desk.

Still, their time together was scarce. Sam gave them moments when he could, but he had a job too. They made do. Bucky found excuses to get close, his touch was never crude or bold. An arm around her waist under the guise of needing to reach past her. Grazing her fingers when he passed a cup. Adjust her shawl, like it needed adjusting, and let his knuckles brush her jaw. He liked to stand behind her when she read something at the desk, close enough that his chest hovered near her back but never quite touched.

And one afternoon, when the sun was pouring through the slats just right, when Sam was off running errands, he kissed her properly. No awkward lead-up. No pretense. Just reached for her, pulled her in, and kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for days.

He wasn’t a talker. He showed things with his hands, with actions. And she didn’t mind. In fact, she liked that about him. Liked the way his touch had grown more comfortable -more confident- in the little moments they had. Like he’d decided it was allowed now.

She dried her hands, wiped them on the apron tied to her waist. Maybe she’d head to town after lunch. Said she needed to check on flour, but really, she just missed him.

----

She was half-wrestling the clean sheet over the mattress in the spare room when the knock at the door startled her. Firm enough to be polite. Not urgent.

Her breath caught.

It couldn’t be Rumlow. He was gone, locked up where he belonged. Still, her heart picked up as she wiped her hands on the side of her skirt and padded toward the front window. She pulled the curtain just enough to peek.

There he was.

Bucky stood on her porch, shifting slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to knock again or turn around. He had his hat in one hand, the other inside his coat. The clothing he wore was clean but road-dusted, like he’d come straight from the edge of town without stopping to brush off.

She didn’t bother hiding her smile as she opened the door. “Well,” she said, “this is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. At first, he just nodded his head a little stiff, like it was the polite thing to do. But when she arched a brow at him, he stepped forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her lips.

“Was thinkin’ about that window in the spare room,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat as she stepped aside to let him in. “The one that won’t shut right.”

She gave him a look. “Mmhm.”

“And… figured I oughta take a look at the back roof too. The bathroom one. You said it leaked when it rained last.”

He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. Just scratched the back of his neck, glanced briefly at the floorboards like maybe they’d give him something better to say.

“So,” she said slowly, trying not to smile too much as she shut the door behind him, “you rode all the way out here because of a drafty window and a leaky roof.”

He shrugged, fidgeting a little with the brim of his hat before setting it down on the side table. “Had time,” he muttered. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “I think you just missed me.”

His ears went pink.

She didn’t push. Just nodded toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s hot. Or I can warm up lunch if you’re hungry. Your call.”

He almost said yes to lunch. She saw the flicker of temptation in the way his eyes lingered on the stove, the shift of his shoulders like he was weighing manners against appetite. But then he looked to the window, at the slant of light across the floorboards, and shook his head.

“Best look at the roof while there’s still sun,” he said. “Don’t want to be up there squintin’.”

She nodded. “At least take some water, then.”

He hesitated a moment longer before nodding. “I’ll take that.”

She poured it into one of the heavier glasses, and he took it with a soft murmur of thanks, tipped it back, drained it in three long swallows, and handed it back. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm.

“Sure you don’t want help?” she offered, though she already knew the answer.

He shook his head, half a smile in his stubble. “I’ll manage.

She didn’t press. Just stood at the door for a second as he slung his coat across the railing, and started baking.

It was what you did when someone came over and worked under your roof, someone who’d bled in your kitchen and slept in your bed and whispered things to you in the dark that made your breath catch. Someone who kissed you like it cost him something.

By the time the pie was in the oven, the kitchen already smelled like sugar and butter and cinnamon. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the ticking clock. He’d been up there a good while.

Grabbing another glass of water, she stepped outside.

And there he was.

Perched on the slanted edge like it was nothing, straddling the peak above the bathroom. A handful of nails held between his teeth, sleeves rolled, arms flexed just enough with each slow, methodical movement.

The shirt clung to his back, damp from sweat, dusty where it brushed against the shingles. His suspenders hung looser now, one strap fallen halfway down an arm.

She didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there and watched him work.

He moved, adjusting his stance, and spotted her below.

“You need somethin’?” he asked around the nails, pulling them free one by one and setting them between his fingers.

She held up the water. “Thought you might want more.”

He reached for it with a murmur of thanks, then handed it over. As she started to turn back, he caught her eye again. Her gaze remained too long on the curve of his back. On his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dirt streaked across his scarred forearm.

