system-to-the-madness

[system-to-the-madness]

A/N: I don't mean to hijack your post, I just wanted to add a thought, and then things happened and it turned into a fanfiction of your fanfiction. Please consider it as a compliment @marvelstoriesepic (I hope you're not mad, if you are, let me know and I'll take it down)

We need to talk about this story because holy s***. More specifically, we need to talk about the other Bucky, because I can't stop thinking about him.

He's Bucky, after all. The Bucky our Bucky thought made the first move but maybe he didn't. Maybe the alternative you did, simply took his hand one day when he brushed his fingers against hers in an attempt not to want too much.

And then things moved from there, cuddling on the sofa during movie night turned into a private continuation in her room, because she so desperately wanted to see the sequal, too, but not alone and Bucky was still trying to teach himself how to say no to her.

But instead of watching the movie, she's watching his face as she's laying with her chin propped up on his chest. And she doesn't even try to hide the way her eyes watch him blush and trying to look anywhere but her, because he still feels like he shouldn't be here, like he should have to earn her attention, but he hasn't.

It takes 90min, almost the entire length of the movie, for her to move in so close that her nose eventually brushes against his jaw, and her eyes flutter closed, and he shivers at the warm breath that teases over his skin as she asks for permission to kiss him. So really it's not that the other Bucky somehow had been braver or more worthy of your love, he had just been lucky enough that a sequal to that honestly quite stupid animation film had been produced.

But that doesn't stop the other Bucky from being painfully aware of how precious the other you is. He went through the same traumas, same grief, pain, torture, terrors and grievances after all. And his version of you is the best thing in his life. He'd do anything, anything to protect her.

So when he comes home and she's so distant to him, alarms go off. She's sitting with her head in her hand at the kitchen counter over a plate of freshly cooked food that had gone cold by now. She doesn't jump up, doesn't wrap her arms around him, doesn't kiss him, only looks up and it seems like she's about to cry.

It takes almost an hour until the other Bucky figured out what had happened, but he knows that it wasn't him, who turned down her offer for food, who stiffened up at her kiss. And it ignites a previously unfamiliar rage in him. Not that she kissed someone she thought was him, no. She's not at fault here, she was deceived by someone who pretended to be him.

Had she been in danger?

The thought send him almost into a panic attack and Bucky isn't entirely sure if it is out of concern for her safety, or his own because he doesn't know what he would do, what he would turn into, if something happened to her.

He knows she can take care of herself, knows she can fight, can take down enemies twice his size, but he doesn't want her to have to, doesn't want her do be in danger.

After they figured out about the intruder, and Tony is informed, the Compound is searched, even though it doesn't seem like anything is out of place.

Dr. Strange offers the thought, that it just might have been a parallel version of Bucky, who accidentally slipped between worlds, and the other Bucky can't help the childish burst of jealousy that another Bucky stole a kiss from his girl. Didn't that guy have his own version of you to kiss? This one was his after all. He was hers.

When things have calmed down, the two of them settle in her room, her head on his chest the same way as the night he had choked out a "yes" when she had asked to kiss him for the first time.

"I should have known it wasn't you," she whispers. She is shaken, he can tell, and he tries whatever he can to comfort her, but his own distress weights too heavy on his heart, only slowly eased with the weight of her head on his chest.

"You couldn't have known," he disagreed. "He was me, after all."

But she seems to feel how scared he was, how much the idea terrified him that someone had invaded their home and could have hurt her. She had been there, had glanced at that Bucky and known, as she knows with her own Bucky, that he'd never hurt her, but she can't think of a way to convince her Bucky of that fact, so she simply cuddles closer into him and lets him hold her as she can tell he needs to.

In your world, in the same room at the same time, the lights are a little colder, and there isn't yet a photo of the two of you pinned to your pinboard, but still Bucky holds you the same way his other version does with his version of you. Except your Bucky isn't familiar yet with the weight of you resting on his chest, and a little concerned if the cool metal of his arm will make you shiver if he places it around your waist to pull you in even closer. The way you reach over and lace your fingers with his vibranium ones, eases his concern, and he hopes that all other versions of him get to hold their version of you as he gets to finally hold you now.

