solixiaa

[solixiaa]

[solixiaa]

You Can Rest Now

Pepper Potts one shot

Summary: Pepper wanted Tony to rest—she told him as much as he drew his final breath. What she didn’t expect was how impossible it would be to live with the silence he left behind.

Word count: 1.1k

It starts with the sound of the wind. Outside the window, the trees shift like they’re reaching for something. Pepper stands for a moment in the doorway to her daughter’s room, watching the pale glow of the nightlight trace soft shadows on the walls. Morgan is tangled in the sheets, a faint frown on her face even in sleep. Always dreaming hard, just like her father.

Down the hall, the house stretches quiet and long around her. Most nights she really tries not to end up in the study, but her feet take her there anyway. She tells herself it's just a habit. It’s not–it’s gravity.

The room still smells like him.

Not in a romantic way–not like cologne or leather or any memory she'd gladly drown in—but in the way metal and heat used to cling to his skin when he came in from the lab, grinning and bleeding from the knuckles, already talking too fast about some breakthrough she didn’t quite understand but loved to hear about anyway.

She should have cleared it out by now. That’s what people do–process, move forward. Donate what they can’t bear to keep. But this house isn't a shrine, its just a place where he lived. 

She opens the cabinet low to the floor and pulls out the box she hasn’t touched since the funeral. It's labeled in his handwriting:

KEEP!

The box is crooked, the cardboard bent with time and carelessness. He must’ve packed it years ago and never thought about it again. That was Tony—set something aside and forget it until it mattered again. And it always did, eventually. Pepper lifts the lid.

There’s no order to it. Just layers of life–a disassembled pair of red tinted sunglasses from the Monaco race. The tiny magnetic chessboard they used to bring on flights. A pack of gum he never opened. The Iron Man press pin he gave her the day after the press conference, when he told the world who he was and handed her a bottle of champagne with no glasses.

Pepper picks up a crumpled note, unfolds it. One of his napkin scribbles. A rough sketch of some suit mechanism she doesn’t understand. Across the bottom, scrawled in blue ink:

Lunch? Or are you pretending to be busy again, Ms. Potts?

She remembers that day. He was three floors down, texting her from the same building instead of walking up the stairs. She’d ignored him, so he sent DUM-E to bring her a smoothie five minutes later. She laughs, short and breathy.

It’s not that she wants him back. That’s too small a phrase for it. She wants him here. She wants the heat of his voice in the next room, the weight of his head on her shoulder when he’s tired but won’t admit it. She wants to hear him swear at the coffee machine and then drink the whole cup anyway. But grief doesn’t give, it only transforms.

She doesn’t cry. Not right now, at least. She’s cried before, in random, private moments when the world didn’t need her to be strong. But tonight it’s not the kind of sadness that overwhelms. It’s the kind that settles. That tucks itself between her ribs and makes a home there.

Pepper pulls out an old photo near the bottom of the box. They’re both in it, arms slung around each other, grinning so widely it’s almost foolish. She’s in one of her early Stark Industries suits—power heels, sharp shoulders, hair pulled tight. He’s in a t-shirt that probably cost more than her car at the time. He looks happy, and so does she. But there’s something behind her eyes that she recognizes now, a kind of bracing.

Even when he was hers, she never stopped preparing for the moment he wouldn’t be. Not because she didn’t trust him—but because the world always seemed to want more of him than it gave back. Pepper had spent years negotiating that balance. First as his assistant, then his partner, then the mother of his child. Tony gave everything he had to everything he loved, and she loved him for it. Even when it meant learning how to live without him before he was gone.

Now, she just has to do it for real.

She sits on the floor and leans back against the bookshelf. The wood is cold through her sweater. She presses the photo to her chest for a second, then sets it beside her knee. The box is still open.

There’s a faded scrap of fabric near the bottom—a fragment from the first prototype of his nanotech suit, soft and silvery. She remembers him showing it off like it was magic. For a man of science, he always believed in wonder. Pepper closes her eyes.

“Sometimes,” she says aloud, “I hate you for leaving.” The silence that answers her is patient. “Not really,” she adds, quieter this time. “But sometimes.”

It’s not a bitter hate, and it’s not sharp. Just an ache that flares up when Morgan asks a question that Pepper doesn’t know how to answer—like why head to go. Like what kind of father only gets to tuck his daughter in for five years.

Pepper had told him it was okay to rest, and she’d really meant it. But resting means someone else has to carry what’s left behind. She does. Every day.

Pepper leans forward, fingertips grazing the rim of the box. She lifts out a strawberry necklace—the one he gifted her after a petty argument, engraved with her initials. It's frailer than she remembers. She wears it sometimes when she’s alone. She hasn’t told anyone that–she might never.

Because no matter what anyone else says, no one knew Tony like she did. Not the press, not the Avengers. Not even Morgan. She hopes that someday her daughter will understand that loving him wasn’t a choice—it was like orbiting a sun. It gave her light, and it also burned. But god, it was beautiful. She runs a thumb over the cool metal.

“Wherever you are,” she whispers, “I hope you’re causing problems.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. She leaves the box open when she finally stands. She doesn’t need to finish sorting it. It’s not about closure. It never was. It’s about holding the pieces long enough to remember that they’re real. That he was real. 

Not just the man in the suit, not just the one who saved the universe–but the man who danced with her barefoot in the kitchen. The man who got sunburned trying to build Morgan a treehouse. The man who once told her he loved her more than physics.

Pepper walks back through the hallway, slower this time. She pauses outside Morgan’s door and listens to the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. And then, quietly, she whispers—almost to herself, almost to him:

“You were always enough.”

Notes: This was heavily inspired by a tiktok edit I watched that I will link right here. ILY SO BIG MY BEAUTIFUL ANGELS (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[solixiaa]

We Live For Them

Thunderbolts* Oneshot

Summary: Things take a turn for the better the night John finds Yelena standing on the edge of the Watchtower.

TW: Mentions of suicidal thoughts and depression

Word count: 1.3k

As John steps out of the shower, he immediately regrets pushing himself as hard as he did during the afternoon’s training session. A dull fire licks through his muscles with every stretch and shift—not quite painful, but sharp enough to make him wince.

Steam curls around him, drifting out past the bathroom door as he towels off and moves through the motions of getting ready for bed. He pulls a hoodie over his head, only to slide it right off. It’s too hot–the air in his room still feels heavy, like the steam followed him and decided to stay.

His eyes flick to the digital thermostat glowing blue and red on the wall, the illuminated 74° practically begging to be turned down. Tempting, but Ava’s voice plays in his head before he even stands up: “Nobody. Touch. The thermostat.”

He sighs through his nose. Last time he’d gone against her wishes, she’d actually threatened to “phase through his body and rip his heart out of his chest”. It wasn’t an idea he took lightly. 

Fresh air it is.

After throwing on a grey t-shirt, he slips out of his room and into the hallway. The tower is still and dark, save for a dim security light humming down the hall. Everyone else has either passed out or is hiding in their bedrooms.

John makes his way up the stairwell, footsteps silent against the concrete. When he pushes open the rooftop door, the breeze hits him first–cool and restless. 

Then he sees her.

Yelena stands on the edge of the ledge, arms crossed, shoulders curled in a little tighter than usual. She doesn’t look tense, exactly. She looks… still. Like she could tip forward and let gravity do the rest without a sound. 

Something sharp twists in his gut, and words spill out of his mouth before he can turn around and walk back downstairs.

“Not exactly the safest place to clear your head,” John says, voice steady but not quite unkind.

Yelena jolts–barely–but it’s enough for him to see that she didn’t hear him coming. Very unlike her. When she turns around, the light catches her face, and that’s when he notices–her eyes are glossed over. Not red from the wind or exhaustion, but from holding back tears. Fresh tears.

She blinks hard and straightens up like she’s fixing her posture for inspection. “What the hell, Walker? Can’t you see the roof is taken?” Her voice is accusatory, but John doesn’t take it personally. He stays silent as she wipes under her eyes with the heel of her palm, sharp and fast like she’s annoyed with herself for it.

John lifts his hands slightly, like he’s waving a little white flag. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your brooding moment. Just needed some air.”

Yelena doesn’t look at him. Her jaw tightens, arms folded across her chest like armor. “I’m not brooding. I’m reminiscing–there’s a difference,” she mutters, voice quieter than he expected—too soft for someone trying to sound dismissive. The wind almost carries it away.

John studies her for a beat. There’s something off in the way she’s holding herself—shoulders stiff, eyes avoiding his like they might give too much away. She doesn’t look angry. She just looks… empty.

He nods toward the rooftop door. “My only other option right now is dying of heatstroke in there,” he says, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. “Figure I’ll take my chances out here. Worst case, you push me off.”

She turns a little, not fully, just enough to glance at him. There’s a flicker of surprise, barely visible before it’s gone.

“What makes you think I want company?”

John gives a small shrug as he lowers himself onto the ledge beside her. “I don’t. But if I’m gonna die tonight, better it be a quick fall than slow cooking in my sheets.”

Yelena’s mouth twitches, just barely. He can tell she’s weighing whether or not to push him off the edge. But instead of arguing, she says, “Fine. But if you fall, that’s on you.”

With a sigh, she steps down from the ledge–just enough to sit on it instead of standing. Her legs sway off the edge, bare feet dangling over a thousand feet of open air. She doesn’t look at John when he shifts to face the same direction as her.

For a while, they sit in silence. Below them, the city hums quietly—traffic is sparse at this hour, headlights flickering like stand ins for stars in the light polluted sky. Eventually, Yelena breaks the silence. 

“Before we met, I jumped off of a really high tower in Malaysia for a mission. I thought I was being dramatic. Like–‘oh, cool spy thing, all adrenaline, very chic.’” She lets out a hollow exhale. “Part of me hoped the parachute wouldn’t open.”

John doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look at her, either. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Been there.”

Yelena glances sideways, something shifting behind her eyes. “You too?” 

He nods once. “After Lamar–my bestfriend–died. Felt like the only thing I knew how to do was survive. And when Olivia left me, I couldn’t figure out why I was still trying.”

She turns her face towards the wind again. Her hands grip the edge a little tighter. “I keep thinking, if my sister could throw herself off of a cliff to save the world, what does that make me? Standing here like a coward.”

“You’re not a coward, Yelena,” John says, more forcefully than he expected. Then, quieter, “We’re all just… grieving.”

Yelena blinks hard. He watches her jaw work, like she’s chewing on the edge of something sharp.

“I keep having dreams where she’s speaking to me,” she whispers. “Telling me to move on. That she didn’t die for me to waste what’s left.”

John swallows. “Lamar used to say something similar. Said if he ever bit it, I better not go full Rambo. I didn’t listen.”

Yelena finally looks at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

The silence passes through again, the small moment where the living can mourn their dead in peace.

“I thought I had to keep it all together,” Yelena says. “The cool and badass person I once thought I was.” She pauses. “But… I’m tired.”

John nods slowly. “No one ever tells you that being human feels a lot like being a failure. S’ just something you gotta learn to deal with.”

She sniffs, wiping quickly at her cheek. But he saw it. The tear. Yelena looks embarrassed, suddenly hyperaware. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Walker.”

“I won’t,” he agrees quietly. 

“I mean it,” she adds, her usual edge back in her tone. “I’ll kill you.”

John chuckles a single huff of air. “Nice to have you back, kid.”

After a beat, Yelena speaks again, softer this time. “It’s probably stupid, but… sometimes I feel like I owe it to her. To live. Even if I don’t know how to.”

John exhales slowly. “I get that. It can feel like you have to be better, like you have to prove they didn’t die for nothing. But maybe… maybe it's enough to just keep showing up.” He fixes his gaze on a spot on the horizon, where the midnight sky paints the darkness a deep blue.

“Do you think they’d be proud of us–Natasha and your friend?”

John gives a tired smile. “I think they’d be pissed we’re this miserable.”

That earns a real laugh from Yelena–short, reluctant, but real.

“I miss her so much,” she says, her voice catching. John nods in agreement. “I miss him everyday.”

The wind eventually picks up around them, the city lights reflecting in their eyes. Yelena lets out a breath and slouches on the ledge, lightly tapping John’s arm with the back of her fingers.

“We’re not dead yet,” she murmurs.

“No,” John says, sparing a glance in her direction. “I guess we’re not.”

Notes: I’m so sorry for the angst my candy hearts and paper flowers, I just got a Yelena Funko pop and my love language is writing a fic dedicated to diving into her character’s emotional depth :(

[solixiaa]

The Trickster and the Thief

A Loki x Reader fanfic ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Guardians of the Galaxy Canon Divergent AU

Summary: You are a thief who was captured by the Nova Corp, looking for a dangerous artifact from an ancient temple on Morag—the key to your freedom. But when your mission goes sideways–thanks to a ravager who calls himself Star Lord and the infamous lost Prince of Asgard–you're thrown into a world of 70s music, terrifying new planets, and unlikely alliances. Now, faced with a choice between your freedom and the idiots that managed to feel like a possible new home, you must decide: Will you turn in your new friends… or fight for them and fall for the God of Mischief along the way?

Chapter One ✦ Mission Compromised*

Chapter Two ✦ Coming soon. . .

[solixiaa]

Gachiakuta || Enjin Episode 2

[solixiaa]

A Ghost in the Night

Thunderbolts* one shot

ˋ°•*⁀➷ When control feels out of reach, Bucky and Ava find comfort and an unlikely friendship in the quiet of the night.

Word count: 800

The living room lights hum faintly as Bucky struggles to find his channel on the television. Most of the team is asleep—those that can sleep, anyway. Bucky Barnes is not one of them. He's lounging on the couch, a half finished cup of coffee cooling on the table beside him, the screen projecting a faint light across his silhouette.

He wasn't expecting company at two in the morning. At first, he wonders if Bob is up for a midnight snack, but a strange shimmer passes in the corner of his vision—barely perceptible, a flicker seeming to play tricks on his eyes.

Then, like a ghost in the night, Ava phases halfway through the far wall and stumbles forward, catching herself against a chair. Her breathing is shallow, and her body pulses between solid and intangible, like she can't decide which reality to stay in.

Bucky blinks, and Ava freezes upon seeing him. "Shit."

"Hey," he says calmly, raising one hand—not in defense, just... recognition. "You alright?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Her fingers curl against the arm of the chair, trying to ground herself. She flickers again, her body unstable.

"You weren't supposed to see that," she mutters. "Pretty hard not to," Bucky leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Didn't know you sleepwalk through walls."

"I don't." her voice is strained. "This hasn't happened in quite a while."

Bucky studies her quietly, like he's observing a deer in headlights that might bolt if startled. "Come sit down before you fall through the floor."

Ava hesitates, but her knees shake and her palms slip from the chair. With stiff limbs and narrowed eyes, she steps forward and lowers herself onto the couch across from him. Her breath stutters on the way out. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

The TV hums dully in the background, flashing muted images across both their faces. Bucky clicks it off with the remote, the silence folding over them like a blanket. Ava presses her hands flat on her thighs, as if anchoring herself. "You gonna say anything?"

Bucky leans back slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Only if you want me to."

"I don't." Her answer is quick, but not sharp. He nods once, then taps the edge of his coffee cup with his finger. The soft click of ceramic is the only sound for several seconds.