When her eyes found his, he arched a questioning brow. She took a breath and let it go slowly. “Just enjoying the view,” she murmured, like it didn’t matter. Like her cheeks weren’t warming already.

His hammer paused for a beat.

And then he chuckled, low and dry.

“You bakein’ somethin’ in there?” he asked without looking down.

“Maybe.”

“Figured. Smells like trouble.”

She smiled and turned back toward the house, his low laugh still drifting down behind her.

Damn man made a roof look like a postcard.

----

He stepped onto the porch and dusted off his shirt with a few hard swipes, then bent to slap the dried grit from his trousers. He shook out his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, and finally exhaled through his nose like a man ready to face a firing squad instead of a kitchen.

The door creaked as he opened it.

She glanced up from the stove just as he hovered in the threshold, half-shadowed, boot heels planted like they might root to the floorboards.

“All done,” he said. “Shouldn’t be any more leakins’. Found the spot where the water slipped through, patched it with what you had, and sealed it tight. Needs a new shingle or two come spring, but for now, it’ll hold.”

She nodded, pleased, but when she turned fully toward him, he still hadn’t moved past the doorframe.

“What are you doin’ standin’ there like a statue?” she asked, arching a brow.

His eyes flicked up, then back down. One hand rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m all dusty,” he muttered. “Sweaty too. Didn’t wanna get your kitchen dirty.”

The way he said it -quiet, almost sheepish- made her chest clench. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him he didn’t belong in the nice parts of a home. The way a boy might be scolded for tracking mud through a front parlor that wasn’t his.

She stepped around the table and crossed to him without a word. Took his hand, his big, warm hand, and tugged gently.

“You just finished an honest day’s work, one you weren’t asked to do, and did anyway. Who gives a damn about dust and sweat in a kitchen,” she said, firm but warmly.

He just blinked at her, but let himself be led.

She walked him right over to the basin and pointed.

“Wash your hands.”

He obeyed, silently.

“And sit down after,” she added, already cutting into the pie. “You’re gettin’ a slice before you so much as look at the spare room window.”

He tried to argue. “You don’t have to fuss-”

“I ain’t fussin’. I’m feedin’. Sit.”

He did, with the faintest twitch of a smile. When she set the plate in front of him and turned to grab a fork, his gaze followed her. She wasn’t looking at him then, but if she had, she would’ve seen it:

That soft look, like a man seeing something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

----

She watched him polish off the last bite of pie, scraping the fork gently against the plate. He leaned back slightly, not quite slouched, and set the fork down with a soft clink.

“Want another slice?” she asked, already reaching for the knife.

He gave a slow nod. “If you’re offerin’, I’d be a fool to say no. That’s the best thing I’ve had in months.”

Her mouth twitched at that, trying to hide how that praise made her feel nice in her chest. She turned to cut him a second helping, and when she was about to take his plate, he had already started to stand.

“‘Scuse me a minute,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back.”

She nodded absently, already sliding the pie knife back into the tin.

----

Bucky stood over the basin, with his hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, breathing tightly. The shirt clung to his back with sweat and dust, a reminder of how he must look -and smell- after hours straddling a damn roof like a fool. This wasn’t the bunkroom behind the office. Wasn’t a saloon with flickering lamplight and no one who gave a damn if you were clean. This was her home.

The thought alone made his gut twist.

He’d barely tasted the first slice of pie before the awareness of it set an itch he couldn’t reach. The way her eyes flicked to him when he stood in the doorway, hesitant to cross into her kitchen. The softness in her voice when she told him to wash his hands. The warmth of her palm guiding his calloused fingers. It was all too much and not enough at once.

He pulled the shirt over his head, and the cool air hit his skin and made him hiss. He didn’t want her to see the sweat-soaked cotton, the trail of grime down his neck and arms from lying in hay and crawling across a wooden roof. Not when she’d taken the time to bake him a pie.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the bar of laundry soap.

He wet a rag and rubbed until it lathered, dragging it across his chest, under his arms, down the sides of his neck. He scrubbed perhaps harder than intended to feel clean again. Respectable. Like the kind of man who could sit at her table without leaving a mark behind. The smell of the laundry soap, faint and piney, clung to his skin.

Then he splashed water onto his hair, putting some soap foam on it and rinsing the best he could, combing it with his fingers through the mess he had made. He didn’t have a proper comb -never thought to carry one- but he flattened it the best he could and slicked it back behind his ears. It’d have to do.

Looking into the mirror above the basin, he saw a man he didn’t quite recognize. Still tired. But... presentable. For her.