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[system-to-the-madness]

Whatever I end up writing, it will be gory and include graphic descriptions of violence, wounds and pain

[system-to-the-madness]

First Line Game

Rules: in a new post, share the first line of your 10 most recent fics and tag 10 people to do the same.

I got tagged by the amazing @marvelstoriesepic which absolutely blew my mind bc I love her stories and it's kinda hard to believe she knows I exist, sooo.

Also I'm not sure if "recent fics" means only published fics, so I'll add three WIPs just for fun.

A Lesson in Honesty - Josh Dun x Reader (on my other account)

“No! I will not continue playing!”

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor (Arcane) x Reader

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside.

A Past Revisited - Bucky Barnes x Reader

It felt like a déjà-vu, like you had lived this situation before.

Still Loved - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky wasn’t entirely certain why he woke up with the feeling of dread having settled deep into his stomach.

Next Time - Bucky Barnes x Reader

You weren't entirely sure what annoyed you more: your aching feet, the constant scratch in your throat or the dull, thrumming pain in your head.

Perfect - Zuko x Reader

Zuko's fingertips were grazing the surface of the pond's water, creating gentle ripples in their path.

A Fool's Confession - Sugawara Kōshi x Reader

Resignation was written all over the way you placed your pen down on the table at the call of your teacher.

Trench (Working Title) - Torchbearer/Josh Dun x Reader (WIP)

“You’ll have to run.”

Untitled - Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (WIP)

The blood in Viktor’s veins felt like fire coursing through him, reducing his whole body to glimmering ashes from within with feelings he didn’t dare acknowledge, lest the flames would break free, out in the open for everyone to see.

Four Seconds - Bucky Barnes x Reader (WIP)

Fours seconds. That’s how long it took to crumble your reality to pieces.

No pressure tags: @robinrunsfiction @thewordworrier @hy6erion @hivemuthur

[system-to-the-madness]

I'm really, really struggling with writing recently, even though I have tons of ideas (and start working on so much without ever finishing it, blame it on stress, anxiety and depression). So, let's try to peer pressure me into finishing something.

I've been to a concert recently with my sister (it was her first concert, and really the best part was seeing her so happy and silly. It actually for once felt like we were sisters).

So, please decide:

Just saying, I can't promise I'll actually manage to write either of these, but maybe seeing people interested in it, will give me the much needed push.

[system-to-the-madness]

I'm glad you enjoyed it! Although I'm kinda sorry, you must have gone to sleep later than you intended 😂

Thank you for reblogging and leaving a message y that really means so much 💕

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[system-to-the-madness]

We're both mum-friends. Suga would absolutely appreciate finally having someone who not only takes care of him sometimes and helps him think things through, but who also understands the struggle of allowing someone to take care of him, when he isn't used to it.

rb with something your f/o would love about you that isn’t related to physical appearance. don’t bring self-deprecating energy onto my post btw.

[system-to-the-madness]

reblog if you’re okay with people writing fanfics of your fanfics and/or fanfics inspired by your fanfics

[system-to-the-madness]

Aldiapfha thank you for including me on your list 🫶

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itadori yuuji

a promise kept by @system-to-the-madness

in my dreams by @findmeinasunshower

forever by @cyancherub

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[system-to-the-madness]

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[system-to-the-madness]

A Past Revisited - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Pairing: James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!Reader Era: from CATWS to Black Panther Genre: hurt/comfort Word Count: 4 922 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Reader was born in the GDR (DDR) and knows German, canon-typical violence and weapons, Reader gets threatened by the Winter Soldier, use of German (translations provided in-text), fall of the Berlin wall (I wasn’t there, so probably historically inaccurate), Reader’s father was killed (not by the Winter Soldier), blood Summary: All your life the eyes of the man who almost killed you haunt your nightmares, so when you find these same eyes in Steve’s friend, you struggle with overcoming the past Prompts: not really a prompt but ‘the past coming back to haunt you’ A/N: I think I accidently ruined @spongelll 's weekend by giving y'all the choice between Bucky and Viktor. Well, today's Bucky's turn, next week Viktor. Sorry. (Although I'll admit the poll was a closer cut than I thought it would be.)