"I haven't had an episode like that in months," she says quietly, viridian eyes fixed on a point beyond him. "I thought it was over." Bucky shifts slightly but doesn't fill the silence.

"I think it's stress," she adds. "Or I overused my powers. Or maybe my body's just reminding me I'm still not normal."

At that, he makes a quiet sound—not quite a laugh, more like an exhale with a smirk. "What is normal, anyway?" Ava finally looks at him. "Not phasing through drywall in your sleep."

He lifts a shoulder. "I used to wake up not knowing if I'd killed someone the night before. You tell me which one's worse."

She doesn't smile, but her brow softens. The line of tension across her shoulders slackens just a little. "I didn't mean to come in here," she says. "I just couldn't... stay still. I guess my body was trying to find somewhere safe."

"You found it," Bucky says simply. Her eyes flicker over to him again, unsure. "You're not freaked out?"

"I've seen weirder," he says. "Hell, I've been weirder." She lets out a soft breath—almost a laugh. It's small and tired, but real.

"I can sit with you, if you want," he offers, his voice gentler now. "No talking. No fixing. Just... here."

Ava doesn't answer right away. Her gaze drops to her hands again. They're steady now, no more flickering at the edges. She folds them in her lap and nods once, slow and deliberate.

"Okay," she says. "Yeah. That'd be good."

Bucky reaches over and sets the cold coffee aside. He settles deeper into the couch, not too close, not too far. The silence between them grows comfortable, not heavy. Like a weight lifted instead of pressing down.

Ava leans her head back against the cushions and closes her eyes. For the first time in days, her outline holds solid. The shimmer fades, her breathing evens out.

Bucky decides he doesn't need to understand the science behind what's happening to her. He just knows what it feels like to come undone in the middle of the night, to not trust your own body, to think you're alone in it. But they aren't alone. Not anymore.

Notes: Kind of a shorter one shot but it’s cute and comforting to me :) I feel like Ava and Bucky would grow to have a mutual respect for each other and even go as far as seeing each other as some sort of distant big brother/little sister type relationship. Ily so big (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[solixiaa]

It's Nothing, Right? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ao3

paring : bucky barnes x dr!reader ( canon divergent )

summary : You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

word count : 5.9k (jeez louise)

warnings : fluff!!! slight angst, language, drinking/alchohol, Bucky is emotionally constipated, misunderstandings, miscommunication trope, semi insecure reader, public embarrassment / confrontation, no use of y/n

authors note : this has been in my drafts forever. writers block will be the end of me. Used one of my most favorite SZA songs as inspiration for this one (drew barrymore). But thought What More Can I Say was more fitting. hope u enjoy :’)

recommended listening : What More Can I Say - The Notations

❝One day you love me, and the next you disappear from sight.❞ ♡

It’s important to get one thing straight.

You never expected—or necessarily wanted—to end up working at the Avengers compound after busting your ass off in medical school.

You envisioned something quieter for yourself. A little loft in the city, maybe even a tiny home on the coast of California back with your family. A job at a nearby hospital. Cute scrubs. Cute stanley. Maybe a cute boyfriend. Just…a cute lifestyle.

Like those girls you see on TikTok who make life seem so simplistic. Somehow always aesthetically pleasing. Always having their shit together. That's what you envisioned.

Alas, here you are frantically clutching your unorganized papers and tablet to your chest—quite literally not having your shit together—chasing after the well known genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist himself; Tony Stark. As intimidating as his presence was, he was less like a boss and more-so an annoying older brother.

“Tony, would you give me a second?” you continue furiously speed walking after the man, earning a few concerned glances your way. The long hallway stretched out in sterile white and gunmetal grey, echoing every hurried footstep like the place wanted to remind you of how small you were there.

“I don’t even know if I’ve got space on my calendar.” You whine.

“Well I sure suggest you make space. Didn’t hire you for nothing now did I?” Without slowing his pace he looks over his shoulder and cocks a smug eyebrow at you.

The last year of working here felt like a blur. One minute, you were nervously presenting your research about nerve receptors at a medical tech conference. The next, you were being handed a keycard to the same building where Thor (a literal fucking God) showers.

Stark Industries had apparently taken one look at your work—custom nanotech for optimizing post-op nerve regeneration and cellular healing—and decided you were perfectly suited for patching up people who fight aliens for a living.

You’d expected to be tucked away in the corner of a lab. Instead, you got shoved straight into the compounds' med bay, testing field tech, designing custom recovery protocols for enhanced bodies, and monitoring vitals.

The job was demanding. So demanding you had to move in. Even if you were able to snag a shitty overpriced apartment nearby, you wouldn’t be spending much time in it. So, you figured there was no point in protesting.

To that, you sigh. Yes you’ve spent the last year in the medical bay tracking vitals, managing combat injuries, and designing more than half the meds in the compounds’ dispensary….but this?

Why did he have to assign you to Barnes?

Tony finally halts in his tracks after reaching his office. Opening the door and motioning for you to enter. Floor to ceiling windows encased his office. Inside coffee stained papers and books were found in every corner. It was a bit chaotic; like a peek into Tony’s mind. You set your bundle of unorganized papers and tablet down and melt into the chair across his desk with exasperation.

“Remind me again why I’m taking over Barnes?” You run your hand down your face. Eyes still heavy from being called down by Tony at 6 AM for this.

Your teeth are unbrushed, hair in a tangled messy bun. Yet there he stands looking like he just got out of a vogue photo shoot. How in the hell does he get up so early? “I thought my only patients were Nat and Wanda.”

Tony shrugs, pouring himself a drink that is definitely not water.

“Barnes’ last medic resigned. Something about needing a sabbatical. Or maybe she’s moving galaxies. Didn’t specify.”

You roll your eyes. “So you volunteered me?”

“I trust you,” He says matter of factly, which—coming from Tony—is more meaningful than it should be. “I wouldn’t trust anyone to care for Barnes. He’s different.” He points a pen at you while explaining.

“I know that. He’s similar to Steve, right?”

He takes a sip from whatever concoction lies in his glass, then adds in a more serious note. “Look, his vitals are weird. Serum weird. Where he’s different is in his trauma. It’s not exactly subtle either. We need someone who won’t treat him like he’s broken. Just…a different model.”

You sink further in your chair, slowly rethinking every life decision you’ve ever made. “When do I start?”

Tony glances at his watch and purses his lips in a thin line.

“In an hour. Better get ready. Not loving this hobo look on you.” He points.

“Gee, Thanks T,” You weakly smile, standing and gathering your heap of files and tablet. “I’m assuming you’ve already transferred me all his data?”

“You know it.” He leans into his chair, the sarcasm softening just slightly. “Thanks, pipsqueak.”

You pause at the door. “Anytime.”

Then shut it behind you with a quiet click.

You finished getting ready with plenty of time to spare. Hair in a neater bun this time, teeth brushed, and of course your uniform. The loose white Doctors coat and light blue scrubs underneath with your badge in the lanyard around your neck.

Despite the hundreds if not thousands of times you’ve done these checkups with other members of the Avengers, you couldn’t help but feel the nervousness bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

It wasn’t the fact that he had different physiology. You’d studied Bruces’ gamma influenced vitals, Steve's super serum, and even Wanda who had powers from an infinity stone. You’d become accustomed to treating bodies with conditions that don’t always follow textbook patterns. Put it simply, these things came to you naturally.

It was the fact that it’s Barnes.

The man who could dodge trucks like it was nothing but couldn’t seem to hold a conversation with you for more than 30 seconds.

And you really did try. Passing him in the hallway at least a dozen times—usually when grabbing your creamer filled coffee after late-night med bay shifts, or tagging along with Nat for training briefings. Each time, you’d offer a small smile, or a joke about how much Fury rants.

And each time, he’d give a tight nod, a barely-there smirk…and would continue walking like you had just asked him for his social security number.

“He’s shy,” Natasha had told you once, trying not to laugh. “Or maybe he’s just bad with pretty women.”

But he was never like that around Nat. Or Yelena. Or Wanda. Or anyone for that matter. Only you. Which drew you to the conclusion; Bucky Barnes does not like you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, grab your tote bag, and make your way downstairs to the medical bay. Checking yourself one too many times in the mirror—It’s a checkup, not a damn date.

Still, you swipe a bit of lip balm on.

Your eyes squint slightly as you step into the fluorescent lighted room that smelt like a mix of sanitizer and your vanilla scented air fresheners.

You freeze for a second when you spot him sitting at the exam table. Elbows on his knees, dog tags hanging low from his neck. His head lifts when he hears the door open, and for a moment it's just eye contact.

You freeze because not only did he show up early, but because he showed up at all. And you were still under the assumption that he didn’t like you. But also—Bucky had almost never shown up for a scheduled checkup. On the few occasions he did was when Steve and Sam quite literally forced him to.

Tony warned you about it. “Don't take it personally,” he said while working on one of his many suits. “Barnes has a habit of ghosting medical appointments. He’s got that ‘I heal fast, don't waste your time on me’ complex. I’m sure you’ll figure something out”

Seeing him sit there without any need for persuasion or bribery was nothing short of astonishing.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up” You admit with a smile. Eyes focused on your tablet as you make your way over to prep the scans, putting your tote bag up on a hanger. “Thought I’d have to call Steve to take you in.” You get a quiet huff in response. Maybe even a half-smile.

You set your clipboard down. “I read through your file. Looks like we’ll be doing a routine check. Just vitals and general examination. Nothing too scary.” You assured me with a soft smile.

He gives a short nod, jaw tense, gaze flickering around like it’s a warzone and not a softly lit doctor's office.

“You’ve done this with the others?” he finally asks, voice low.

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you start laying out the equipment. “Plenty of times. Nat. Yelena. Kate. Even Pietro, once. Didn’t get very far though. He kept trying to flirt the entire time, which was more exhausting than the actual testing.”

That earns you something—a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips like he was holding back a smile.

You catch it, then tilt your head slightly. “What about you? I hear you’re always very enthusiastic about checkups.” His eyes flicker to yours, then away again. “Don’t really see the point in ‘em.”

“Because of the serum?” you ask gently, pulling plastic gloves on your hands as you move closer to where he’s sitting. He nods. “Doesn’t feel fair. People out there losin’ their lives, and I’m in here gettin’ my blood pressure taken.”

You pause for a moment, taking in what he’s saying. There’s no judgement in your voice but something gentler. Quieter.

“Healing faster doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you.

Before he could respond—if he was even going to—you clasp your hands together with a smile “Alright, well let me get started.” turning once again to grab your things. You’re pretty sure you catch him watching you, but you try to ignore it.

“You mind taking your jacket off for me?” You ask. Bucky pauses for a beat—almost forgetting where he is. Its a fucking checkup he tells himself.

As he sets his jacket to the side, you pull up a swivel chair to his right.

“Just gonna start off by taking your blood pressure,” you hum while pulling out the blood pressure cuff. The cuff crinkles under your touch as you unwrap it, your fingers skimming the firm muscle of his arm. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his biceps tense under your palm.

"Are you doing alright?” you ask gently, brows furrowing with concern. You always try to keep things professional, but your gaze lingers for a little too long. The short stubble on his jaw. The dimple on his chin. And his annoyingly long lashes.

You’ve done this procedure a hundred times, but for some reason, wrapping the cuff around his arm makes your pulse tick just a little faster. That, and the way you’re forced to look up at him because of your height difference isn’t making this any easier on you.

He nods, but his body language says otherwise. Shoulders tense, breathing is off. You don’t think much of it.

“Relax your arm for me.” you murmur.

He exhales. For a second his eyes flicker to your face—and linger. He can’t help but watch as you care for him with such precision.

You glance up at him just in time to catch it. “What? Do I have something on my face?” You smile.

“Nothing,” He mutters, too quickly, eyes darting to the wall.

You shuffle in your chair as you start to unwrap the cuff from his arm, “Y’know, It’s okay if you’ve got a little hospital anxiety. It’s normal.” You assure him.

He lets out a chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, something like that.”

You walk over to your station and scribble down some notes on your clipboard, the soft scratch of the pen being the only sound in the room. You toss your gloves in the trash can beside your desk and glance over your shoulder.

“Alright,” you murmur, pulling your stethoscope from where it hangs on a nearby hook “Heart rate next.”

As you walk towards him, Bucky finds himself watching you with curiosity. How were you not scared of him? In the few checkups that he went to with his last Doctor, comments would constantly fly out of her mouth. Regarding his past. Regarding The Winter Soldier. Although they were meant to be light-hearted jokes, something about “Hope this doesn’t trigger any…programming” stung the wrong way.

But there was something quiet about you. Comforting, like a gentle breeze, that made him feel safer than he cares to admit. Quiet in a way that made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. A quiet that he didn’t think that he deserved.

You step closer, tugging the stethoscopes ear plugs in and gently placing the diagram against his chest.

“Deep breath,” you say softly

He obeys. Chest rising under your palm—broad and steady. You notice how close you two are. You can literally feel the heat radiating from him. Like he’s a damn furnace. But it’s completely professional. Just like all your clinics are.

So why do you feel your face warming?

You clear your throat and try to regain your composure. Focusing on the rhythm under the stethoscope. But it’s not helping that his heartbeat picked up the moment you touched him. You stare at the heart monitor, not because you needed to, but because you’re sure if you looked at Bucky he’d see how flustered you are.

You pull back slightly, raising a brow. “Hm. A little fast.”

He clears his throat. “Serum. Makes everything run a little..high.”

“Sure,” you say scribbling on your chart without looking up. In a split second you think back to Natashas comment. That he gets nervous around pretty women. That couldn’t be the case, could it? It’s Bucky Barnes. It’s you.

“Definitely not because you get nervous around needles.” You joke.

You get an eye roll and a smile in response. A real smile at that. Simple as it is, it makes your heart flutter. Progress.

The rest of the clinic goes by smoothly. You kept your composure. Kept your hands steady. Unable to ignore the way his gaze lingered. The way his muscles tensed at your touch without fail.

Aside from the brief awkward silences—usually followed by even more awkward banter—everything about him checked out. Healthy, and normal…as normal as a super soldier gets, at least.

The next few weeks passed in a strange kind of limbo. You’d have your clinics, and of course, over time he slowly warmed up to you.

You actually started to look forward to seeing him around— Whether when he was training in the gym with Steve, Going on runs with Sam, laughing at something Thor told him. But the difference between Bucky and them was, he’s always present.

He wasn’t like that with you.

Yes, he would talk to you. Conversations about his childhood and Brooklyn, or about how you ended up here. There’d even been a time where he offered to walk you back to your room because it was “dark”. And you swear, he almost looked disappointed when you said no.

But it was the quiet moments you’d cherish most. During meetings when your hands would be shaking under the table. All he’d do is gently tap your hand. Or rub his thumb across yours. Small. Enough to ground you. Like he was always watching even when you didn’t expect it.

But then the next day, he goes back to ignoring you. Brushing past you in the hallway like he’s never met you. No nod, no eye contact, nothing.

It’s enough to make you question everything—had the tension and lingering glances been in your head? Had his heart beat really just picked up because he was afraid of needles?