He muttered a curse, ran the rag once more across his face, and pulled the shirt back on with a grimace. Still damp, but at least it didn’t stink so much now. He rolled the sleeves to the elbows again, adjusted the fall of the hem, and gave himself one last glance before stepping out.

The scent of pear pie greeted him first. She didn’t look up right away. But when she did, he caught the flicker in her gaze, the way it dipped to his collar, lingered, then softened.

She didn’t say a word about it. Just passed him the plate, and busied herself with pouring coffee so he wouldn’t see the way something in her melted a little at the thought of this rough, solitary man splashing himself clean with her laundry soap in her little washroom just to sit at her table and feel right in it.

----

They’d been sitting across from each other for maybe fifteen minutes, forks scraping gently against ceramic, the scent of pear and butter still clinging to the warm kitchen air. She said something about the orchard, but he didn’t quite catch it. Not really. Not with the way her mouth curved when she spoke, not with the way she’d just licked a smear of pie filling from the tip of her finger like she hadn’t done a damn thing.

And he was starving, sure. But not for pie.

She’d caught him staring once or twice already, and each time he’d dropped his gaze like a kid caught with his hand in the sugar jar, fixing his attention sharply on whatever was closest. A stain on the table. The little flowers painted on the plate. His coffee.

She’d been watching him right back, he could feel it. And when her eyes caught his again, she didn’t let him look away easily this time.

She tilted her head a little. “Alright,” she said quietly, but pointed. “What is it?”

He blinked, dragging his eyes to the mug in his hand, buying a beat of time. “Hm?”

“You’ve been starin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ on your tongue and don’t know if it’s worth sayin’.”

He scraped his thumb along the edge of his cup. “Ain’t somethin’ to say polite.”

That made her brows lift. She leaned slightly forward, bracing her elbow on the table, cheek in her hand. Calm. Curious.

“Oh? What is it then?”

Shit. His ears heated. She wasn’t even trying to tease him, not really, which somehow made it worse. He thought about lying. Thought about brushing it off, saying he was sick in his gut or something like that. But something in her gaze was expectant and open, so he set the mug down and looked her in the eyes.

“I’ve been starin’,” he finally said, voice a little roughened, “because it’s been a long damn time since we’ve been alone in a room without someone hoverin’ nearby. Because that dress makes me think about things I probably shouldn’t at your kitchen table. Because you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re courtin’ but I still don’t know when’s the polite time to stop bein’ gentlemanly and just… put my hands on you the way I want to.”

Her lips parted slightly, but her gaze didn’t drop.

“And now you’ve got me sittin’ here, wonderin’ how much longer I gotta pretend to enjoy this damn pie when all I want is to come around this table and see if you taste sweeter than you bake.”

He exhaled, like he’d held that inside him for too long.

“Sorry,” he added after a beat, rubbing a hand across his face. “Didn’t mean to make things-”

“You didn’t,” she cut him, then reached out and set her hand over his where it rested on the table. “And what way,” she went on, soft but with intent, “is it that you want to touch me?”

Bucky looked down at his plate. Then back up. Then down again, because her voice had dipped, and there was a lilt to it now, something careful, but not shy. His heart thudded in his chest like it had been caught doing something wrong.

He licked his bottom lip, flicking his eyes to where her thumb brushed the back of his hand. Slowly, his own thumb moved to meet it. A slow stroke. Testing.

“Not like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley,” he said finally, voice rough with restraint. “But not like we’re sharin’ coffee in a parlor neither.”

That earned him the smallest tilt of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something warmer.

“I see,” she murmured.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, gaze dropping again. “You don’t.”

She quirked a brow at that. Sat back slightly, still touching him, but eyeing him now, like she was searching for the line between teasing and truth.

“I know I’m not the most experienced woman you’ve encountered in your life, Bucky,” she said after a breath. “But I’m not precisely a debutant either,” she reminded him, slightly lifting her chin. “I’m not as dense or naive as you think me to be.”

“I- I know you’re not,” he stammered, his eyes darting up to her face, then down again. He didn’t say virgin. Couldn’t. “It’s not that.” He sighed. “It’s just… you’re a proper woman,” he went on, voice rough and uncertain now. “And there are times for everything, for what’s right. What’s… decent. I don’t always know the steps to that. Ain’t familiar with the dances of it. And I don’t want to -hell- don’t want to disrespect you.”