It felt like a déjà-vu, like you had lived this situation before. No. It didn’t feel like you had. You had been in this situation before. It actually was not the first time Winter Soldier pressed the muzzle of a gun against your forehead. But this time your lips were not quivering, nor were you crying for your mother as you stared past the gun directly in the bluest pair of eyes you had ever seen. The shiver that ran down your spine was not due to the fear that cursed through your veins at being held at gunpoint by the in black dressed assassin. Rather it was a memory of a cold November night over twenty years ago.

“Bringst Du’s endlich zu Ende,” – are you finally going to finish it – you asked in German, as you stared at the man. “Ich hab’ fast 25 Jahre auf Dich gewartet.” I waited almost 25 years for you.

Blue eyes widened slightly at the use of the foreign language and yet you were certain he had understood you. Did it matter that he looked barely a day older than he had that night in Berlin, that night when the history of a country had been changed forever? It was the same man, there was no doubt about it, you saw it in his eyes, saw it in the way his finger tightened around the trigger, and when a shiver went through him, you knew he felt the same cold November air from 1989 as you did. If only you inhaled deeply enough, you might still smell your mother’s perfume, the smell of gasoline.

Now you were on your knees, where you had fallen during the fight against the assassin, but then you had been just six years old, looking up at the masked man, who stood beside the border patrol hut.

Your mother was waving your passport into a soldier’s face, screaming at him about a radio report and the opening of borders, while the chilly November air blew into your worn-down coat. You stared at the strange soldier, who looked so much different from the ones you knew were patrolling the streets. Their pressed, green-grey shirts and trousers were paired with red-brown belts, but the man who stood before you was wearing all black, a mask that covered half his face, making it look like he was being gagged. Around his eyes, black paint was smeared as he stared at the people crowding at the border point. He seemed indifferent to the people requesting passage, but his striking blue eyes looked sad in the harsh light of the flood lights lighting up the bridge where the crowd had gathered. You were only a small child, not knowing that you were becoming witness to one of the most important historical events of post-war Germany, nor were you aware of the danger you were in.

While your mother held your hand tightly in hers, waving your passport at the soldier she was shouting at, alongside a dozen others, you kept your eyes on the mysterious man before you.

“Are you sad,” you asked him over the shouting of the other people, the German words slipping over your small lips before you had considered them. “You look sad.”

He did not react, only looking at the crowd before him. Until another soldier, a normal one, dressed in the familiar, fear-inducing grey-green intervened.

“That’s enough,” he shouted. “Soldat, the girl-”

Before you or anyone could understand what had happened, the man in black had grabbed your arm, tearing your hand out of your mothers.

Panic surged through you as your fingers slipped out of your mothers, and the last thing you saw before you looked back at him, were the terrified eyes of your mother as she tried to take your hand back into hers.

The man held you an arm’s length away from himself, the fingers of his left hand, dressed in a metallic glove, painfully tight around your thin arm. And then the muzzle of his gun pressed against your forehead.

“Mama,” you whimpered out, but kept your eyes fixed on the man. He was looking straight at you, but at the same time he seemed to be looking right through you, as if behind you he could see memories playing out that made him hesitate.

“Soldat!”

The other soldier shouted, and the finger at the trigger quivered, but didn’t deliver the final squeeze. Instead, he blinked, and suddenly his eyes focused on you, and he almost seemed surprised as if only he had realized now, that he was pressing a gun to a little girl's head.

Staring up at him through tears, unable to speak, you tried to understand what was going on in his mind, tried to puzzle together the previous indifference with the terror that now flickered in his eyes and the way his hand loosened around your arm.

And then there was a whistle, shouts for the soldiers to lower their weapon, someone grabbing the gun out of the man’s hand, and your mother pulling you against her chest, lifting you up into her arms and carrying you over the border at the border point of Bornholmer Straße from the German Democratic Republic into a new life, a different life, in the Federal Republic of Germany. But the Soldat’s eyes would keep haunting you, until you were back face to face with him.

Somehow, your mother carrying you away from him had brought you right back in front of his gun. He was staring at you the same way he had back then, almost as if looking through you, as if looking at a memory that played out behind you.

“Did you also kill my father, when he escaped,” you asked, this time in English. “Or am I special?”