Because he would always go back to his routine of ignoring you. And it's starting to get under your skin—even if you aren’t exactly sure why.

You told yourself to just focus on your work. He’s a coworker. A patient. You’re a professional. One person not liking you shouldn’t send you into a spiral.

So you convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you imagined it all. The touches. The coffees. The looks.

Maybe he’s just polite. Or extremely awkward. Maybe both?

Either way, you told yourself to just let it go. You’re not some girl projecting her fantasies onto someone who doesn’t even see her.

And then Tony announced the party.

Not like it was unusual, for Tony. He’d always come up with some excuse to throw a late night rager. Whether it be for a fundraiser, or a ‘celebration’ of some sort, Tony found a way to party.

Something about “Pepper is leaving us unsupervised for the weekend,” was his reasoning this time around. Whatever it was, it was all anyone could talk about— who was coming, who’d get the most wasted, and what songs should be played at karaoke.

You hadn’t planned on going. Hell, you didn’t even want to go. But Natasha gave you that look. The look that meant she wouldn’t stop until you gave in. After a solid 20 minutes of bargaining, you caved.

So here you are, getting ready in her bathroom. Slipping on a skin tight off the shoulder white dress that hangs dangerously low on your cleavage. Your hair is finally out of your usual messy bun and in neat curls. You open the bathroom door, greeted by Natasha leaning against the wall with her keys dangling lazily on her fingers. She freezes when she sees you.

“Oh my God,” Her eyes widen and whips her hand over her chest dramatically. “If looks could kill…” She whispers while shaking her head. Natasha looks nothing short of stunning herself—her short red hair falling into voluminous curls and her figure emphasized by her black dress.

She lets out a hushed giggle under her breath. “Y’know….”

“He’s gonna be there tonight.”

You don’t even need to ask who ‘he’ is.

Ever since your first appointment with Bucky she has nothing but teased you for it. She’s convinced he’s got some little crush on you.

Sure, he shows up to every appointment; Most of the time early. And sure he’s gotten in the habit of making your coffee when you have to stay up late in the clinic —the way you like it, with extra creamer— though he’s never mentioned it.

Just leaves it at your desk without a word. He probably doesn’t even know that you know it’s him.

Okay, fine. Maybe you’ve come to like the idea. Maybe you’re dressing up in hopes he’ll see you. And maybe—just maybe— you’ve gotten used to the flutter in your chest whenever you do see him.

Even with all the mixed signals, some part of you wants to believe there's something there. But you can’t help hoping it’s not nothing.

You playfully roll your eyes and scoff. “Oh would you shut up,” you laugh. “I never teased you about Steve this much.”

“Because you’re too nice.” Nat quipped. “And please— you totally like him. I see the way you stare.”

You scoff in mock annoyance. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want him to see me tonight.” You say it like a joke, but part of you isn’t kidding.

Natasha shrugs with a sly smile like she’s been waiting for this confession. “Mhmm. No judgement, but— I told you soo.” She sings.

When you arrive, the party is surprisingly classy. Supposedly Tony wanted to up his act from the last party he threw—that ended up with Thor drunkenly dancing on a table as everyone harmoniously chanted for him to ‘Take another shot’.

The floor to ceiling windows give a perfect view of the star flooded night sky adds to the calming atmosphere. The lighting is warm, and the air smells of expensive fragrances mingled with whiskey.

As you and nat are weaving your way through the crowd, you’re about to suggest getting drinks–and that’s when you hear it. A burst of laughter from the far side of the room- familiar.

You turn your head instinctively, eyes scanning the room. You weren’t even looking for him– not really. But there he is.

He throws his head back as he laughs and the corner of his eyes wrinkle– for a second, it seems as if everything moves in slow motion. His chest heaves up and down as he laughs. His brunette hair is neatly pushed back.

Stubble on his jaw so cleanly cut you can almost smell the after shave from across the room. Black suit sharp in all the right places, like it was custom made to steal your attention.

Everything about him seems to fall perfectly in place. So much so, you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if the universe is messing with you. But it’s like there's a spotlight on him in the middle of the room and you’re the only one that seems to notice.

You shake your head to snap yourself out of your trance as your eyes drift to the rest of the crowd. It’s very clear who came with who. Clusters of groups stand throughout the room, couples usually locked arm in arm. Thor stands with Jane, Wanda with Vision, Scott with Hope, Clint with Laura. And of course, Nat is soon to make her way to Steve.

And the fact it's clear who came with who makes your freeze for a moment.

Because when you see Bucky– you see a girl next to him.

And fuck is she beautiful.

“Who the hell is that?” Natasha muttered under her breath in pure shock. You shake your head slowly, “No fucking clue.”

That’s what you get for allowing Nat to feed into your delusions.

It’s nothing, right? Not like you two were ever anything.

Just coworkers.

Your eyes flicker to his and you offer a weak smile and an even weaker wave before getting your arm pulled by Natasha. “Let’s go get drinks.” She insists.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Nat drags you to the bar. She orders drinks for the two of you, and you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment.

“It has to be a friend,” Natasha shakes her head while sipping on her drink. Part comforting you, and part trying to convince herself. “There's just no way! The signs are there.”

“The signs are there and they’re pretty and girlfriend shaped, Natasha.” You throw her a look, pressing your lips in a tight line. “It’s okay really. I didn’t really think anything would happen.” you muttered. But why does he look at you the way he does?

Natasha frowns. She can’t help but feel guilty for playing into the idea, but she still hasn’t lost hope. “C’mon. Let’s go dance.” She places a hand on your shoulder.

You tilt your head in thought, trying to find the courage to go. But your heart feels like it’d been wrenched for all it’s worth. You close your eyes and shake your head, “You go. I’ll catch up with you later. Go see Steve.” Just as she’s about to argue back you place a silencing finger to her lips “Go. I promise I’m fine, Nat.” You force a smile.

“Okay, but you better come out there.” She points a finger at you and raises her eyebrows.

It’s been about two hours. You’ve been sipping on different wines. Mostly people watching. Mostly, Bucky watching. Natasha had tried to pull you but you weren’t in the mood. Bucky having a girlfriend hit you harder than you’d like to admit.

“Bucky’s been asking about you, y’know.” A familiar voice mutters behind a beer bottle. You glance to your right, and there he is. Steve Rogers. “Nat’s in the bathroom.”

You nod. “Yeah? He can ask me himself next time.” You mutter. You didn’t mean to come off so bitter, you’re just exhausted. Exhausted from the mixed signals. Exhausted from trying to decode everything.

“Sorry,” You drop your head and sigh. “Just tired.”

Steve pats a reassuring hand on your back. And then, Natasha reappears.

“Okay. It’s time for you to get up. Take another shot and cmon girl.” She demands. Hands on her hips and eyes glaring at you like you’ve personally offended her. Then, you know there’s no fighting this one.

“Fine,” You whine. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out there.”

As Natasha and Steve walk off hand in hand, you look across the bar and catch Bucky’s eyes staring again. Like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He’s talking to his girlfriend, and Tony. You lock eyes for a little too long, and that was the last straw.

You need to get your mind off of him.

The party has picked up. The lights are no longer warm, but rather cool and dim. The soft jazz is replaced by a thudding baseline just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Exactly what you need.

You weave your way through the electric crowd, meeting Nat, Steve, and Wanda. Thankfully Bucky is nowhere to be seen. As much as you want to bombard Steve with questions about Bucky’s mystery girlfriend, you don’t want to kill the mood.

You move to the beat, letting it pull you under. Your heart stuck somewhere between devastated and defiant. Someone takes your hand and twirls you around. You laugh; sharp and hollow. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like someone trying too hard to be okay.

You catch a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye and your chest tightens. Need to get away, you think to yourself.

“I’m gonna go grab another drink Nat!”

You barley hear her shout back.

You turn, and then—

Cold.

A shock of cold across your front, soaking through the fabric and skin. You look down. Deep blooms of red spread across your dress. Red puddles at your feet.

Red wine. Everywhere.

You look up to see the woman holding the now empty wine glass. Clearly pissed off and even more clearly drunk. “Watch where the fuck you’re walking!” She slurs loudly and throws her arms up.

Heads turn towards the two of you and the once loud booming music dims. You look for Natasha in the crowd but can’t see her.

You’re too drained to fight back. Voice cracking as you speak, feeling the oh so familiar sting at your eyes. Tears pooling before you can fully process it. You can’t do this tonight. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t fuckin’ sorry me,” She crosses her arms. “Maybe if you weren’t busy eye-fucking Barnes all night you’d be able to see where you’re walking.” She rolls her eyes with a scoff.

There's a shift in the crowd to your left. A familiar weight. You don’t even need to look to know that it’s him. And when your eyes finally find his—half shielded by the crowd— it’s like the world shifts.

He saw.

He heard.

Of fucking course he did.

You don’t wait another second to see his face. Or Nats. Or anyone's. You push past the woman, past the crowd, past Bucky’s girlfriend because all you can think about is getting away. Even when the crowd is behind you—it’s not far enough.

Your ears are ringing, heart is thudding in your chest and you start to taste blood from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not even sure how you get back to your room. Just that your heels are loud in the long hallway, echoing every footstep reminding you once again of how small you are there. Before you know it, you’re back in your room slamming the door shut behind you. Skin is sticky, sweaty, and your hands won’t stop shaking.

The door clicks somewhere behind you. You don’t care enough to lock it. You don’t even think about it. You just drop your shoes, your pride, and your head into your hands.

Your elbows stick to the cold kitchen island counter. Wine and hair still clinging to your skin, causing your dress to stick to you in all the wrong places. You don’t cry. You don’t move. You just sit there. Breathing. Replaying the last 10 minutes in your head.

You hear a light knock on the door before it opens fast. You don’t turn, alreading knowing who it is. His heavy footsteps. A held breath. And a pause long enough to feel like a lifetime.

“Hey—” his voice is breathless. Concerned. “Are you okay?”

You don't look up. You shake your head, hands covering your face like you’re holding yourself together. Not daring to make eye contact with him—like it’ll make the situation settle into reality.

He moves slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off. His hands hover near your face for a moment—hesitant— before he tucks your hair behind your ear revealing your flushed cheeks. The wine dripping from your dress to the floor being the only noise in the room.

“Jesus,” He mutters under his breath. He runs a hand down his face and disappears down the hallway. Then he’s back, draping a towel over your shoulders. “You’re soaked.” he sighs.

You flinch as he touches you—not away, but like his touch startled something loose. You shake your head and let out a breath that's half-sob and half-laugh. “I really can’t fucking tell if you like me or hate me, Bucky.”

And for the first time since he entered, you look up at him. You probably look like a fucking mess. You probably sound like a mess. But you don’t care. Not right now. Not when heart strings have been pulled in every direction by something that might not even be there.

He just stands there stunned for a beat. Mouth agape like he’s trying to find the right words to say. You inwardly sigh, knowing that the whole situationship was more than likely– in your head. 

“You’re just giving me all these mixed signals.” You rub your eyes, like you can’t believe you have to explain this. “One day, we’re best friends. Next, you ignore me. You make my coffees. Steve swears it isn’t you but he’s a terrible fucking liar!” You exclaim with a huff, nails digging into your palms.

“And then,” You take a deep breath, “Steve tells me you’re asking about me?! After ignoring me? And- and then I see you at the party with a whole girlfriend? Like—like it’s nothing. Like you don’t look at me the way you do. Like you didn’t….”

You trail off and shake your head with a bitter laugh.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was all in my head.” You let out a trembling sigh. “Just forget it.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

Oh.

Oh.

You let out a breathy laugh. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe. Warmth creeps up to your cheeks and you don’t try to stop it, because— what? You’ve spent the entire night spiraling over a girlfriend—that wasn’t actually his girlfriend. The light seems brighter now, putting a spotlight on your embarrassment.

He licks his lips. Searching for the right words to explain. Like he’s scared this might be the last chance you’ll let him explain.

“She’s an old friend,” He starts slowly, “She asked to come to network. That’s why I was havin’ her talk to Tony.”

Oh.

“Okay,” you start, eyes darting to the floor. “But was everything else in my head?”

You lift your gaze hesitantly—afraid of what you’ll find in his. Taking in every detail just like your first real encounter at the clinic. The dimple on his chin. The stubble on his jaw. The blue eyes that you’d search for in every hallway, every meeting, and every day.

“You didn’t feel it either?” Something twists in your chest, audible through your voice.

Bucky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet breath, jagged and sharp around the edges.

“I didn’t mean to-” He stammered, shaking his head “I did.” He managed to get out.

The words make the air thicken, landing in between the both of you. Making your chest feel heavier with every breath you take.

“I did.” He repeats. I just didn’t know how to…show it.” He’s looking down now. Jaw clenched, his index finger rhythmically tapped against the side of his leg—an anxious tendency he couldn’t force himself out of even if he tried.

“I thought you were just doin’ your job.Just being kind, ‘cause that's what you do. Just being nice to me. Smiling even when I don’t say much.”

His eyebrows furrow like the memory hurts.

“ ‘nd I didn’t think I deserved that.”

His voice is deeper. Something more, something raw. Gaze flickering to yours.

You push yourself off of the chair, it softly scraping the floor. Red wine still dripping off the seat, slow and steady. Each step marked by the hollow click of your heels.

Your hands rise before you even realize it, cupping each side of his face. Feeling the stubble tickle the center of your palms. His breath stutters, and he freezes—afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment.

And before you know it, you’re kissing him.

And he’s kissing you back.

His hands falter, before they hesitantly find your waist—pulling you closer. The kiss starts slow, and uncertain but feels like he’s been holding this in for far too long. Like a breath he thought he’d never be able to take. It’s not perfect. It’s messy. Your hearts are beating far too fast, but it’s real. It was never in your head. It was real.

When you finally pull back, your noses brush and for a beat—neither of you say anything. You’re both smiling. Like idiots. Like the weight from the past few weeks have lifted off your shoulders and drifted into the air surrounding you.

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound. You envisioned something quieter–simpler. It’s not the coastal hospital life you thought you’d have—But this isn’t so bad. You still don’t really have your shit together, but you’re getting there.

“Would you quit it!” Laughter fills the air as you try to push Bucky off of you. All you need to do is take his damn blood pressure, but it’s kind of hard when he keeps repeatedly pressing kisses on your head.

“Nope,” He places a kiss on your cheek as you struggle to wrap the cuff around his arm. “Not when you look so cute in those scrubs.”

The room smells like your favorite creamer filled coffee. He brings it every morning now—and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Doesn’t need to. Natasha swears she called it from day one. And still—after everything,— teases you like no other.

You’re not one of those girls on tiktok, with cute matching scrubs. Or a cute stanley. Or a simplistic life.

But you’ve got someone who brings you coffee every morning. Stays up with you every night in the lab.

Keeps an extra hoodie in his room for you.

Buys your favorite flowers for you, so you always have a fresh bouquet.

Watches countless Gossip Girl reruns with you—even if he insists they’re all over dramatic.

Some nights he doesn’t say anything—just rests your head on his chest, until the world quiets down.

And maybe that’s better.