He sounded torn in two, one part the man who’d stared her down in the middle of the kitchen like he meant to devour her, and the other, the quiet, weatherworn boy who still hesitated to meet a gaze in case someone saw too much.

That version of him -that orphaned ache- was always there under the surface, and it pained her every time it showed.

She stood up, slow and sure. Circled the table with measured steps.

He didn’t look up at first. Not until her hand came to rest lightly on his jaw, and her thumb brushed the scruff on his cheek like she was handling something fragile and precious.

“Well,” she said gently, “given that it’s been stated I’m not precisely a debutant… that we are, in fact, courting… and that I’m willing for you to touch me…”

Her fingers moved, slowly and certain, tangling into the damp strands of his hair behind his ear, drawing his gaze to hers.

“I can assure you, dear,” she whispered, voice low and warm, “I won’t feel disrespected if you touch me.”

His breath hitched faintly.

Her thumb stroked across the edge of his cheekbone, and his hands came up slowly, still uncertain, resting lightly on her waist like he was still asking permission even now. She didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just kept that soft look on her face like she was waiting for him to do what they’d both been wanting for weeks.

“C’mere,” he rasped.

He eased her closer, then sat back slightly, guiding her gently to his lap with a slow pull. Her skirts settled around them, her knees bracketing his thigh.

His hand came up slowly to her neck, tracing the thick braid that lay against her chest.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured, tugging just enough at the end of it to tilt her face toward his. “Too damn long.”

Then he kissed her.

Not soft, not careful. But Deep and slow. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat, sliding one hand up to rest just below the swell of her breast. He didn’t push. Didn’t grab. Just touched, with his wide and warm palm over the fabric of her dress.

She pressed in closer, and he kept tasting her, the tug on her braid keeping her tilted just so, mouths brushing and catching again until both their chests rose in uneven rhythm.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips flushed, braid loosened near her throat, eyes flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Her breath ghosted over his cheek when she spoke.

“What if I tell you, I do want you to touch me like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley?” she asked.

For half a second, he froze.

His brain went blank, stunned, like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. Like every part of him stalled just to replay her voice in his head.

But then, she shifted. Just subtly, her thighs adjusted against his, her weight rolling against his leg, her fingers pressing tighter into the fabric at his shoulders.

And all pretense of decorum flew clean out the window.

He swore under his breath.

His hand slipped from her side to her back, dragging her into him with a need he didn’t bother hiding now. The one cupping the side of her face slid lower, down the line of her neck to her collarbone, brushing the edge of the braid like it burned him. His lips were on her jaw, her throat, her pulse, hungry now, claiming the taste of her skin.

His voice was ragged against her. “Then you better hold on, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’ve got a whole damn alley’s worth of want backed up in me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, because she’d already given it, in the way she shifted closer, in the way her breath hitched when his mouth trailed along the hollow of her neck. In the way her hands slipped from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little, like her fingers couldn’t keep up with the want.

He tugged the braid again, just enough to angle her mouth to his, to kiss her with a groan buried in his throat, and her soft gasp only spurred him on.

When she tugged his shirt from his waistband, he let her, let her hands roam up his chest, then the sides of his torso.

And then her hands slid lower.

His head dropped forward, resting his forehead against hers. She reached for the hem of her dress, and he stilled her hands, not to stop her, but to help. Pulled the fabric up her thighs, bunched it at her hips so he could finally feel the warmth of her skin against his trousers. His hand cupped the back of her thigh, dragging up his fingers slowly until she shivered against him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely holding together.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she murmured.

He stood with her still on his lap, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, and his hands gripped under her thighs, broad palms against the shape of her rear as he carried her toward the bedroom.

She blinked. “Bucky?”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not doin’ this rushed. Not with you.”

The bedroom was dim, the afternoon sun cutting soft lines across the sheets she’d changed earlier. He nudged the door shut with his foot and laid her on the bed like she was something to be unwrapped. Then stood at the edge, looking down at her, breath uneven.

Her hair was loose now, lips already kiss-swollen, skirt bunched at her thighs. She watched him with eyes wide and hungry. Her hand reached for the buttons of her dress, but he caught it gently, shaking his head.

“Let me.”

And so he did. Unbuttoned her slowly, brushing the fabric away inch by inch. He peeled the dress down her shoulders with reverence, baring her gradually, and by the time she was left in nothing but her stockings and the thin cotton chemise, his own shirt had joined the pile on the floor. She reached out to him, caressing his chest, the flat of his stomach, the long lines of muscle traced with old scars she hadn’t seen up close until now. He stilled under her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

When his hands reached the hem of her chemise, he paused, pressing his fingers at the edge. He didn’t look at her, not at first. Just stared at the fabric between his knuckles, the delicate cotton.