The assassin kept staring at you, but his gun quivered again. He looked exactly the same way you remembered him, blue eyes, black mask, that made him look like he was gagged so he couldn’t talk, strips of his gun holster around his chest like restraints.

“Komm schon, ich hab‘ nicht den ganzen Tag Zeit!“ Come on, I don’t have the whole day, the words shot over your lips in frustration. Gravel was digging into your knees, the muzzle of the gun into your forehead. “Worauf wartest Du? Mach schon, Soldat!” What are you waiting for? Do it, Soldier!

And suddenly his eyes snapped to you, filled with the same quiet terror as all these years ago on the bridge. He straightened, his shoulders rolled back the faintest bit. But then his eyes grew cold, as if he had made a decision, and he steadied the gun, his finger beginning to squeeze the trigger.

The next moment a flash of blue and beige came shooting from the right as Steve tackled the assassin, saving you from certain death.

~*~

The next time you came face to face with those blue eyes, there was no malice behind them, no indifference, only pain and resignation as the man rubbed his left wrist, not a metal glove, as you had assumed as a child, but a prosthetic.

Steve had told you about him, about his best friend, the famous Sargent James Barnes. When you had heard Steve talk about him, before the events in DC, when you had let him show you pictures from the 40s – it had almost felt like he could walk in through the door at any moment and swipe you off your feet with a charming smile, a few clever words and a dance or two. Before you sat someone entirely different. His hair was shorter than it had been two years ago, but longer than in the old pictures, his frame somehow even broader. Slight stubble was covering his cheeks and blood was running down from his hairline.

Then again, maybe he was still the man Steve had described to you over nursing a glass of whiskey that had definitely more done to your system to his, when you realized the description of his best friend had you almost swooning a little, up until the point where he had described his eye colour at least. You couldn’t really stand blue eyes, not since the man with the black face paint and the blue eyes had almost shot you the night the Berlin Wall had fallen. Those conversations with Steve about his friend Bucky had been before the Winter Soldier had almost killed you two years ago. But now the same man who had almost killed you, smiled as he remembered how a sickly Steve had stuffed newspaper into his shoes, and for a moment, it had almost felt like you knew him; the friend of a friend, someone you would laugh with over a drink, someone you could imagine joining the group for a night out after a long mission.

As if he had heard your thoughts, he looked up, his blue eyes taking you in and for a moment you froze, almost waiting for the feeling of a metal hand around your arm, gravel under your knees, a cold gun to your forehead. Instead, he averted his eyes again, as if you had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Shooting Steve a quick glance while he was talking to Sam, you took a deep breath. You were no Avenger, but had been working close enough with them for long enough to have learnt the one or the other thing about bravery, so you took that deep breath and grabbed your backpack, walking over to the man you knew as the Winter Soldier, but Steve so easily called Bucky.

You could tell he was monitoring each of your movements as you walked towards him, even with his eyes on the ground. Every step felt like you were walking through hip deep mud, your body protesting against your intention to close the distance to the assassin, but you kept pushing on.

He was still not looking at you as you stopped before him and zipped open your backpack, only tensed, as if he expected you to shoot him on the spot. Instead, you pulled out a first aid kit.

“You’re bleeding,” you told him. “Let me look at it?”

His jaw tensed for a moment as if he considered declining the offer. “It’ll have healed by tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer, only kept looking at him while he had his eyes averted from you, staring at the floor. He had even stopped massaging his wrist. You wondered if he had feeling in the metal hand.

Eventually after what felt like an eternity, he finally nodded, and you pulled gauze and some disinfectant from the first aid kit.

Taking another deep breath, your reached for his hair, giving him a short warning that you were going to touch him, before brushing the hair at his hairline back, revealing the cut there. It was not deep, but almost an inch long.

“I’ll spray some disinfectant on the cut, it’ll be cold for a moment,” you warned him, before doing as you had told him.

“Sie haben fast keinen Akzent.“ You barely got an accent.

Surprised you blinked, momentarily halting the application of the disinfectant as the man before you spoke to you in German.

“Sie auch nicht.” You neither.

The man blew air through his nose, maybe an attempt to laugh, as you begun dapping at the cut. He probably had been right about it having healed by tomorrow. The wound did not look like it was only a few hours old, more like a few days.