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱ 

[solixiaa]

It's Nothing, Right? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ao3

paring : bucky barnes x dr!reader ( canon divergent )

summary : You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

word count : 5.9k (jeez louise)

warnings : slight angst, language, drinking/alchohol, Bucky is emotionally constipated, misunderstandings, miscommunication trope, semi insecure reader, public embarrassment / confrontation, no use of y/n

authors note : this has been in my drafts forever. writers block will be the end of me. Used one of my most favorite SZA songs as inspiration for this one (drew barrymore). But thought What More Can I Say was more fitting. hope u enjoy :’)

recommended listening : What More Can I Say - The Notations

❝One day you love me, and the next you disappear from sight.❞ ♡

It’s important to get one thing straight.

You never expected—or necessarily wanted—to end up working at the Avengers compound after busting your ass off in medical school.

You envisioned something quieter for yourself. A little loft in the city, maybe even a tiny home on the coast of California back with your family. A job at a nearby hospital. Cute scrubs. Cute stanley. Maybe a cute boyfriend. Just…a cute lifestyle.

Like those girls you see on TikTok who make life seem so simplistic. Somehow always aesthetically pleasing. Always having their shit together. That's what you envisioned.

Alas, here you are frantically clutching your unorganized papers and tablet to your chest—quite literally not having your shit together—chasing after the well known genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist himself; Tony Stark. As intimidating as his presence was, he was less like a boss and more-so an annoying older brother.

“Tony, would you give me a second?” you continue furiously speed walking after the man, earning a few concerned glances your way. The long hallway stretched out in sterile white and gunmetal grey, echoing every hurried footstep like the place wanted to remind you of how small you were there.

“I don’t even know if I’ve got space on my calendar.” You whine.

“Well I sure suggest you make space. Didn’t hire you for nothing now did I?” Without slowing his pace he looks over his shoulder and cocks a smug eyebrow at you.

The last year of working here felt like a blur. One minute, you were nervously presenting your research about nerve receptors at a medical tech conference. The next, you were being handed a keycard to the same building where Thor (a literal fucking God) showers.

Stark Industries had apparently taken one look at your work—custom nanotech for optimizing post-op nerve regeneration and cellular healing—and decided you were perfectly suited for patching up people who fight aliens for a living.

You’d expected to be tucked away in the corner of a lab. Instead, you got shoved straight into the compounds' med bay, testing field tech, designing custom recovery protocols for enhanced bodies, and monitoring vitals.

The job was demanding. So demanding you had to move in. Even if you were able to snag a shitty overpriced apartment nearby, you wouldn’t be spending much time in it. So, you figured there was no point in protesting.

To that, you sigh. Yes you’ve spent the last year in the medical bay tracking vitals, managing combat injuries, and designing more than half the meds in the compounds’ dispensary….but this?

Why did he have to assign you to Barnes?

Tony finally halts in his tracks after reaching his office. Opening the door and motioning for you to enter. Floor to ceiling windows encased his office. Inside coffee stained papers and books were found in every corner. It was a bit chaotic; like a peek into Tony’s mind. You set your bundle of unorganized papers and tablet down and melt into the chair across his desk with exasperation.

“Remind me again why I’m taking over Barnes?” You run your hand down your face. Eyes still heavy from being called down by Tony at 6 AM for this.

Your teeth are unbrushed, hair in a tangled messy bun. Yet there he stands looking like he just got out of a vogue photo shoot. How in the hell does he get up so early? “I thought my only patients were Nat and Wanda.”

Tony shrugs, pouring himself a drink that is definitely not water.

“Barnes’ last medic resigned. Something about needing a sabbatical. Or maybe she’s moving galaxies. Didn’t specify.”

You roll your eyes. “So you volunteered me?”

“I trust you,” He says matter of factly, which—coming from Tony—is more meaningful than it should be. “I wouldn’t trust anyone to care for Barnes. He’s different.” He points a pen at you while explaining.

“I know that. He’s similar to Steve, right?”

He takes a sip from whatever concoction lies in his glass, then adds in a more serious note. “Look, his vitals are weird. Serum weird. Where he’s different is in his trauma. It’s not exactly subtle either. We need someone who won’t treat him like he’s broken. Just…a different model.”

You sink further in your chair, slowly rethinking every life decision you’ve ever made. “When do I start?”

Tony glances at his watch and purses his lips in a thin line.

“In an hour. Better get ready. Not loving this hobo look on you.” He points.

“Gee, Thanks T,” You weakly smile, standing and gathering your heap of files and tablet. “I’m assuming you’ve already transferred me all his data?”

“You know it.” He leans into his chair, the sarcasm softening just slightly. “Thanks, pipsqueak.”

You pause at the door. “Anytime.”

Then shut it behind you with a quiet click.

You finished getting ready with plenty of time to spare. Hair in a neater bun this time, teeth brushed, and of course your uniform. The loose white Doctors coat and light blue scrubs underneath with your badge in the lanyard around your neck.

Despite the hundreds if not thousands of times you’ve done these checkups with other members of the Avengers, you couldn’t help but feel the nervousness bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

It wasn’t the fact that he had different physiology. You’d studied Bruces’ gamma influenced vitals, Steve's super serum, and even Wanda who had powers from an infinity stone. You’d become accustomed to treating bodies with conditions that don’t always follow textbook patterns. Put it simply, these things came to you naturally.

It was the fact that it’s Barnes.

The man who could dodge trucks like it was nothing but couldn’t seem to hold a conversation with you for more than 30 seconds.

And you really did try. Passing him in the hallway at least a dozen times—usually when grabbing your creamer filled coffee after late-night med bay shifts, or tagging along with Nat for training briefings. Each time, you’d offer a small smile, or a joke about how much Fury rants.

And each time, he’d give a tight nod, a barely-there smirk…and would continue walking like you had just asked him for his social security number.

“He’s shy,” Natasha had told you once, trying not to laugh. “Or maybe he’s just bad with pretty women.”

But he was never like that around Nat. Or Yelena. Or Wanda. Or anyone for that matter. Only you. Which drew you to the conclusion; Bucky Barnes does not like you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, grab your tote bag, and make your way downstairs to the medical bay. Checking yourself one too many times in the mirror—It’s a checkup, not a damn date.

Still, you swipe a bit of lip balm on.

Your eyes squint slightly as you step into the fluorescent lighted room that smelt like a mix of sanitizer and your vanilla scented air fresheners.

You freeze for a second when you spot him sitting at the exam table. Elbows on his knees, dog tags hanging low from his neck. His head lifts when he hears the door open, and for a moment it's just eye contact.

You freeze because not only did he show up early, but because he showed up at all. And you were still under the assumption that he didn’t like you. But also—Bucky had almost never shown up for a scheduled checkup. On the few occasions he did was when Steve and Sam quite literally forced him to.

Tony warned you about it. “Don't take it personally,” he said while working on one of his many suits. “Barnes has a habit of ghosting medical appointments. He’s got that ‘I heal fast, don't waste your time on me’ complex. I’m sure you’ll figure something out”

Seeing him sit there without any need for persuasion or bribery was nothing short of astonishing.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up” You admit with a smile. Eyes focused on your tablet as you make your way over to prep the scans, putting your tote bag up on a hanger. “Thought I’d have to call Steve to take you in.” You get a quiet huff in response. Maybe even a half-smile.

You set your clipboard down. “I read through your file. Looks like we’ll be doing a routine check. Just vitals and general examination. Nothing too scary.” You assured me with a soft smile.

He gives a short nod, jaw tense, gaze flickering around like it’s a warzone and not a softly lit doctor's office.

“You’ve done this with the others?” he finally asks, voice low.

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you start laying out the equipment. “Plenty of times. Nat. Yelena. Kate. Even Pietro, once. Didn’t get very far though. He kept trying to flirt the entire time, which was more exhausting than the actual testing.”

That earns you something—a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips like he was holding back a smile.

You catch it, then tilt your head slightly. “What about you? I hear you’re always very enthusiastic about checkups.” His eyes flicker to yours, then away again. “Don’t really see the point in ‘em.”

“Because of the serum?” you ask gently, pulling plastic gloves on your hands as you move closer to where he’s sitting. He nods. “Doesn’t feel fair. People out there losin’ their lives, and I’m in here gettin’ my blood pressure taken.”

You pause for a moment, taking in what he’s saying. There’s no judgement in your voice but something gentler. Quieter.

“Healing faster doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you.

Before he could respond—if he was even going to—you clasp your hands together with a smile “Alright, well let me get started.” turning once again to grab your things. You’re pretty sure you catch him watching you, but you try to ignore it.

“You mind taking your jacket off for me?” You ask. Bucky pauses for a beat—almost forgetting where he is. Its a fucking checkup he tells himself.

As he sets his jacket to the side, you pull up a swivel chair to his right.

“Just gonna start off by taking your blood pressure,” you hum while pulling out the blood pressure cuff. The cuff crinkles under your touch as you unwrap it, your fingers skimming the firm muscle of his arm. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his biceps tense under your palm.

"Are you doing alright?” you ask gently, brows furrowing with concern. You always try to keep things professional, but your gaze lingers for a little too long. The short stubble on his jaw. The dimple on his chin. And his annoyingly long lashes.

You’ve done this procedure a hundred times, but for some reason, wrapping the cuff around his arm makes your pulse tick just a little faster. That, and the way you’re forced to look up at him because of your height difference isn’t making this any easier on you.

He nods, but his body language says otherwise. Shoulders tense, breathing is off. You don’t think much of it.

“Relax your arm for me.” you murmur.

He exhales. For a second his eyes flicker to your face—and linger. He can’t help but watch as you care for him with such precision.

You glance up at him just in time to catch it. “What? Do I have something on my face?” You smile.

“Nothing,” He mutters, too quickly, eyes darting to the wall.

You shuffle in your chair as you start to unwrap the cuff from his arm, “Y’know, It’s okay if you’ve got a little hospital anxiety. It’s normal.” You assure him.

He lets out a chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, something like that.”

You walk over to your station and scribble down some notes on your clipboard, the soft scratch of the pen being the only sound in the room. You toss your gloves in the trash can beside your desk and glance over your shoulder.

“Alright,” you murmur, pulling your stethoscope from where it hangs on a nearby hook “Heart rate next.”

As you walk towards him, Bucky finds himself watching you with curiosity. How were you not scared of him? In the few checkups that he went to with his last Doctor, comments would constantly fly out of her mouth. Regarding his past. Regarding The Winter Soldier. Although they were meant to be light-hearted jokes, something about “Hope this doesn’t trigger any…programming” stung the wrong way.

But there was something quiet about you. Comforting, like a gentle breeze, that made him feel safer than he cares to admit. Quiet in a way that made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. A quiet that he didn’t think that he deserved.

You step closer, tugging the stethoscopes ear plugs in and gently placing the diagram against his chest.

“Deep breath,” you say softly

He obeys. Chest rising under your palm—broad and steady. You notice how close you two are. You can literally feel the heat radiating from him. Like he’s a damn furnace. But it’s completely professional. Just like all your clinics are.

So why do you feel your face warming?

You clear your throat and try to regain your composure. Focusing on the rhythm under the stethoscope. But it’s not helping that his heartbeat picked up the moment you touched him. You stare at the heart monitor, not because you needed to, but because you’re sure if you looked at Bucky he’d see how flustered you are.

You pull back slightly, raising a brow. “Hm. A little fast.”

He clears his throat. “Serum. Makes everything run a little..high.”

“Sure,” you say scribbling on your chart without looking up. In a split second you think back to Natashas comment. That he gets nervous around pretty women. That couldn’t be the case, could it? It’s Bucky Barnes. It’s you.

“Definitely not because you get nervous around needles.” You joke.

You get an eye roll and a smile in response. A real smile at that. Simple as it is, it makes your heart flutter. Progress.

The rest of the clinic goes by smoothly. You kept your composure. Kept your hands steady. Unable to ignore the way his gaze lingered. The way his muscles tensed at your touch without fail.

Aside from the brief awkward silences—usually followed by even more awkward banter—everything about him checked out. Healthy, and normal…as normal as a super soldier gets, at least.

The next few weeks passed in a strange kind of limbo. You’d have your clinics, and of course, over time he slowly warmed up to you.

You actually started to look forward to seeing him around— Whether when he was training in the gym with Steve, Going on runs with Sam, laughing at something Thor told him. But the difference between Bucky and them was, he’s always present.

He wasn’t like that with you.

Yes, he would talk to you. Conversations about his childhood and Brooklyn, or about how you ended up here. There’d even been a time where he offered to walk you back to your room because it was “dark”. And you swear, he almost looked disappointed when you said no.

But it was the quiet moments you’d cherish most. During meetings when your hands would be shaking under the table. All he’d do is gently tap your hand. Or rub his thumb across yours. Small. Enough to ground you. Like he was always watching even when you didn’t expect it.

But then the next day, he goes back to ignoring you. Brushing past you in the hallway like he’s never met you. No nod, no eye contact, nothing.

It’s enough to make you question everything—had the tension and lingering glances been in your head? Had his heart beat really just picked up because he was afraid of needles?

Because he would always go back to his routine of ignoring you. And it's starting to get under your skin—even if you aren’t exactly sure why.

You told yourself to just focus on your work. He’s a coworker. A patient. You’re a professional. One person not liking you shouldn’t send you into a spiral.

So you convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you imagined it all. The touches. The coffees. The looks.

Maybe he’s just polite. Or extremely awkward. Maybe both?

Either way, you told yourself to just let it go. You’re not some girl projecting her fantasies onto someone who doesn’t even see her.

And then Tony announced the party.

Not like it was unusual, for Tony. He’d always come up with some excuse to throw a late night rager. Whether it be for a fundraiser, or a ‘celebration’ of some sort, Tony found a way to party.

Something about “Pepper is leaving us unsupervised for the weekend,” was his reasoning this time around. Whatever it was, it was all anyone could talk about— who was coming, who’d get the most wasted, and what songs should be played at karaoke.

You hadn’t planned on going. Hell, you didn’t even want to go. But Natasha gave you that look. The look that meant she wouldn’t stop until you gave in. After a solid 20 minutes of bargaining, you caved.

So here you are, getting ready in her bathroom. Slipping on a skin tight off the shoulder white dress that hangs dangerously low on your cleavage. Your hair is finally out of your usual messy bun and in neat curls. You open the bathroom door, greeted by Natasha leaning against the wall with her keys dangling lazily on her fingers. She freezes when she sees you.

“Oh my God,” Her eyes widen and whips her hand over her chest dramatically. “If looks could kill…” She whispers while shaking her head. Natasha looks nothing short of stunning herself—her short red hair falling into voluminous curls and her figure emphasized by her black dress.

She lets out a hushed giggle under her breath. “Y’know….”

“He’s gonna be there tonight.”

You don’t even need to ask who ‘he’ is.

Ever since your first appointment with Bucky she has nothing but teased you for it. She’s convinced he’s got some little crush on you.

Sure, he shows up to every appointment; Most of the time early. And sure he’s gotten in the habit of making your coffee when you have to stay up late in the clinic —the way you like it, with extra creamer— though he’s never mentioned it.

Just leaves it at your desk without a word. He probably doesn’t even know that you know it’s him.