Then his eyes lifted.

“Can I?” he rasped, voice scraped raw with restraint.

She nodded, slow and sure.

His hands slid up her sides, lifting the chemise inch by inch. Her arms lifted instinctively, letting him tug it over her head, and then it was gone, left somewhere on the floor. She lay there in nothing but her stockings, the soft hem of them hugging her thighs.

Bucky froze.

His gaze dragged over her, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he had words but forgot them all.

When he climbed over her, she thought this was it. That this was what came next. It was all she’d known: some kisses, bodies together in the dark, fumbling hands and quiet sounds. Familiar. Sweet.

But Bucky leaned down, kissed her again -slow, deep- then his lips began to move lower. Over her jaw. Down the slope of her neck. Across the curve of her shoulder. Lower still.

His mouth pressed to the edge of one breast, then the other. Nuzzled warmly into her skin before brushing his lips, carefully, over one nipple.

Her breath caught.

His tongue flicked gently. Just once. Her back arched, and a soft sound escaped her throat, half surprise, half something deeper. He closed his mouth over her then, suckling with care, patient and deliberate until her toes curled against the mattress.

Another gasp. Her hands rose instinctively, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into solid muscle as he moved to the other side. Warm tongue, reverent lips. One hand trailed lower, slowly over her belly, as if to say stay with me, while he took his time learning every inch of her.

“That... that felt good,” she whispered, breathless.

He looked up at her then, hair falling across one cheek, lips damp. “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet,” he said, voice rough with heat.

And then he started to move down.

He kissed his way along her belly, her hip, stopping to linger at every patch of skin. One hand slid under her thigh, tracing his fingertips over the top edge of her stocking, and then he kissed the inside of her leg, close -too close- to where she throbbed for him.

She bolted upright on her elbows, all wide eyes, heat flooding her cheeks.

“What- what are you doing?”

His voice was low, and warm. “What you deserve.” He gently parted her thighs, brushing his mouth over her skin like he had all the time in the world. “Gonna make you feel good. Just lie back, honey.”

“But I- I’ve never-” She didn’t know how to finish. Her cheeks burned hot.

He met her eyes “Then I reckon you’ve been shorted. ‘Cause this?” He kissed just higher, lips barely grazing her skin. “This is how a man loves a woman proper.”

Her breath stuttered.

And then she did exactly what he asked, lay back and let him show her.

He saw the way her fingers clenched at the sheets, how her thighs tensed slightly under his hands, torn between modesty and anticipation. She wasn’t stopping him. She was just flustered, overwhelmed.

So he slowed.

His mouth pressed another kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, then another, until she exhaled slowly, and her body eased into the mattress inch by inch.

“Good,” he murmured against her. “Just like that.”

When he finally let his mouth brush over her folds, she shivered, a soft gasp leaving her lips as her hips twitched up involuntarily. His hands steadied her, one large palm splayed against her belly, the other smoothing over her thigh. And then he did it again, circling, teasing, suckling. His tongue moved with purpose. Slowly. Rhythmic. Reverently.

Her head tipped back.

One of her hands gripping the sheet found its way to his hair, tangling her fingers on his locks as her breath became quicker. She wasn’t quiet, not anymore. Soft sounds escaped her lips, startled at first, then shameless, open.

Bucky groaned low when he felt her start to tremble, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her cry out softly.

“Bucky-” she gasped, hips rolling against his mouth, helpless.

“That’s it,” he rasped between strokes, “Let go for me.”

And she did.

With a stuttering gasp and her legs trembling around his shoulders, she came against his mouth. She wasn’t shy about the way her body jerked under him, or the way she whimpered his name like a prayer when it ended.

He stayed there, kissing the soft inside of her thigh again, his stubble rough and tender all at once. His hand stroked her hip as her breathing slowed.

When she finally looked down at him again, his mouth was slick, eyes dark, lips swollen from use.

“You…” she tried, dazed. “That was…”

“Been wantin’ to,” he said, voice like dusk. “Since I saw you in that kitchen apron the week I stayed here. Didn’t even know what hit me, just… knew I’d give up anything to put my mouth on you like that.”

She reached for him then and pulled him up, dragging him by the shoulder and the back of his neck until he was back over her, his chest brushing hers.