“Sie,” he noticed thoughtfully. “Why so polite all of a sudden? Didn’t you prefer the informal you?”

“I don’t know you,” you shrugged, beginning to wipe at the dried blood in his hairline. “But politeness is usually not something I give much of a damn about when a national crisis is in progress, or I am about to be murdered.”

For a long moment he was silent, and you almost worried you might have hurt his feelings. Maybe you had said too much, had reminded him of something he rather would not have remembered.

“Ich bin Bucky,” he finally continued the conversation. I’m Bucky. “Bleiben wir beim Du.” Let’s stay with the informal you.

Quietly you introduced your first name to him, and in turn, trying not to move his head while you were still wiping at the blood in his hair, he held out his right hand for you, glancing at you from under your hands.

For a moment you stared at his hand, wondering if he really expected you to shake it, the same way two new acquaintances would. Seeing the blue of his eyes made another shiver run down your spine, made the smell of your mother’s cheap perfume rise in your nose, made you wait for the press of cold metal against your head.

Pointedly you looked back to where you had been attempting to clean him up and grabbed his chin instead, tilting his head so you could clean the blood away from the side of his face. You knew he could pull away any moment, hell, you were standing to his left, one sweep of his arm and he could throw you across the room, probably kill you in the process. But instead, he let you tilt his head, let you use the disinfectant that had run down his face to scrub at the blood, his skin warm and soft, his stubble rough and prickly against the gauze in your fingers. His blue eyes turned away, focusing on a point in the distance.

For a while he let you scrub at him, before he suddenly spoke up again.

“I didn’t kill your father,” he whispered, making you halt for a moment.

Instead of answering, you just furrowed your brows, while continuing.

“You asked,” he explained his sudden statement. “Back in DC.”

“I know,” you answered, realizing your voice was quivering slightly as you did. Clearing your throat and taking another breath, you turned back to wiping the last remains of blood out of his beard. “He got shot by border patrol. He wasn’t important enough to be assassinated by the Winter Soldier.”

“I almost killed you. Twice.”

“Except you didn’t. You hesitated. Twice. Why?”

You didn’t get an answer, as Steve called for Bucky and you, and you let go of his chin, and stepped away, wondering if along with the feeling of a gun muzzle against your forehead, a metal hand around your arm and gravel underneath your knees, you’d now also associate the feeling of a stubbled chin in your hand with the sight of blue eyes.

-

It was a strange feeling. Since you had been five years old, you had dreaded the sight of blue eyes, and now you were sitting in a small hut in Africa, waiting desperately for the same blue eyes that had haunted your nightmares for over 25 years to open.

“He’ll be fine,” the comforting voice with the familiar Wakandan accent of Shuri assured you. Considering she was barely more than a child, you were concerned for yourself that you relied so heavily on her reassurance.

“For most of my life he was the personification of the absolute worst in my world and over the matter of a few days that view has been turned upside down,” you explained, furrowing your brows and wringing your hands in your lap, suppressing the need to reach out and weave your fingers through Bucky’s. After Shuri had eliminated the trigger words from Bucky’s mind, and Okoye had confirmed the procedures success, Shuri had made the offer of a second surgery: remove the brutally implanted metal plates HYDRA had fused with Bucky’s body and replace them with a better version, one that would not let him flinch in pain occasionally, when damaged nerves were firing. You had no idea how it was supposed to work, knowing the Wakandan technology was so far above your understanding of medicine that it would have taken you several years to even begin to understand how it worked, but what you gathered was that they had a way of connecting all the nerves in a way that perfectly mimicked a real arm.

Bucky had jumped at the idea so quickly, that it had almost been concerning, and had made you realise that even after you had shared a few longer talks with him by now, you still had not even the faintest understanding of how desperately he needed to get rid of any reminder of what HYDRA had done to him. He had declined the offer of a new arm though, saying he would only accept the offer if it was T’Challa’s wish for him to fight, something that had concerned you even more because in his mind it seemed like having two arms would make him feel like a weapon.

What had concerned you most though, was the way he had asked you to stay with him in Wakanda, right before he had been taken under before the first procedure. He had spoken to Steve, knowing his best friend had made himself an internationally wanted man for his sake, before his incredibly blue eyes had fixed on you.