Okay, fine. Maybe you’ve come to like the idea. Maybe you’re dressing up in hopes he’ll see you. And maybe—just maybe— you’ve gotten used to the flutter in your chest whenever you do see him.

Even with all the mixed signals, some part of you wants to believe there's something there. But you can’t help hoping it’s not nothing.

You playfully roll your eyes and scoff. “Oh would you shut up,” you laugh. “I never teased you about Steve this much.”

“Because you’re too nice.” Nat quipped. “And please— you totally like him. I see the way you stare.”

You scoff in mock annoyance. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want him to see me tonight.” You say it like a joke, but part of you isn’t kidding.

Natasha shrugs with a sly smile like she’s been waiting for this confession. “Mhmm. No judgement, but— I told you soo.” She sings.

When you arrive, the party is surprisingly classy. Supposedly Tony wanted to up his act from the last party he threw—that ended up with Thor drunkenly dancing on a table as everyone harmoniously chanted for him to ‘Take another shot’.

The floor to ceiling windows give a perfect view of the star flooded night sky adds to the calming atmosphere. The lighting is warm, and the air smells of expensive fragrances mingled with whiskey.

As you and nat are weaving your way through the crowd, you’re about to suggest getting drinks–and that’s when you hear it. A burst of laughter from the far side of the room- familiar.

You turn your head instinctively, eyes scanning the room. You weren’t even looking for him– not really. But there he is.

He throws his head back as he laughs and the corner of his eyes wrinkle– for a second, it seems as if everything moves in slow motion. His chest heaves up and down as he laughs. His brunette hair is neatly pushed back.

Stubble on his jaw so cleanly cut you can almost smell the after shave from across the room. Black suit sharp in all the right places, like it was custom made to steal your attention.

Everything about him seems to fall perfectly in place. So much so, you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if the universe is messing with you. But it’s like there's a spotlight on him in the middle of the room and you’re the only one that seems to notice.

You shake your head to snap yourself out of your trance as your eyes drift to the rest of the crowd. It’s very clear who came with who. Clusters of groups stand throughout the room, couples usually locked arm in arm. Thor stands with Jane, Wanda with Vision, Scott with Hope, Clint with Laura. And of course, Nat is soon to make her way to Steve.

And the fact it's clear who came with who makes your freeze for a moment.

Because when you see Bucky– you see a girl next to him.

And fuck is she beautiful.

“Who the hell is that?” Natasha muttered under her breath in pure shock. You shake your head slowly, “No fucking clue.”

That’s what you get for allowing Nat to feed into your delusions.

It’s nothing, right? Not like you two were ever anything.

Just coworkers.

Your eyes flicker to his and you offer a weak smile and an even weaker wave before getting your arm pulled by Natasha. “Let’s go get drinks.” She insists.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Nat drags you to the bar. She orders drinks for the two of you, and you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment.

“It has to be a friend,” Natasha shakes her head while sipping on her drink. Part comforting you, and part trying to convince herself. “There's just no way! The signs are there.”

“The signs are there and they’re pretty and girlfriend shaped, Natasha.” You throw her a look, pressing your lips in a tight line. “It’s okay really. I didn’t really think anything would happen.” you muttered. But why does he look at you the way he does?

Natasha frowns. She can’t help but feel guilty for playing into the idea, but she still hasn’t lost hope. “C’mon. Let’s go dance.” She places a hand on your shoulder.

You tilt your head in thought, trying to find the courage to go. But your heart feels like it’d been wrenched for all it’s worth. You close your eyes and shake your head, “You go. I’ll catch up with you later. Go see Steve.” Just as she’s about to argue back you place a silencing finger to her lips “Go. I promise I’m fine, Nat.” You force a smile.

“Okay, but you better come out there.” She points a finger at you and raises her eyebrows.

It’s been about two hours. You’ve been sipping on different wines. Mostly people watching. Mostly, Bucky watching. Natasha had tried to pull you but you weren’t in the mood. Bucky having a girlfriend hit you harder than you’d like to admit.

“Bucky’s been asking about you, y’know.” A familiar voice mutters behind a beer bottle. You glance to your right, and there he is. Steve Rogers. “Nat’s in the bathroom.”

You nod. “Yeah? He can ask me himself next time.” You mutter. You didn’t mean to come off so bitter, you’re just exhausted. Exhausted from the mixed signals. Exhausted from trying to decode everything.

“Sorry,” You drop your head and sigh. “Just tired.”

Steve pats a reassuring hand on your back. And then, Natasha reappears.

“Okay. It’s time for you to get up. Take another shot and cmon girl.” She demands. Hands on her hips and eyes glaring at you like you’ve personally offended her. Then, you know there’s no fighting this one.

“Fine,” You whine. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out there.”

As Natasha and Steve walk off hand in hand, you look across the bar and catch Bucky’s eyes staring again. Like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He’s talking to his girlfriend, and Tony. You lock eyes for a little too long, and that was the last straw.

You need to get your mind off of him.

The party has picked up. The lights are no longer warm, but rather cool and dim. The soft jazz is replaced by a thudding baseline just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Exactly what you need.

You weave your way through the electric crowd, meeting Nat, Steve, and Wanda. Thankfully Bucky is nowhere to be seen. As much as you want to bombard Steve with questions about Bucky’s mystery girlfriend, you don’t want to kill the mood.

You move to the beat, letting it pull you under. Your heart stuck somewhere between devastated and defiant. Someone takes your hand and twirls you around. You laugh; sharp and hollow. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like someone trying too hard to be okay.

You catch a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye and your chest tightens. Need to get away, you think to yourself.

“I’m gonna go grab another drink Nat!”

You barley hear her shout back.

You turn, and then—

Cold.

A shock of cold across your front, soaking through the fabric and skin. You look down. Deep blooms of red spread across your dress. Red puddles at your feet.

Red wine. Everywhere.

You look up to see the woman holding the now empty wine glass. Clearly pissed off and even more clearly drunk. “Watch where the fuck you’re walking!” She slurs loudly and throws her arms up.

Heads turn towards the two of you and the once loud booming music dims. You look for Natasha in the crowd but can’t see her.

You’re too drained to fight back. Voice cracking as you speak, feeling the oh so familiar sting at your eyes. Tears pooling before you can fully process it. You can’t do this tonight. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t fuckin’ sorry me,” She crosses her arms. “Maybe if you weren’t busy eye-fucking Barnes all night you’d be able to see where you’re walking.” She rolls her eyes with a scoff.

There's a shift in the crowd to your left. A familiar weight. You don’t even need to look to know that it’s him. And when your eyes finally find his—half shielded by the crowd— it’s like the world shifts.

He saw.

He heard.

Of fucking course he did.

You don’t wait another second to see his face. Or Nats. Or anyone's. You push past the woman, past the crowd, past Bucky’s girlfriend because all you can think about is getting away. Even when the crowd is behind you—it’s not far enough.

Your ears are ringing, heart is thudding in your chest and you start to taste blood from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not even sure how you get back to your room. Just that your heels are loud in the long hallway, echoing every footstep reminding you once again of how small you are there. Before you know it, you’re back in your room slamming the door shut behind you. Skin is sticky, sweaty, and your hands won’t stop shaking.

The door clicks somewhere behind you. You don’t care enough to lock it. You don’t even think about it. You just drop your shoes, your pride, and your head into your hands.

Your elbows stick to the cold kitchen island counter. Wine and hair still clinging to your skin, causing your dress to stick to you in all the wrong places. You don’t cry. You don’t move. You just sit there. Breathing. Replaying the last 10 minutes in your head.

You hear a light knock on the door before it opens fast. You don’t turn, alreading knowing who it is. His heavy footsteps. A held breath. And a pause long enough to feel like a lifetime.

“Hey—” his voice is breathless. Concerned. “Are you okay?”

You don't look up. You shake your head, hands covering your face like you’re holding yourself together. Not daring to make eye contact with him—like it’ll make the situation settle into reality.

He moves slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off. His hands hover near your face for a moment—hesitant— before he tucks your hair behind your ear revealing your flushed cheeks. The wine dripping from your dress to the floor being the only noise in the room.

“Jesus,” He mutters under his breath. He runs a hand down his face and disappears down the hallway. Then he’s back, draping a towel over your shoulders. “You’re soaked.” he sighs.

You flinch as he touches you—not away, but like his touch startled something loose. You shake your head and let out a breath that's half-sob and half-laugh. “I really can’t fucking tell if you like me or hate me, Bucky.”

And for the first time since he entered, you look up at him. You probably look like a fucking mess. You probably sound like a mess. But you don’t care. Not right now. Not when heart strings have been pulled in every direction by something that might not even be there.

He just stands there stunned for a beat. Mouth agape like he’s trying to find the right words to say. You inwardly sigh, knowing that the whole situationship was more than likely– in your head. 

“You’re just giving me all these mixed signals.” You rub your eyes, like you can’t believe you have to explain this. “One day, we’re best friends. Next, you ignore me. You make my coffees. Steve swears it isn’t you but he’s a terrible fucking liar!” You exclaim with a huff, nails digging into your palms.

“And then,” You take a deep breath, “Steve tells me you’re asking about me?! After ignoring me? And- and then I see you at the party with a whole girlfriend? Like—like it’s nothing. Like you don’t look at me the way you do. Like you didn’t….”

You trail off and shake your head with a bitter laugh.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was all in my head.” You let out a trembling sigh. “Just forget it.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

Oh.

Oh.

You let out a breathy laugh. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe. Warmth creeps up to your cheeks and you don’t try to stop it, because— what? You’ve spent the entire night spiraling over a girlfriend—that wasn’t actually his girlfriend. The light seems brighter now, putting a spotlight on your embarrassment.

He licks his lips. Searching for the right words to explain. Like he’s scared this might be the last chance you’ll let him explain.

“She’s an old friend,” He starts slowly, “She asked to come to network. That’s why I was havin’ her talk to Tony.”

Oh.

“Okay,” you start, eyes darting to the floor. “But was everything else in my head?”

You lift your gaze hesitantly—afraid of what you’ll find in his. Taking in every detail just like your first real encounter at the clinic. The dimple on his chin. The stubble on his jaw. The blue eyes that you’d search for in every hallway, every meeting, and every day.

“You didn’t feel it either?” Something twists in your chest, audible through your voice.

Bucky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet breath, jagged and sharp around the edges.

“I didn’t mean to-” He stammered, shaking his head “I did.” He managed to get out.

The words make the air thicken, landing in between the both of you. Making your chest feel heavier with every breath you take.

“I did.” He repeats. I just didn’t know how to…show it.” He’s looking down now. Jaw clenched, his index finger rhythmically tapped against the side of his leg—an anxious tendency he couldn’t force himself out of even if he tried.

“I thought you were just doin’ your job.Just being kind, ‘cause that's what you do. Just being nice to me. Smiling even when I don’t say much.”

His eyebrows furrow like the memory hurts.

“ ‘nd I didn’t think I deserved that.”

His voice is deeper. Something more, something raw. Gaze flickering to yours.

You push yourself off of the chair, it softly scraping the floor. Red wine still dripping off the seat, slow and steady. Each step marked by the hollow click of your heels.

Your hands rise before you even realize it, cupping each side of his face. Feeling the stubble tickle the center of your palms. His breath stutters, and he freezes—afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment.

And before you know it, you’re kissing him.

And he’s kissing you back.

His hands falter, before they hesitantly find your waist—pulling you closer. The kiss starts slow, and uncertain but feels like he’s been holding this in for far too long. Like a breath he thought he’d never be able to take. It’s not perfect. It’s messy. Your hearts are beating far too fast, but it’s real. It was never in your head. It was real.

When you finally pull back, your noses brush and for a beat—neither of you say anything. You’re both smiling. Like idiots. Like the weight from the past few weeks have lifted off your shoulders and drifted into the air surrounding you.

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound. You envisioned something quieter–simpler. It’s not the coastal hospital life you thought you’d have—But this isn’t so bad. You still don’t really have your shit together, but you’re getting there.

“Would you quit it!” Laughter fills the air as you try to push Bucky off of you. All you need to do is take his damn blood pressure, but it’s kind of hard when he keeps repeatedly pressing kisses on your head.

“Nope,” He places a kiss on your cheek as you struggle to wrap the cuff around his arm. “Not when you look so cute in those scrubs.”

The room smells like your favorite creamer filled coffee. He brings it every morning now—and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Doesn’t need to. Natasha swears she called it from day one. And still—after everything,— teases you like no other.

You’re not one of those girls on tiktok, with cute matching scrubs. Or a cute stanley. Or a simplistic life.

But you’ve got someone who brings you coffee every morning. Stays up with you every night in the lab.

Keeps an extra hoodie in his room for you.

Buys your favorite flowers for you, so you always have a fresh bouquet.

Watches countless Gossip Girl reruns with you—even if he insists they’re all over dramatic.

Some nights he doesn’t say anything—just rests your head on his chest, until the world quiets down.

And maybe that’s better.

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱ 

[solixiaa]

ʚ library ɞ ‧₊˚

note ﹕ don't have much posted right now obvi but have lot's in the works so #staytuned (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

last updated ➤ 7 ･ 10 ･ 25

⊹ ࣪ ˖ one shots

ꨄ︎ take my hand and drive﹕bucky barnes x reader ( modern au )

You’re running away from everything, and he’s the last person you expected to want to come with you. But when the night turns soft, and the gas station lights flicker, you realize maybe leaving isn’t the end—it’s a new beginning.

wc :: 2.2k

ꨄ Its Nothing, Right? ﹕bucky barnes x reader ( canon-divergent au )

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

wc :: 5.9k

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱

[solixiaa]

It's Nothing, Right? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ao3

paring : bucky barnes x dr!reader ( canon divergent )

summary : You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

word count : 5.9k (jeez louise)

warnings : fluff!!! slight angst, language, drinking/alchohol, Bucky is emotionally constipated, misunderstandings, miscommunication trope, semi insecure reader, public embarrassment / confrontation, no use of y/n

recommended listening : What More Can I Say - The Notations

❝One day you love me, and the next you disappear from sight.❞ ♡

It’s important to get one thing straight.

You never expected—or necessarily wanted—to end up working at the Avengers compound after busting your ass off in medical school.

You envisioned something quieter for yourself. A little loft in the city, maybe even a tiny home on the coast of California back with your family. A job at a nearby hospital. Cute scrubs. Cute stanley. Maybe a cute boyfriend. Just…a cute lifestyle.

Like those girls you see on TikTok who make life seem so simplistic. Somehow always aesthetically pleasing. Always having their shit together. That's what you envisioned.

Alas, here you are frantically clutching your unorganized papers and tablet to your chest—quite literally not having your shit together—chasing after the well known genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist himself; Tony Stark. As intimidating as his presence was, he was less like a boss and more-so an annoying older brother.

“Tony, would you give me a second?” you continue furiously speed walking after the man, earning a few concerned glances your way. The long hallway stretched out in sterile white and gunmetal grey, echoing every hurried footstep like the place wanted to remind you of how small you were there.

“I don’t even know if I’ve got space on my calendar.” You whine.

“Well I sure suggest you make space. Didn’t hire you for nothing now did I?” Without slowing his pace he looks over his shoulder and cocks a smug eyebrow at you.