He hissed softly as his new scar tugged his skin, but didn’t stop. Not when she kissed him, slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue. Not when her fingers started to fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

Her cheeks were flushed, sure. But her voice wasn’t shy when she murmured, “Come on, Sheriff. Now take your time gettin’ inside me.”

His breath caught, more startled by the words than anything else. Heat rushed up his neck. Hell, he’d heard things said in saloons that’d make most men blush, but coming from her? His proper woman with proper manners? He cursed under his breath, low and ragged.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’d be a damn fool not to listen to an order like that.”

He helped her ease down the fabric of his trousers. This time, the underthings were newer. Still plain, but not frayed and shameful like last time.

The moment they came off and her eyes flicked down, her gaze widened just a little, not precisely with fear, but something like stunned curiosity. She had seen it before when tending him, but resting.

He saw her expression and chuckled dryly. “Hope you’re not disappointed.”

She didn’t laugh.

Instead, her lips parted, and she said quietly, “Not precisely disappointed. Just... uncertain.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into something like a smile. “Didn’t hear complaints before, sugar.”

Her eyes met his, lips still parted from her soft confession. He leaned over her then, kissing her gently, slowly, as his hand trailed down her waist.

“You’ll be good,” he murmured against her mouth.

He shifted between her thighs, parting them with reverence, and guided himself along her slick heat with slow, deliberate strokes meant to coat, not press, not force. His breath was already ragged from restraint, from the warmth of her body against him, from the knowledge that this moment was no longer imagined. It was real. And when he finally eased his hips to line himself up, the resistance surprised him.

She tensed slightly beneath him, gripping the quilt with her fingers. “It’s been a long time,” she murmured, voice barely more than breath, holding his gaze.

“‘S alright,” he rasped, dropping his head to kiss her temple, then lower, the bridge of her nose. “Ain’t in no rush.”

One of his hands trailed down between them, and he slid a finger inside her, gently, slowly, then added another, curling just enough to make her back arch. She gasped, hips twitching, and he whispered again, “I said we’d go slow. Let me take care of you, honey.” His voice was velvet. There was no hunger in it, not yet. Just patience. Just care. He watched her body respond, her thighs loosening, her breathing hitching, her hips moving faintly in search of more.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her cheek. “There you go. That’s it.” His thumb circled her clit tenderly as his fingers worked her open, coaxing softness from tension, wetness from hesitation.

Only when she sighed and shifted did he pull his hand back, guiding himself again with careful pressure, watching her face the whole time. “If it’s too much, you tell me. You say stop.”

She nodded and braced herself with both hands on his shoulders.

He pushed in slowly, and his breath caught as her body welcomed him, tight and hot and trembling around him.

“Jesus,” he hissed, shutting his eyes for half a second. “You feel- God, darlin’…”

She felt impossibly full. Stretched around him, her nails sinking into his shoulders as he sank in inch by inch, with gritted teeth, like each second tested his restraint to its limit. He was breathing through his nose, harsh and shallow, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice barely held together.

She nodded, “Yeah, jus’... a lot.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her brow, then her cheek, then lower, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. “You’re takin’ me so goddamn good.”

And then she exhaled, a full-body release of tension, her back softening beneath him, her hips rising just a little, inviting to move.

He felt it.

And let go.

Slowly at first, testing the motion. She gasped, one hand flying to grip the bedsheet, and he groaned deeply.

“You’re squeezin’ me like you never been fucked.” he muttered, grazing her neck with his teeth.

She whimpered -raw, helpless- and he began to move in earnest now. Smooth strokes that rocked her against the mattress, bracing his weight on his forearms, pressing her body down with his in the best kind of way. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, thighs trembling, and when he angled just right-

“Oh-” she choked out, eyes flying open.

“There?” he rasped, pulling back and driving in again, watching her shudder. “That's what you like?”

She nodded frantically, lips parted, soundless moans catching in her throat.

He fucked her harder then, rhythmic, relentless, still careful but with weight behind each stroke, hands planted beside her shoulders, hair falling loose and wild around his face.

“Look at me,” he muttered.

Her lashes fluttered.

“C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on me while I fuck you.”

The words shocked her, raw and filthy.

Her gaze met his.

And God, he looked ruined, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, blue eyes dark and blown wide. He rocked into her harder and saw her mouth fall open on a silent cry.

“You feel this?” he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his hips grinding deeply. “Every inch of me inside you, sugar. Wrapped around me like you were made for it.”