“I have a request, which is too much to ask of anyone, but especially of you,” he had told you.

“Spuck's aus.” Spit it out.

A smile tucked at his lips, not the sad one he had shown while talking to Steve, explaining his decision. It was a rather amused one.

“Be here when I wake up.”

You had felt the way Steve had looked between the two of you, but you had just looked at Bucky, at the same blue eyes that had haunted you for decades in your nightmares. There was no plea, no submission, no expectation in his eyes, only the simple question. You bowed your head in response, a slow, wordles yes, and when Bucky had leant back in the capsule to be frozen again, he reached his hand out. Not for Steve, not for Shuri or T’Challa. For you. It wasn’t like that time you had cleaned him up only a few days ago, not a greeting. It was the hope for comfort. So you stepped forward, grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers briefly before he let go, letting himself be taken under.

He had squeezed your fingers the same way before the second procedure. You still felt his warm, dry skin against yours, his bigger fingers closing against yours as if your hand alone had the power to evaporate his nerves. And now you wished you could feel their steady seeming warmth again. But he was still asleep, and you wouldn’t just take a sleeping person’s hand. Especially not without knowing what exactly he had been put through by the hands of HYDRA.

“When he’s up, make him drinks some water and if he’s in pain, call me,” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“You’re not going to wait here until he’s awake,” you wondered, concern swinging in your voice.

“He’s in good hands,” she shrugged with a knowing glance, “and there were no complications, so I don’t think he’ll need medical attention.”

And with those words and a wink you were not sure how to understand, she saw herself out.

It only took a few more minutes, before Bucky begun stirring. His brows furrowed as if in discomfort, and his hand begun patting over the thin blanket that covered him up to the chin, as if searching for something.

“Bucky,” you tried biting back the smile, only half-successfully, as you scooted closer to him, but still not daring to take his hand.

He hummed affirmatively, furrowing his brows further before he blinked his eyes open, their blue striking even in the dim light of the hut.

“You’re here,” he whispered, his eyes ghosting over your face as he reached for your own hand, lacing his fingers between yours.

Your breath skipped at the action, but you just nodded and smiled.

“I promised you I would,” you told him.

“Did you?”

“You were asleep,” you explained. Indeed, after you were waiting for him to wake up after his first procedure, you had promised yourself more even than him to be there for all future procedures he would have to be put through.

Bucky scoffed, clearly amused, before he suddenly grew quiet, watching you carefully for a moment before he swallowed thickly.

“I know now,” he began, taking a deep breath. “I know now why the Soldat hesitated.”

Not having expected this sudden change in topic, you blinked surprised.  

“He couldn’t. In Berlin- you were a child, a little child. He… never killed a child. I think he physically couldn’t. I don’t know about DC, but maybe he recognized you. Maybe…” Bucky hesitated. “Maybe he remembered the one shot he couldn’t take and that made it impossible to do it then.”

“Do you… do you remember? Berlin and DC?”

Bucky sat up, running his hand over his face. “Not really. Not all of it. Bits and pieces here and there. But in DC, I remember thinking of Berlin, a memory I shouldn’t have had, and I remember being unable to pull that trigger. I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, averting your eyes from where he sat, letting them wander over to the door and to the tree outside. The setting sun drew long shadows over the ground, and suddenly you had the distinct feeling, that the day was not the only thing ending.

“For what,” Bucky asked, and you could hear the furrow of his brows in his voice.

“For telling me. It helps.”

“It helps?”

You shook your head and sighed quietly before turning to look back at him. Meeting his eyes, you couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine at their cold blue.

“With processing everything. It was kind of… a lot.”

Bucky nods and suddenly you realized that only a few days had passed since he had been torn out of the quiet life he had built for himself in Bucharest.

“Can I ask you something?”

Over the past days, since Shuri had taken care of the trigger words, Bucky had often used this question to precede inquiries about SHIELD, Steve, the Avengers and everything else really. It always gave you the impression that it took him a certain amount of courage to ask, and you wondered if he would have felt the same hesitation if it had been Steve sitting next to him. You were little more than a stranger to him.