The last year of working here felt like a blur. One minute, you were nervously presenting your research about nerve receptors at a medical tech conference. The next, you were being handed a keycard to the same building where Thor (a literal fucking God) showers.

Stark Industries had apparently taken one look at your work—custom nanotech for optimizing post-op nerve regeneration and cellular healing—and decided you were perfectly suited for patching up people who fight aliens for a living.

You’d expected to be tucked away in the corner of a lab. Instead, you got shoved straight into the compounds' med bay, testing field tech, designing custom recovery protocols for enhanced bodies, and monitoring vitals.

The job was demanding. So demanding you had to move in. Even if you were able to snag a shitty overpriced apartment nearby, you wouldn’t be spending much time in it. So, you figured there was no point in protesting.

To that, you sigh. Yes you’ve spent the last year in the medical bay tracking vitals, managing combat injuries, and designing more than half the meds in the compounds’ dispensary….but this?

Why did he have to assign you to Barnes?

Tony finally halts in his tracks after reaching his office. Opening the door and motioning for you to enter. Floor to ceiling windows encased his office. Inside coffee stained papers and books were found in every corner. It was a bit chaotic; like a peek into Tony’s mind. You set your bundle of unorganized papers and tablet down and melt into the chair across his desk with exasperation.

“Remind me again why I’m taking over Barnes?” You run your hand down your face. Eyes still heavy from being called down by Tony at 6 AM for this.

Your teeth are unbrushed, hair in a tangled messy bun. Yet there he stands looking like he just got out of a vogue photo shoot. How in the hell does he get up so early? “I thought my only patients were Nat and Wanda.”

Tony shrugs, pouring himself a drink that is definitely not water.

“Barnes’ last medic resigned. Something about needing a sabbatical. Or maybe she’s moving galaxies. Didn’t specify.”

You roll your eyes. “So you volunteered me?”

“I trust you,” He says matter of factly, which—coming from Tony—is more meaningful than it should be. “I wouldn’t trust anyone to care for Barnes. He’s different.” He points a pen at you while explaining.

“I know that. He’s similar to Steve, right?”

He takes a sip from whatever concoction lies in his glass, then adds in a more serious note. “Look, his vitals are weird. Serum weird. Where he’s different is in his trauma. It’s not exactly subtle either. We need someone who won’t treat him like he’s broken. Just…a different model.”

You sink further in your chair, slowly rethinking every life decision you’ve ever made. “When do I start?”

Tony glances at his watch and purses his lips in a thin line.

“In an hour. Better get ready. Not loving this hobo look on you.” He points.

“Gee, Thanks T,” You weakly smile, standing and gathering your heap of files and tablet. “I’m assuming you’ve already transferred me all his data?”

“You know it.” He leans into his chair, the sarcasm softening just slightly. “Thanks, pipsqueak.”

You pause at the door. “Anytime.”

Then shut it behind you with a quiet click.

You finished getting ready with plenty of time to spare. Hair in a neater bun this time, teeth brushed, and of course your uniform. The loose white Doctors coat and light blue scrubs underneath with your badge in the lanyard around your neck.

Despite the hundreds if not thousands of times you’ve done these checkups with other members of the Avengers, you couldn’t help but feel the nervousness bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

It wasn’t the fact that he had different physiology. You’d studied Bruces’ gamma influenced vitals, Steve's super serum, and even Wanda who had powers from an infinity stone. You’d become accustomed to treating bodies with conditions that don’t always follow textbook patterns. Put it simply, these things came to you naturally.

It was the fact that it’s Barnes.

The man who could dodge trucks like it was nothing but couldn’t seem to hold a conversation with you for more than 30 seconds.

And you really did try. Passing him in the hallway at least a dozen times—usually when grabbing your creamer filled coffee after late-night med bay shifts, or tagging along with Nat for training briefings. Each time, you’d offer a small smile, or a joke about how much Fury rants.

And each time, he’d give a tight nod, a barely-there smirk…and would continue walking like you had just asked him for his social security number.

“He’s shy,” Natasha had told you once, trying not to laugh. “Or maybe he’s just bad with pretty women.”

But he was never like that around Nat. Or Yelena. Or Wanda. Or anyone for that matter. Only you. Which drew you to the conclusion; Bucky Barnes does not like you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, grab your tote bag, and make your way downstairs to the medical bay. Checking yourself one too many times in the mirror—It’s a checkup, not a damn date.

Still, you swipe a bit of lip balm on.

Your eyes squint slightly as you step into the fluorescent lighted room that smelt like a mix of sanitizer and your vanilla scented air fresheners.

You freeze for a second when you spot him sitting at the exam table. Elbows on his knees, dog tags hanging low from his neck. His head lifts when he hears the door open, and for a moment it's just eye contact.

You freeze because not only did he show up early, but because he showed up at all. And you were still under the assumption that he didn’t like you. But also—Bucky had almost never shown up for a scheduled checkup. On the few occasions he did was when Steve and Sam quite literally forced him to.

Tony warned you about it. “Don't take it personally,” he said while working on one of his many suits. “Barnes has a habit of ghosting medical appointments. He’s got that ‘I heal fast, don't waste your time on me’ complex. I’m sure you’ll figure something out”

Seeing him sit there without any need for persuasion or bribery was nothing short of astonishing.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up” You admit with a smile. Eyes focused on your tablet as you make your way over to prep the scans, putting your tote bag up on a hanger. “Thought I’d have to call Steve to take you in.” You get a quiet huff in response. Maybe even a half-smile.

You set your clipboard down. “I read through your file. Looks like we’ll be doing a routine check. Just vitals and general examination. Nothing too scary.” You assured me with a soft smile.

He gives a short nod, jaw tense, gaze flickering around like it’s a warzone and not a softly lit doctor's office.

“You’ve done this with the others?” he finally asks, voice low.

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you start laying out the equipment. “Plenty of times. Nat. Yelena. Kate. Even Pietro, once. Didn’t get very far though. He kept trying to flirt the entire time, which was more exhausting than the actual testing.”

That earns you something—a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips like he was holding back a smile.

You catch it, then tilt your head slightly. “What about you? I hear you’re always very enthusiastic about checkups.” His eyes flicker to yours, then away again. “Don’t really see the point in ‘em.”

“Because of the serum?” you ask gently, pulling plastic gloves on your hands as you move closer to where he’s sitting. He nods. “Doesn’t feel fair. People out there losin’ their lives, and I’m in here gettin’ my blood pressure taken.”

You pause for a moment, taking in what he’s saying. There’s no judgement in your voice but something gentler. Quieter.

“Healing faster doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you.

Before he could respond—if he was even going to—you clasp your hands together with a smile “Alright, well let me get started.” turning once again to grab your things. You’re pretty sure you catch him watching you, but you try to ignore it.

“You mind taking your jacket off for me?” You ask. Bucky pauses for a beat—almost forgetting where he is. Its a fucking checkup he tells himself.

As he sets his jacket to the side, you pull up a swivel chair to his right.

“Just gonna start off by taking your blood pressure,” you hum while pulling out the blood pressure cuff. The cuff crinkles under your touch as you unwrap it, your fingers skimming the firm muscle of his arm. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his biceps tense under your palm.

"Are you doing alright?” you ask gently, brows furrowing with concern. You always try to keep things professional, but your gaze lingers for a little too long. The short stubble on his jaw. The dimple on his chin. And his annoyingly long lashes.

You’ve done this procedure a hundred times, but for some reason, wrapping the cuff around his arm makes your pulse tick just a little faster. That, and the way you’re forced to look up at him because of your height difference isn’t making this any easier on you.

He nods, but his body language says otherwise. Shoulders tense, breathing is off. You don’t think much of it.

“Relax your arm for me.” you murmur.

He exhales. For a second his eyes flicker to your face—and linger. He can’t help but watch as you care for him with such precision.

You glance up at him just in time to catch it. “What? Do I have something on my face?” You smile.

“Nothing,” He mutters, too quickly, eyes darting to the wall.

You shuffle in your chair as you start to unwrap the cuff from his arm, “Y’know, It’s okay if you’ve got a little hospital anxiety. It’s normal.” You assure him.

He lets out a chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, something like that.”

You walk over to your station and scribble down some notes on your clipboard, the soft scratch of the pen being the only sound in the room. You toss your gloves in the trash can beside your desk and glance over your shoulder.

“Alright,” you murmur, pulling your stethoscope from where it hangs on a nearby hook “Heart rate next.”

As you walk towards him, Bucky finds himself watching you with curiosity. How were you not scared of him? In the few checkups that he went to with his last Doctor, comments would constantly fly out of her mouth. Regarding his past. Regarding The Winter Soldier. Although they were meant to be light-hearted jokes, something about “Hope this doesn’t trigger any…programming” stung the wrong way.

But there was something quiet about you. Comforting, like a gentle breeze, that made him feel safer than he cares to admit. Quiet in a way that made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. A quiet that he didn’t think that he deserved.

You step closer, tugging the stethoscopes ear plugs in and gently placing the diagram against his chest.

“Deep breath,” you say softly

He obeys. Chest rising under your palm—broad and steady. You notice how close you two are. You can literally feel the heat radiating from him. Like he’s a damn furnace. But it’s completely professional. Just like all your clinics are.

So why do you feel your face warming?

You clear your throat and try to regain your composure. Focusing on the rhythm under the stethoscope. But it’s not helping that his heartbeat picked up the moment you touched him. You stare at the heart monitor, not because you needed to, but because you’re sure if you looked at Bucky he’d see how flustered you are.

You pull back slightly, raising a brow. “Hm. A little fast.”

He clears his throat. “Serum. Makes everything run a little..high.”

“Sure,” you say scribbling on your chart without looking up. In a split second you think back to Natashas comment. That he gets nervous around pretty women. That couldn’t be the case, could it? It’s Bucky Barnes. It’s you.

“Definitely not because you get nervous around needles.” You joke.

You get an eye roll and a smile in response. A real smile at that. Simple as it is, it makes your heart flutter. Progress.

The rest of the clinic goes by smoothly. You kept your composure. Kept your hands steady. Unable to ignore the way his gaze lingered. The way his muscles tensed at your touch without fail.

Aside from the brief awkward silences—usually followed by even more awkward banter—everything about him checked out. Healthy, and normal…as normal as a super soldier gets, at least.

The next few weeks passed in a strange kind of limbo. You’d have your clinics, and of course, over time he slowly warmed up to you.

You actually started to look forward to seeing him around— Whether when he was training in the gym with Steve, Going on runs with Sam, laughing at something Thor told him. But the difference between Bucky and them was, he’s always present.

He wasn’t like that with you.

Yes, he would talk to you. Conversations about his childhood and Brooklyn, or about how you ended up here. There’d even been a time where he offered to walk you back to your room because it was “dark”. And you swear, he almost looked disappointed when you said no.

But it was the quiet moments you’d cherish most. During meetings when your hands would be shaking under the table. All he’d do is gently tap your hand. Or rub his thumb across yours. Small. Enough to ground you. Like he was always watching even when you didn’t expect it.

But then the next day, he goes back to ignoring you. Brushing past you in the hallway like he’s never met you. No nod, no eye contact, nothing.

It’s enough to make you question everything—had the tension and lingering glances been in your head? Had his heart beat really just picked up because he was afraid of needles?

Because he would always go back to his routine of ignoring you. And it's starting to get under your skin—even if you aren’t exactly sure why.

You told yourself to just focus on your work. He’s a coworker. A patient. You’re a professional. One person not liking you shouldn’t send you into a spiral.

So you convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you imagined it all. The touches. The coffees. The looks.

Maybe he’s just polite. Or extremely awkward. Maybe both?

Either way, you told yourself to just let it go. You’re not some girl projecting her fantasies onto someone who doesn’t even see her.

And then Tony announced the party.

Not like it was unusual, for Tony. He’d always come up with some excuse to throw a late night rager. Whether it be for a fundraiser, or a ‘celebration’ of some sort, Tony found a way to party.

Something about “Pepper is leaving us unsupervised for the weekend,” was his reasoning this time around. Whatever it was, it was all anyone could talk about— who was coming, who’d get the most wasted, and what songs should be played at karaoke.

You hadn’t planned on going. Hell, you didn’t even want to go. But Natasha gave you that look. The look that meant she wouldn’t stop until you gave in. After a solid 20 minutes of bargaining, you caved.

So here you are, getting ready in her bathroom. Slipping on a skin tight off the shoulder white dress that hangs dangerously low on your cleavage. Your hair is finally out of your usual messy bun and in neat curls. You open the bathroom door, greeted by Natasha leaning against the wall with her keys dangling lazily on her fingers. She freezes when she sees you.

“Oh my God,” Her eyes widen and whips her hand over her chest dramatically. “If looks could kill…” She whispers while shaking her head. Natasha looks nothing short of stunning herself—her short red hair falling into voluminous curls and her figure emphasized by her black dress.

She lets out a hushed giggle under her breath. “Y’know….”

“He’s gonna be there tonight.”

You don’t even need to ask who ‘he’ is.

Ever since your first appointment with Bucky she has nothing but teased you for it. She’s convinced he’s got some little crush on you.

Sure, he shows up to every appointment; Most of the time early. And sure he’s gotten in the habit of making your coffee when you have to stay up late in the clinic —the way you like it, with extra creamer— though he’s never mentioned it.

Just leaves it at your desk without a word. He probably doesn’t even know that you know it’s him.

Okay, fine. Maybe you’ve come to like the idea. Maybe you’re dressing up in hopes he’ll see you. And maybe—just maybe— you’ve gotten used to the flutter in your chest whenever you do see him.

Even with all the mixed signals, some part of you wants to believe there's something there. But you can’t help hoping it’s not nothing.

You playfully roll your eyes and scoff. “Oh would you shut up,” you laugh. “I never teased you about Steve this much.”

“Because you’re too nice.” Nat quipped. “And please— you totally like him. I see the way you stare.”

You scoff in mock annoyance. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want him to see me tonight.” You say it like a joke, but part of you isn’t kidding.

Natasha shrugs with a sly smile like she’s been waiting for this confession. “Mhmm. No judgement, but— I told you soo.” She sings.

When you arrive, the party is surprisingly classy. Supposedly Tony wanted to up his act from the last party he threw—that ended up with Thor drunkenly dancing on a table as everyone harmoniously chanted for him to ‘Take another shot’.

The floor to ceiling windows give a perfect view of the star flooded night sky adds to the calming atmosphere. The lighting is warm, and the air smells of expensive fragrances mingled with whiskey.

As you and nat are weaving your way through the crowd, you’re about to suggest getting drinks–and that’s when you hear it. A burst of laughter from the far side of the room- familiar.

You turn your head instinctively, eyes scanning the room. You weren’t even looking for him– not really. But there he is.

He throws his head back as he laughs and the corner of his eyes wrinkle– for a second, it seems as if everything moves in slow motion. His chest heaves up and down as he laughs. His brunette hair is neatly pushed back.

Stubble on his jaw so cleanly cut you can almost smell the after shave from across the room. Black suit sharp in all the right places, like it was custom made to steal your attention.

Everything about him seems to fall perfectly in place. So much so, you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if the universe is messing with you. But it’s like there's a spotlight on him in the middle of the room and you’re the only one that seems to notice.