She whimpered, rising her hips to meet his now, chasing the friction.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the day you let me touch you,” he went on. “Thinkin’ about stretchin’ you open on my cock, makin’ you mine for real.”

Her fingers clawed at his back.

That voice. Those words.

He didn’t speak like that. Not around her. Not ever.

He was always so careful with her, measured, quiet. Even when angry, Bucky Barnes spoke like a man with his fists tied behind his back, every syllable tempered, every word weighed before it left his mouth.

But this, this wasn’t the sheriff.

This was the man beneath it.

The one who lived too long in rooms with no doors, the one whose wants were so repressed they came out raw when he let go. And hearing that voice, coarse and low, saying filthy things… things no one had ever dared say to her-

It made her wetter.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he hissed. “You’re my woman. Tell me.”

She swallowed a sob. “Y-yes- yes, Bucky-”

And the way he groaned then, she’d never forget that sound. Never.

Then, without a word, he shifted his weight and spread one of her thighs wider with his hand, planting it firmly against the mattress. The other slid between their bodies, pressing his fingers hot and sure against the bud of nerves he hadn’t yet touched.

She gasped -half breath, half cry- startled all over again, like she hadn’t known she could feel that much, that sharply, all at once.

He noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

The way her body tensed under him, her mouth parted in stunned pleasure. And it clicked, something carnal and furious dawning in his brain: no one had ever done this for her. No one had ever taken the time to show her what her body could do while fucking, what it deserved to feel.

The thought made his rhythm falter, almost spilling inside her.

He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he worked her in time with his thrusts, the soft, wet sounds between them growing louder. Her hands scrambled up his back again, nails sinking in, her hips twitching against his hand.

“God,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You never- have you never been touched like this?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Her whimpers were enough answer.

“Christ,” he growled, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Her walls clenched around him, and he felt the tremble in her thighs.

“You’re gonna come on my cock,” he said, voice like gravel, “like a good little wife-”

The word slipped out of his lips raw and unfiltered.

She moaned, louder this time, startled again, her eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy.

He caught her chin in one hand, fingers still working her, hips grinding deeper.

“Look at me,” he ordered, low and rough. “Eyes on me when you come. Let me see it, darling.”

She shattered with a cry she didn’t recognize, trying to look at him but failing when her eyes rolled back with pleasure, clenching around him so hard he lost rhythm, cursed, and buried himself as deep as he could go.

His release hit a moment later -violent and staggering- his whole body bending over hers as he grunted and spilled inside her, gripping the sheets tight enough to almost tear them.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, uneven, gasping, tangled in each other like the whole world had narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment.

“…Jesus,” he breathed against her neck.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not with the way her heart was still trying to find its rhythm again, not with the way her thighs still trembled faintly where they wrapped around his hips. Her hand lay limp on his shoulder, her fingers twitching like she’d forgotten they didn’t need to hold on anymore.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them still catching up to themselves. The only sounds were their breaths and the fire cracking softly in the next room.

Then, slowly, he drew back with a hiss through his teeth. She winced too, not from pain, but from the strange aching feel of being left suddenly empty. His softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, a trail of his spend slipping after it, hot and messy between her thighs.

She let her eyes close.

And then he was moving again. He lay down on his side, and without asking, without hesitating, he dragged her against him.

One arm hooked low under her hips, the other winding firm around her shoulders, sinking her to his chest like afraid she'd vanish if he loosened his grip.

She let him. Felt good being tucked against his sweat-damp skin, her legs tangled with his, her cheek rested against the spot where his heart pounded slow and steady again.

He didn’t speak. Just exhaled long and quietly into her hair, moving his hand over her back like he was still testing that she was real.

Like letting go wasn’t even a consideration.

----

They didn’t move for a while. The sheets were tangled, their skin sticky with sweat.

It was late afternoon.

Bucky’d have to go soon. He sighed, deep and reluctantly, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek before he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.

He looked down at her, her hair mussed, lips still kiss-swollen, lashes casting shadows on her cheek.

“I should head back before it gets too dark,” he murmured. But he didn’t move.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded a little.

His fingers found her arm, then slid down to her wrist, and curled gently around it. “…Wanted to say thanks,” he added. “For the things you left at the office. The blanket. That sachet. The new mug.”

She blinked, turned her head slightly to look up at him. He wasn’t looking at her, just somewhere past her shoulder.