“Ask away,” you replied anyway, confused when he suddenly lowered his eyes.

“You flinch when you look at me.”

There was no hurt in his voice, no reproach. It was a simple observation, but one that made you feel guilty nonetheless.

For a moment you waited for the question, but when he did not ask it, you assumed the unspoken ‘why’ was what he had wanted to know.

“I can’t help it,” you answered slowly, watching as Bucky sat, hunched, and fiddled with the blanket in his lap. “It’s your eyes.” You could see how his gaze flickered over to you, from the corner of his eyes, but he did not turn to look at you fully. “They’re really all I remembered of you. Your eyes and your hand on my arm and the gun to my head. I haven’t- I’ve been struggling to meet people’s eyes since, especially when they’re as blue as yours.”

“You don’t struggle looking at Steve,” Bucky mumbled, and if you hadn’t known better, you would have assumed hurt.

“Different blue,” you shrugged.

For a while you sat in silence, not sure what to say. You wanted to ask about his shoulder, wanted to ask if he was in pain, but bit the question down with the same harshness, with which you pushed the thought away, that you wanted to see his eyes again.

But when he made no attempt to get up or look at you, and the shadows outside grew longer, turning blue, you finally called his name, quietly.

His eyes snapped up, and he moved his head a fraction, but stopped, not looking at you fully, not letting you see his eyes. He was trying to keep his eyes hidden to avoid scaring you, you realized with a pang in your chest, and suddenly you were reminded of all the things Steve had told you about his Bucky. How caring he had been, how considerate, how he had always done everything he could to accommodate Steve, even when it meant cutting back on his own fun, just to avoid Steve getting another asthma attack. The same man, who had been put through more than you could ever imagine, now avoided the impulse to look at your eyes, simply to lessen your discomfort around him.

“Bucky,” you said again, reaching out for him, before stopping. “Can I touch you?”

Bucky blinked; his eyes directed at the entrance to the hut. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

He took a moment to process your answer, before he nodded.

Slowly you reached out, taking his chin, and turning his head to you, similar to the way you had done after meeting him as Bucky for the first time. Except this time, you were more careful, didn’t grip his chin as tightly, weren’t as rough with him as you had been back then. His eyes flickered over the traditional Wakandan clothes you were wearing, a gift from Shuri, up to your chin, but then he cast them down again, not daring to meet yours.

“Bucky,” you called him again, and finally he looked at you, mere inches away from his face.

A shiver ran through you as you took in the clear blue of his eyes, the fine pattern of his irises. Memories of sensations flashed across your body, the smell of your mother’s perfume, the pressure of a metal hand around your arm, gravel underneath your knees, a gun pressing to your forehead. Warm skin and rough stubble under your fingertips, the scent of disinfectant. Only a few days had passed since this last memory, but his beard had grown in that time, no longer just stubble. The hair seemed softer now under your fingers, his skin just as soft, but the warmth that radiated from him seemed to have increased.

It hit you like a punch in the stomach when you realized that he let himself be at your complete mercy, was completely relaxed in your hand. He trusted you. You just weren’t sure why.

While you were wondering about these things, you couldn’t help noticing the shift in Bucky’s eyes. At first there had been insecurity, hesitancy when his eyes had met yours again, but then his expression changed, his brows drew together just slightly, and a feeling of regret swam in his eyes, as if he hated the part of himself that had scared you so badly, had haunted you since that November night in Berlin. No, he actually hated that part of himself, the part, HYDRA had turned into the Winter Soldier.

“I’ll get used to it,” you mumbled out, not sure who you were talking to, but Bucky seemed to understand that you were referring to his eyes.

He inhaled deeply, as if to say something, and opened his mouth before hesitating. It was this small gesture, that suddenly made you aware of how close you had lent in, only a few inches separating you now, bridged by your hand at his chin. It was a reflex, you told yourself later, not at all motivated by what Steve had told you about him before you had found out Bucky was still alive, not by what he had allowed you to observe about himself over the past days. But your eyes flickered down to his lips, just for a split second, the thought forming, that you could get used to this, his intense eyes focused on nothing but you, the strong, but calm presence of his body so close to you, his breath fanning over your face in an even pattern.