You shake your head to snap yourself out of your trance as your eyes drift to the rest of the crowd. It’s very clear who came with who. Clusters of groups stand throughout the room, couples usually locked arm in arm. Thor stands with Jane, Wanda with Vision, Scott with Hope, Clint with Laura. And of course, Nat is soon to make her way to Steve.

And the fact it's clear who came with who makes your freeze for a moment.

Because when you see Bucky– you see a girl next to him.

And fuck is she beautiful.

“Who the hell is that?” Natasha muttered under her breath in pure shock. You shake your head slowly, “No fucking clue.”

That’s what you get for allowing Nat to feed into your delusions.

It’s nothing, right? Not like you two were ever anything.

Just coworkers.

Your eyes flicker to his and you offer a weak smile and an even weaker wave before getting your arm pulled by Natasha. “Let’s go get drinks.” She insists.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Nat drags you to the bar. She orders drinks for the two of you, and you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment.

“It has to be a friend,” Natasha shakes her head while sipping on her drink. Part comforting you, and part trying to convince herself. “There's just no way! The signs are there.”

“The signs are there and they’re pretty and girlfriend shaped, Natasha.” You throw her a look, pressing your lips in a tight line. “It’s okay really. I didn’t really think anything would happen.” you muttered. But why does he look at you the way he does?

Natasha frowns. She can’t help but feel guilty for playing into the idea, but she still hasn’t lost hope. “C’mon. Let’s go dance.” She places a hand on your shoulder.

You tilt your head in thought, trying to find the courage to go. But your heart feels like it’d been wrenched for all it’s worth. You close your eyes and shake your head, “You go. I’ll catch up with you later. Go see Steve.” Just as she’s about to argue back you place a silencing finger to her lips “Go. I promise I’m fine, Nat.” You force a smile.

“Okay, but you better come out there.” She points a finger at you and raises her eyebrows.

It’s been about two hours. You’ve been sipping on different wines. Mostly people watching. Mostly, Bucky watching. Natasha had tried to pull you but you weren’t in the mood. Bucky having a girlfriend hit you harder than you’d like to admit.

“Bucky’s been asking about you, y’know.” A familiar voice mutters behind a beer bottle. You glance to your right, and there he is. Steve Rogers. “Nat’s in the bathroom.”

You nod. “Yeah? He can ask me himself next time.” You mutter. You didn’t mean to come off so bitter, you’re just exhausted. Exhausted from the mixed signals. Exhausted from trying to decode everything.

“Sorry,” You drop your head and sigh. “Just tired.”

Steve pats a reassuring hand on your back. And then, Natasha reappears.

“Okay. It’s time for you to get up. Take another shot and cmon girl.” She demands. Hands on her hips and eyes glaring at you like you’ve personally offended her. Then, you know there’s no fighting this one.

“Fine,” You whine. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out there.”

As Natasha and Steve walk off hand in hand, you look across the bar and catch Bucky’s eyes staring again. Like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He’s talking to his girlfriend, and Tony. You lock eyes for a little too long, and that was the last straw.

You need to get your mind off of him.

The party has picked up. The lights are no longer warm, but rather cool and dim. The soft jazz is replaced by a thudding baseline just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Exactly what you need.

You weave your way through the electric crowd, meeting Nat, Steve, and Wanda. Thankfully Bucky is nowhere to be seen. As much as you want to bombard Steve with questions about Bucky’s mystery girlfriend, you don’t want to kill the mood.

You move to the beat, letting it pull you under. Your heart stuck somewhere between devastated and defiant. Someone takes your hand and twirls you around. You laugh; sharp and hollow. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like someone trying too hard to be okay.

You catch a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye and your chest tightens. Need to get away, you think to yourself.

“I’m gonna go grab another drink Nat!”

You barley hear her shout back.

You turn, and then—

Cold.

A shock of cold across your front, soaking through the fabric and skin. You look down. Deep blooms of red spread across your dress. Red puddles at your feet.

Red wine. Everywhere.

You look up to see the woman holding the now empty wine glass. Clearly pissed off and even more clearly drunk. “Watch where the fuck you’re walking!” She slurs loudly and throws her arms up.

Heads turn towards the two of you and the once loud booming music dims. You look for Natasha in the crowd but can’t see her.

You’re too drained to fight back. Voice cracking as you speak, feeling the oh so familiar sting at your eyes. Tears pooling before you can fully process it. You can’t do this tonight. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t fuckin’ sorry me,” She crosses her arms. “Maybe if you weren’t busy eye-fucking Barnes all night you’d be able to see where you’re walking.” She rolls her eyes with a scoff.

There's a shift in the crowd to your left. A familiar weight. You don’t even need to look to know that it’s him. And when your eyes finally find his—half shielded by the crowd— it’s like the world shifts.

He saw.

He heard.

Of fucking course he did.

You don’t wait another second to see his face. Or Nats. Or anyone's. You push past the woman, past the crowd, past Bucky’s girlfriend because all you can think about is getting away. Even when the crowd is behind you—it’s not far enough.

Your ears are ringing, heart is thudding in your chest and you start to taste blood from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not even sure how you get back to your room. Just that your heels are loud in the long hallway, echoing every footstep reminding you once again of how small you are there. Before you know it, you’re back in your room slamming the door shut behind you. Skin is sticky, sweaty, and your hands won’t stop shaking.

The door clicks somewhere behind you. You don’t care enough to lock it. You don’t even think about it. You just drop your shoes, your pride, and your head into your hands.

Your elbows stick to the cold kitchen island counter. Wine and hair still clinging to your skin, causing your dress to stick to you in all the wrong places. You don’t cry. You don’t move. You just sit there. Breathing. Replaying the last 10 minutes in your head.

You hear a light knock on the door before it opens fast. You don’t turn, alreading knowing who it is. His heavy footsteps. A held breath. And a pause long enough to feel like a lifetime.

“Hey—” his voice is breathless. Concerned. “Are you okay?”

You don't look up. You shake your head, hands covering your face like you’re holding yourself together. Not daring to make eye contact with him—like it’ll make the situation settle into reality.

He moves slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off. His hands hover near your face for a moment—hesitant— before he tucks your hair behind your ear revealing your flushed cheeks. The wine dripping from your dress to the floor being the only noise in the room.

“Jesus,” He mutters under his breath. He runs a hand down his face and disappears down the hallway. Then he’s back, draping a towel over your shoulders. “You’re soaked.” he sighs.

You flinch as he touches you—not away, but like his touch startled something loose. You shake your head and let out a breath that's half-sob and half-laugh. “I really can’t fucking tell if you like me or hate me, Bucky.”

And for the first time since he entered, you look up at him. You probably look like a fucking mess. You probably sound like a mess. But you don’t care. Not right now. Not when heart strings have been pulled in every direction by something that might not even be there.

He just stands there stunned for a beat. Mouth agape like he’s trying to find the right words to say. You inwardly sigh, knowing that the whole situationship was more than likely– in your head. 

“You’re just giving me all these mixed signals.” You rub your eyes, like you can’t believe you have to explain this. “One day, we’re best friends. Next, you ignore me. You make my coffees. Steve swears it isn’t you but he’s a terrible fucking liar!” You exclaim with a huff, nails digging into your palms.

“And then,” You take a deep breath, “Steve tells me you’re asking about me?! After ignoring me? And- and then I see you at the party with a whole girlfriend? Like—like it’s nothing. Like you don’t look at me the way you do. Like you didn’t….”

You trail off and shake your head with a bitter laugh.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was all in my head.” You let out a trembling sigh. “Just forget it.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

Oh.

Oh.

You let out a breathy laugh. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe. Warmth creeps up to your cheeks and you don’t try to stop it, because— what? You’ve spent the entire night spiraling over a girlfriend—that wasn’t actually his girlfriend. The light seems brighter now, putting a spotlight on your embarrassment.

He licks his lips. Searching for the right words to explain. Like he’s scared this might be the last chance you’ll let him explain.

“She’s an old friend,” He starts slowly, “She asked to come to network. That’s why I was havin’ her talk to Tony.”

Oh.

“Okay,” you start, eyes darting to the floor. “But was everything else in my head?”

You lift your gaze hesitantly—afraid of what you’ll find in his. Taking in every detail just like your first real encounter at the clinic. The dimple on his chin. The stubble on his jaw. The blue eyes that you’d search for in every hallway, every meeting, and every day.

“You didn’t feel it either?” Something twists in your chest, audible through your voice.

Bucky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet breath, jagged and sharp around the edges.

“I didn’t mean to-” He stammered, shaking his head “I did.” He managed to get out.

The words make the air thicken, landing in between the both of you. Making your chest feel heavier with every breath you take.

“I did.” He repeats. I just didn’t know how to…show it.” He’s looking down now. Jaw clenched, his index finger rhythmically tapped against the side of his leg—an anxious tendency he couldn’t force himself out of even if he tried.

“I thought you were just doin’ your job.Just being kind, ‘cause that's what you do. Just being nice to me. Smiling even when I don’t say much.”

His eyebrows furrow like the memory hurts.

“ ‘nd I didn’t think I deserved that.”

His voice is deeper. Something more, something raw. Gaze flickering to yours.

You push yourself off of the chair, it softly scraping the floor. Red wine still dripping off the seat, slow and steady. Each step marked by the hollow click of your heels.

Your hands rise before you even realize it, cupping each side of his face. Feeling the stubble tickle the center of your palms. His breath stutters, and he freezes—afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment.

And before you know it, you’re kissing him.

And he’s kissing you back.

His hands falter, before they hesitantly find your waist—pulling you closer. The kiss starts slow, and uncertain but feels like he’s been holding this in for far too long. Like a breath he thought he’d never be able to take. It’s not perfect. It’s messy. Your hearts are beating far too fast, but it’s real. It was never in your head. It was real.

When you finally pull back, your noses brush and for a beat—neither of you say anything. You’re both smiling. Like idiots. Like the weight from the past few weeks have lifted off your shoulders and drifted into the air surrounding you.

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound. You envisioned something quieter–simpler. It’s not the coastal hospital life you thought you’d have—But this isn’t so bad. You still don’t really have your shit together, but you’re getting there.

“Would you quit it!” Laughter fills the air as you try to push Bucky off of you. All you need to do is take his damn blood pressure, but it’s kind of hard when he keeps repeatedly pressing kisses on your head.

“Nope,” He places a kiss on your cheek as you struggle to wrap the cuff around his arm. “Not when you look so cute in those scrubs.”

The room smells like your favorite creamer filled coffee. He brings it every morning now—and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Doesn’t need to. Natasha swears she called it from day one. And still—after everything,— teases you like no other.

You’re not one of those girls on tiktok, with cute matching scrubs. Or a cute stanley. Or a simplistic life.

But you’ve got someone who brings you coffee every morning. Stays up with you every night in the lab.

Keeps an extra hoodie in his room for you.

Buys your favorite flowers for you, so you always have a fresh bouquet.

Watches countless Gossip Girl reruns with you—even if he insists they’re all over dramatic.

Some nights he doesn’t say anything—just rests your head on his chest, until the world quiets down.

And maybe that’s better.

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱ 

[solixiaa]

Thunderbolts* one shot // The Ramen Incident

Thank you to @reynoldsbobs for inspiration! This fic wouldn’t exist without their awesome headcanons on TikTok lol so thanks! Super swaggy anyways hope everyone enjoys! Xx

"First, we're going to boil two cups of water. Simple, right? Just like they taught us in college!"

Bob fills a small pot with tap water and sets it on the stove, turning the heat on high. "Never made it to college. But that's okay," he mutters quietly to the empty kitchen.

The team has been out on a mission since late morning, and it's almost sundown. It's been quiet—no Yelena singing the latest pop song in Russian (off key, of course), no Walker doing those intense stair workouts with dramatic grunting, and no Ava checking if there's any gluten free snacks. Just Bob and his thoughts.

He adjusts his hoodie sleeves and breathes in deep. He is going to cook dinner—something real. Something normal.

Ramen.

"Okay," he mutters, pressing play on the video once more. "I can do this." Bob stares at the pot with about two inches of water in it, unsure if he's added too much or too little. "Can't mess up water," he says under his breath—then winces, afraid of jinxing it.

"While we wait, let's get started on those onions!"

"Oh, right," he says under his breath, pulling out a cutting board from the drawer. He starts slicing carefully, like the onion might explode. A ring shoots off the board and lands on the floor. Bob stares at it for a moment. "You're free now. Go live your life."

The water starts boiling behind him, and he scrambles to finish his work at the cutting board. "Okay, okay, waters boiling. Next..."

He leans over to check his phone screen. The lady in the video confidently cracks an egg into the pot. Bob blinks. "Already? I just got the onions—" He pauses the video. "No, I can do this. One egg. In. And..."

He cracks an egg over the pot. Crack. He stares in subtle disappointment. Tiny bits of egg shell float like confetti.

"Extra protein," he mutters. "That's fine. It's fine. We're fine."

Bob places the noodles in next. However, he drops the whole block in without breaking it up first, so it floats like a sponge. He begins to stir, but accidentally flicks boiling broth across the stovetop.

"Hot! That's—hot," he frowns, shaking his hand in an attempt to cool the burn. He grabs a dish towel and tries to mop it up, nearly knocking over his phone in the process. The ramen hisses aggressively behind him.

Bob flinches back, holding the ladle like a weapon, dish towel flung over his shoulder. Something is definitely not right. The smell isn't bad, exactly—kind of eggy, kind of burnt. Definitely not what the lady in the youtube video promised.

"Okay," Bob breathes. "Okay, that's... fine. It's still edible." Then—

POP!

He looks down just in time to see the pot bubble over. Boiling water spills onto the red hot burner, hissing and snapping like it's laughing at him.

"No, no—no, no, no," he stammers, reaching to turn the heat down. He yanks the dial, snatches the towel and tries to mop it up. The corner of the towel brushes the burner for half a second too long—

Smoke curls up into the air. Just a little, but it's enough. Bob's whole body locks up. His heart stutters and his vision goes narrow. He can hear his dad's voice, like a ghost: You can't do anything right, not even make dinner. What good are you? His breath stumbles. He drops the towel, backs away.

"Just put it out. Clean it up," he mumbles. But his hands are shaking. He grabs the pot too fast—sloppy, rushed—

It slips.

CRASH!

The ramen explodes across the kitchen floor in a wave of broth, noodles and green onions. The pot bounces and rolls. Some of it splashes against the tiles, some hits the cabinets. The silence afterwards is loud. Deafening.

Bob stares at the mess, frozen. Then slowly, he turns off the burner, clicks off his phone, and walks out of the kitchen without a word.

Some time later, Bob sits with his back to the bed, knees pulled up, sleeves tugged over his hands. The smell of smoke still clings to his skin, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees broth splashing, hears the pot hit the floor, and feels that old tightness in his chest like he's ten years old again, bracing for shouting.

He hears the elevator ding down the hall. Someone's low whistle and Walker's "What the hell happened in here?" He curls in a little tighter. He doesn't think they'll lash out at him. But his brain doesn't always make space for kindness.

Someone knocks at the door. Bob doesn't answer. Still, the door creaks open, hinges whining, and that familiar heavy step crosses the threshold. Alexei.