“I’m not really good at… keepin’ myself. Always figured if I had a roof and a bed, that was plenty.” He exhaled through his nose. “Never really thought about comfort. Not the way you do.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up a little and pressed her lips to his jaw, slow and softly.

The quiet after that stretched.

He wasn’t making a move to leave yet, and she… well, her mind kept circling back. Back to the way he’d spoken to her not long ago, his voice rough and unraveled with need. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little wife.

She knew he cared. That much was clear. The whole damn town knew about them now, this time for real. But there was still a difference between being sweethearts and… something else.

She hated herself a little for bringing it up. But she didn’t like guessing games. Didn’t like not knowing where she stood.

“Can I ask you something?” she murmured at last, watching his profile in the soft light.

His gaze shifted to hers. “Anything.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t back down. “Earlier, when we- you said somethin’.”

He frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck. Dammit. He already knew. Knew exactly what she meant. He had run his mouth talking to her like a common whore and probably she was rethinking her life choices right now.

“I said a lot of things,” he drawled, trying to play it down, even as dread pressed down in his gut. “If I said somethin’ crude, I-”

“You called me your little wife.”

He went still. Heart stuttering, throat dry. Yeah, he did. He’d gone and said it, a damn boyish dream spit out in the middle of heat and skin and her sweet voice in his ear.

“I… I didn’t-” He started, stumbled. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I did, but not like-“

Her shoulders tensed slightly. She gave a tiny nod, dipping her gaze to the quilt between them.

“It’s alright,” she murmured quickly, too quickly. “I was just curious, that’s all. You don’t have to explain, I know it was just-”

“No,” he said, sharper than he meant to. Her head jerked up.

He dragged a hand down his face. “No,” he said again, lower this time, more like himself. “That ain’t what I meant. I just- I wasn’t expectin’ to get called out on it. Thought it’d stayed in my damn head where it belongs.”

She blinked, unsure.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, then met her eyes and made himself speak.

“I said it,” he muttered. “Because I think about it more than I oughta. ‘Bout you. ‘Bout what it’d be like. If you were mine, for real. If I had a house to walk back to, and you were there. I-” he looked away for a second, then back again. “I didn’t say it like a filthy thing.”

He swallowed hard. “Truth is, there’s things I’ve been meanin’ to take care of before askin’ you proper. Wanted it to be right. Wanted to give you more than just, this.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “More than just a man who means well but sleeps in a damn cot behind a desk.”

He let out a low chuckle, dry, self-mocking. “And yet here I am, talkin’ about it with my ass naked, instead of askin’ like I should, when I should. Seems I couldn’t even manage that part right.”.” His voice turned hoarse, and his mouth became a thin line. Embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe, like some part of him still thought he didn’t deserve to want things like that.

But she shifted closer without hesitation, her bare legs brushing his beneath the sheets. One hand slid up his chest, over the solid beat of his heart, and her thumb made slow, soft circles there like she could soothe the old ache.

“You want to marry me?” she asked softly.

“I do,” he said. Plain and quiet.

She smiled warmly then, and leaned forward, brushing his cheek with her nose, then kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly. “Well,” she murmured, “I guess I’ll wait to hear you ask proper, then.”

Bucky didn’t smile, not exactly. But something in his eyes warmed. Like maybe that part of him that had always braced for rejection had finally found a place to rest. Just drew her in a little closer, resting his chin on her head.

“I will,” he said finally, quiet against her hair. “Not today. But soon.”

She hummed and nodded slowly. Like it was enough.

Her fingers trailed over his chest, then stilled to lazily trace the edge of an old scar just beneath his ribs. The pad of her thumb circled there, slow and aimlessly, and his breath caught a little from how good it felt.

Outside, the wind shifted the trees. Inside, the only sound was the slow, matched rhythm of their breaths.

She pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat, then let her cheek rest there, right over the thrum of his pulse. “Bet this wasn’t what you pictured when you came to fix the roof,” she murmured.

He huffed, mouth quirking against her temple. “Didn’t even get to fix the damn window.”

“Well,” she said, eyes already drifting closed, “guess you’ll just have to come back.”

He smiled into her hair, his arm pressing just a little harder around her, like he didn’t want to let even an inch of her go.

He pressed a kiss to her hair and let his lips remain there.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get somethin’ like this,” he murmured.

She tilted her face toward him, brushing her nose along his jaw, her fingers resting over his heart. “You did.”

His free hand found hers beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers tightly.

“Then I’ll try real hard not to lose it.”

FIN

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