"Bob?" Alexei's voice is low and careful. Not cautious like he's scared—cautious like he doesn't want to spook him. Bob keeps his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. "M' sorry about the mess."

There's a pause. Then, "Is not so bad. Ava says noodles burned in shape of dragon. Very impressive." A shaky sound slips from Bob's throat. A laugh, maybe? It stirs up something else inside him.

The bed shifts under Alexei's weight as he sits. He doesn't fill the silence with noise. Just sits. Steady, like a lighthouse. Then he says, "You scared us."

Bob shakes his head, vision still fuzzy. "I didn't mean to. I just... I mess everything up. It's what I do."

Alexei makes a soft sound—almost a sigh. But not disappointed. More like he's heard this before. From someone else. Maybe from himself.

"You cooked," he says simply. "Your light was getting dim, but you tried. That is not mess. That is bravery."

The door creaks again behind them. "Is he okay?" Yelena's voice, hushed and uncharacteristically gentle. Bob doesn't move. He expects them to come in and see what a wreck he is. To think he's fragile—broken. But they don't look at him like that.

"Come," Alexei says, and there's no command in it—just invitation. Yelena steps in first, crouching in front of him. She tilts her head, studying him like he's a painting she wants to understand.

"I can't believe you tried to cook dinner without me," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Bob huffs a laugh, surprised at the burn behind his eyes. He rubs at them quickly. She doesn't call him out for it. "We're keeping the dragon," she adds, grinning.

Ava appears next in the doorway, arms crossed, posture cool—but her gaze is warm. "For what it's worth, I once lit a pot of oatmeal on fire. Still not entirely sure how."

"Yeah," Walker pipes up behind her. "And I once exploded protein muffins in the microwave. You're not the only kitchen destroyer here."

One by one, they come in. Close, but not crowding. Bob's heart doesn't race this time. His hands still, even as he runs his fingers through his tousled hair like muscle memory.

They don't pity him, and they don't laugh—at least not at him. They're just there. It's still weird to get used to. But not bad.

Alexei claps him on the shoulder—solid and grounding. "Next time, we all cook. Together. One big Thunderbolts cooking show!" Bob swallows, then nods.

His dad would've torn the kitchen apart. Would've thrown the pot—maybe thrown him. But these guys? They're talking about dragons made of noodles and team dinners like it's a sitcom. And somehow, Bob believes them.

"Yeah," he says, voice quiet. "Okay."

And in the company of this odd team—this family —the word okay slowly doesn't feel like lying anymore.

[solixiaa]

ʚ library ɞ ‧₊˚

note ﹕ don't have much posted right now obvi but have lot's in the works so #staytuned (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

last updated ➤ 7 ･ 10 ･ 25

⊹ ࣪ ˖ one shots

ꨄ︎ take my hand and drive﹕bucky barnes x reader ( modern au )

You’re running away from everything, and he’s the last person you expected to want to come with you. But when the night turns soft, and the gas station lights flicker, you realize maybe leaving isn’t the end—it’s a new beginning.

wc :: 2.2k

ꨄ Its Nothing, Right? ﹕bucky barnes x reader ( canon-divergent au )

You never expected to end up working at the Avengers compound—especially not as Bucky's medical lead after his last quit. Awkward encounters turn into something more...at least you think. Between mixed signals, late night conversations, and lingering glances, you begin to wonder if it's all in your head or if he feels it too.

wc :: 5.9k

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱

[solixiaa]

Take My Hand and Drive ⊹ ࣪ ˖

 pairing : bucky barnes x reader ( modern au )

summary : You’re running away from everything, and he’s the last person you expected to want to come with you. But when the night turns soft, and the gas station lights flicker, you realize maybe leaving isn’t the end—it’s a new beginning.

word count : 2.2k

 warnings : enemies to lovers, slight angst, language, smoking/drug usage, mentions of depression/emotional burnout, running away, family / dad issues

authors note : this is probably super shitty !! This is my first finished one-shot and I write for fun + to cope so i apologize for the cringe / bad writing

recommended listening : Playground love - Air, Gordon tracks

❝I'm a highschool lover, and you're my favorite flavor❞ ♡

“Well you can go fuck yourself then.”

You slam the door behind you with a hiss, almost certain the thing was going to fly off of its worn down hinges. Storming out of your house after another argument with your dad regarding your future. About how you're supposed to stay in this sorry excuse for a town, live the way he wants, and follow the path he's set.

Ultimatums are thrown at you constantly. Either stay and live his way, or leave and never even think about coming back.

You're old enough to walk away, but not old enough to make him understand.

It’s currently 2 in the morning. A loose faded graphic tee-shirt of one of your favorite bands, Nirvana, does little to shield you from the frigid nighttime air. The heel bite on your pajama pants only worsens as they drag against the pavement, getting wetter with every step from the puddles lining the cracked sidewalk.

Somewhere behind you, a dog barks. Somewhere ahead, a street lamp buzzes loud and lazy. Blinking in and out like it can’t be bothered to stay alive. A little too similar to you. The air smells like old fryer grease from the McDonald's 2 blocks down.

Despite the chaos in your head, your feet know exactly where to go. Every alley, every shortcut, every spot you used to sneak off to. That familiarity burns. That’s what pisses you off the most—that you know this town so well it’s sewn into your bones.

You walk past the old corner store that was your friend group's designated hangout spot. The ice cream parlor that smelt like pure freezer burn. And of course, your elementary school. The lights are still on like it’s waiting for someone to come back.

It all taunts you. Like the place itself is watching you. Like it wants you to stay stuck. And you don’t know how much more you can handle.

The neon light radiating from the gas station sign above pulls you out of your spiraling. The light makes a high-pitched buzzing noise. It has for the past 6 years. It’s oddly comforting.

That’s when you spot him. Leaned against the wall on the side of the station, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Stands of his brunette hair messily falling in front of his eyes, jaw sharp under the pale glow of the moonlight.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

Of fucking course he’s here. Now. When you’re barely holding it together. You tell yourself you’re just going to walk past him. But it’s a bit hard to just ignore his presence when the air itself begins to feel as if its tightening around you.

The two of you haven’t exchanged anything—not even insults—since junior year. It was never serious, but they always found a way to stick.

Maybe it started with the teasing. At first, it truly was playful—quick jabs in the hallway, side comments in class, stupid nicknames.

And maybe—maybe—you had a little thing for him back then. Although, it wasn’t that little. It wasn’t just his stupid smirk or the way he carried himself like he didn’t care if anyone liked him. It was the way he actually listened when you spoke. The way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

How he'd remember the small things about you. What book you were reading. Your favorite songs.

And how even when exchanging insults, it still felt like he was seeing you. Not the emotionally guarded sarcastic version of you that you gave everyone else, but the part of you that was slowly unraveling for him.

You hate to admit it now, but he really was your best friend.

But then something shifted.

The comments got a little more pointed. A little too specific. Like he knew exactly where to aim. But so did you. Although neither of you would flinch, you both always walked away feeling a little more hollow than you’d like to admit.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a joke. And neither of you had the guts to ask why.

That was years ago now—what feels like a lifetimes ago, if you’re being honest. You’re both nineteen, maybe twenty. Old enough to know better. Old enough to let shit go. But somehow, he’s still there. Still in the back of your head. Still showing up in your worst dreams and best daydreams.

You don’t know why the memory of him never faded like everything else from that time. Maybe it’s because nothing ever really ended. You just… stopped talking. Like someone pulled the plug mid-conversation.

So now, you’re dealing with the consequences of stupid teenage you. Having to awkwardly walk past the boy you had a bit of a rivalry with.

You consider turning around. Going back home, even running across the street. But there’s not much around the gas station. And you’re not about to let him have yet another thing to tease you for.

Your steps are slower as you approach him. You planned on going inside the store, grabbing a coke, a couple bags of candy, anything but have a conversation with him.

Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice you. Not turning his head, but just glaring at you from the side, cigarette between his fingers.

“Are you cosplaying Dracula or what?” He tilts his head towards you, blue eyes staring deep into yours—eyes that still have black mascara streaked down from the hours you spent crying.

His voice was calm. Bored, even. But it held something else buried under it.

Maybe even concern.

You stop walking, and turn to face him. Arms still folded tightly across your chest like it was a warning to him. You bite your bottom lip and shake your head. Not because it’s funny—because you don’t have the energy to do this. Not tonight.

Because as much as you want to be able to shove it all down and throw something clever back like you'd always do, there’s that sting behind your eyes again.

Tears are already threatening to spill.

An insult sits at the tip of your tongue—sharp and ready.

Just as you part your lips, maybe to say something mean, maybe to cry—you aren’t sure anymore—he lazily waves his hand towards you, palm up.

A cigarette.

No words. No partionizing smirk. Just a cigarette in his right palm, and a lighter flickering in the other, casting soft gold light over the lines of his face.

You blink, letting out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. Taking it without saying anything, fingers brushing against his. You hate how warm his hand is. You hate how calm he is while your world is falling apart. God, you hate him.

He pushes himself off of his leaning position on the wall with a quiet exhale, and for a brief moment you think he might walk away. It shouldn’t matter. And it’s infuriating that just the thought of him leaving makes a lump form in your throat.

Instead, he drops and takes a seat on the curb. And without looking at you, he pats the spot next to him.

You sit, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, but far enough to pretend you don't want more. He brings the lighter to the tip of your cigarette, lighting it. The gravel of the curb underneath thighs makes you shift uncomfortably as you take another slow drag, hoping it’ll ease your nerves.

The silence stretches for a moment. Both of you too scared to break it. Then you realize, what more is there for you to lose at this stage in your life anyways? You aren’t planning on staying at this gas station, or in this town for that matter.

“Why’re you being nice to me?” You murmur, eyes on the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Thought you hated me.”

He takes a slow drag, exhaling like it hurts him.

"I never hated you.” He says, voice quiet. “I was just young….and stupid.”

You let out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh while looking down at the pavement. “Yeah. We were both assholes, hm.” you hum, watching the neon gas sign flicker out one letter at a time.

He almost smiles. His expression softens under the faint golden glow of the lamppost. Although the air is cold and smells of cigarette smoke and cherry slushies, you feel warmer. Almost at ease, even.

He rubs the bud of the cigarette on the concrete and smushes it with his shoe, letting out a deep sigh before turning to you. “I am sorry though,” He shakes his head and looks away. His jaw ticks, and brows furrow. “Like I said. I was young. Stupid. And thought being mean would make my little crush on you go away.” His soft blue eyes look into yours with sincerity.

Your heart skips a beat. Bucky had a crush on you? You blink, turning away for a moment to hide the warmth creeping up to your cheeks. Thankfully, the cold weather plays for a perfect disguise.

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, contemplating your next question. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Did it work?” You manage to muster, voice coming out like a whisper carried by the wind.

He shakes his head without hesitation. “Not at all.”

You breathe out a small, almost bitter laugh. “Me neither.”

Neither of you speaks for a moment. You sit there, shoulder to shoulder, the silence stretching wide and thin but not uncomfortable. Both of you taking in the weight of the indirect confession. Because all this time it was never hate. It was confusion. It was love, in its own weird way.

You barely register the dogs barking in the back, their sharp yips lost in the quiet rhythm of the night. Or the way the air is tinged with salt and dampness, a reminder of how close the ocean is– even if you can't see it.

Then, you break the short comfortable silence. “I was gonna leave tonight.” You say matter-of-factly.

He turns his head slowly to you, a bit confused. “Leave?”

You nod. “Just wanted to go on one last walk. Already have my stuff packed at home.” You sigh, “Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t think it’d matter.”

You expect judgement, a stare like you’re stupid, questions, shock. Something. But all he does is nod once. His jaw tense.

“You still going?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Then almost cautiously, “Let me come with you.”

You blink, and turn your head. You think the smoke and lack of sleep may be getting to the both of you. Maybe you’re imagining it. He’s joking. Or bluffing. But when you look at him, he’s not smiling. He’s not laughing. His eyes are steady and he’s the calmest he’s been the entire night.

You shake your head slowly, disbelief bleeding into your voice “You don’t even know where i’m going.”

“I don’t care,” He replies like it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made, “I don’t want you going alone.”

He pauses. Then softer, almost like he’s admitting it to himself more than you. “And I don’t want to stay here without you.”

You don't think.

You just lean in.

He’s still halfway caught in his own words when your lips brush his, and you feel him freeze—not pulling away, just startled, like he hadn’t let himself imagine this part. But then, just as you start to pull back, his hand comes up to your jaw, tentative and warm, holding you there.

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and the kiss deepens. Not rushed. Not messy. Just tired and aching and quiet. Like something that’s been waiting a long time to be said.

When you pull away, your foreheads stay close. Eyes closed. Breathing each other and the moment in. There’s no need to say anything. No need to explain or apologize or ask what this means. You both already know.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Come on,” he says gently. “My cars parked across the street.”

You nod, and you both stand slowly. Like the weight of the night, the words, the confession has settled into your bones. He reaches for your hand, fingers brushing yours. You let him take it.

The walk to his car is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. Taking in the essence of the town one last time. Streetlamps buzzing overhead and your shoes scuff against the pavement as you move side by side.

His car sits crooked under the neon lights, paint dulled and tires dusty like it was waiting for this exact moment just as long as the two of you have. He unlocks the door, and opens it for you.

“You sure?” He asks, one last time.

You nod once. “Yeah. Never been more sure.”

You both climb in, and the engine turns on with a low groan. Headlights slicing through the dark as the car rolls. Past the empty sidewalks, past the corners, the pieces of your old lives still clinging to the town behind you.

You let out a sigh, holding his hand, watching the buildings begin to blur as the car speeds up.

Not because you’re tired.

But because for the first time in years, you feel at home. 

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱ 

[solixiaa]

━━━꒰about me ꨄ︎꒱

hii im xia (zee-uh) ! I'm 16, a gemini, infp-t . super duper chronically online ^_^ ㅤㅤㅤ⤷ your conductor of cozy heartbreak

I'm reentering my fanfic obsession (specifically marvel) ! I love love love long fanfics, my favorite is "little wing" by dyspneagrime :3

━━━I change my profile theme, A LOT. but never plan on changing my user.

━꒰likes ꨄ︎꒱

₊˚♪ : fleetwood mac, fiona apple, lana, tyler the creator, smashing pumpkins, jeff buckley, pierro piccioni, and just all 70s + 90s music.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ : anything and all marvel (loki,moonknight,gotg,bucky ꨄ︎), invincible, soul eater, aot, kny, spvtw, thg, adventure time

━━━━ late night pinterest sessions, reading, journaling, baking.

━꒰dislikes ꨄ︎꒱

basic dni criteria ( racist, homophobic, transphobic, .etc) overly negative people. thats all i can think of atm

Thx 4 reading (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

꒰ ©solixiaa ꒱

[solixiaa]

★ ⋮ solixiaas solace ˎˊ˗

solace ⋮ comfort or consolation in a time of distress or sadness. this is a blog where I quietly exhale my thought's and ideas — maybe a fanfic or two. make yourself at home! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ˚ ₊⊹

• about me • library • ao3 • tiktok • wattpad • letterboxd•