As quickly as possible you looked back up, but it had been enough for Bucky to notice, judging by the way his eyes softened, and the corner of his lips pulled upwards only the faintest bit. That evening, as the sun sunk behind the mountains, you let go of his chin as if you had been burnt, distracting yourself by starting to talk about dinner, but the damage had been inevitably done. Bucky had found something to hold onto, and as much as you tried denying it, so had you.

The moments of prolonged eye contact increased as the weeks passed, dragged out, let the memories of the gun against your head be overshadowed by the feeling of Wakandan summer heat on your skin, the sound of bleating goats and Bucky’s steady presence at your side. And when eventually he was the one to grab your chin, after you had averted your eyes after a particularly flirty comment of his, it was impossible to tell, who of you leant in first. All you knew was that the feeling of the cold Berlin autumn night and the gun against your head had irrevocably been replaced by the feeling of Bucky’s gentle touch against your skin whenever you saw his eyes.

[system-to-the-madness]

The other story I'll post next weekend

[system-to-the-madness]

Some idiot: "Why are you reading your own fic, that's shallow and stupid"

All fanfic writers and writers everywhere: "Who the fuck do you think I wrote it for?!"

[system-to-the-madness]

My left shoulder hurts so much since physio therapy this morning (it's been 10+ hours), and I can't stop thinking about Bucky bonding with a Reader who injured their shoulder during a mission (the story's halfway written, I just need to find a good ending) and now struggles with rehabilitation.

I mean, you can't tell me that his shoulder doesn't hurt sometimes. Sure, it's a lot better since Shuri replaced the metal that had been so brutally attached to him by HYDRA, with a new vibranium technology that connected with his nerve endings, stopping sudden bursts of pain shooting through his whole body. But it still aches sometimes, so over the years he has figured out all kinds of small tricks on how to get that ache under control, a few well controlled movements, a small massage he can give himself, or some heat via a hot bottle.

And when he sees you suffering, again and again rolling your shoulder trying to ease the ache, a furrow on your brow and then an almost subconscious reach up to massage your shoulder that Bucky knows won't help, not really anyway, he decides to offer his help. The first time it's in the same grumpy way in which he talks to all agents, but then you start talking a little more and he begins enjoying the conversation, his caring side becoming more and more obvious. The next time, it's you who calls for him, thanking him for his advice. And now he keeps looking for excuses to ask how your shoulder is doing but your progress is good, so he can't really keep asking that. Luckily you told him about a potted plant you bought the other day, so he'll start asking about that, until he has the courage to ask you out.

[system-to-the-madness]

Marvel Cinematic Universe - Masterlist

James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes

Next Time

fluff - wc: 3 149 - fem!Reader - Working at a career fair was somewhat ruining your day, until Bucky showed up

Still Loved

fluff - wc: 6 039 - fem!Reader - Bucky’s fully prepared to spend his birthday alone, but you have different plans - Birthday Fic for Bucky 2025

Drabble: injured shoulder

fluff? - drabble - Reader bonds with Bucky over an injured shoulder

A Past Revisited

angst/fluff - wc: 4 922 - fem!Reader - All your life the eyes of the man who almost killed you haunt your nightmares, so when you find these same eyes in Steve’s friend, you struggle with overcoming the past

[system-to-the-madness]

Still Loved - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Pairing: : James Buchanan ‘Bucky‘ Barnes x fem!Reader Era: post-tfatws Genre: fluff Word Count: 6 039 Warnings: food, crying Bucky, Bucky’s having a bit of a crisis, mentions of Bucky’s past Summary: Bucky’s fully prepared to spend his birthday alone, but you have different plans A/N: Happy Birthday to our Bucky! spent like an hour looking up Brooklyn accent, feel like I know less than before, probably did it all wrong. Don’t come for me unless you feel confident enough to do it in spelled out Franconian German.

Bucky wasn’t entirely certain why he woke up with the feeling of dread having settled deep into his stomach. Not until he had turned and grabbed his phone from the nightstand anyway. The date caught his eye without him meaning to check it, and he froze. 

The 10th of March had always been a day he had looked forward to, his favourite day of the year. As a child, he had known it would be the one day, where his Ma would take him out to a café, leaving his siblings with the babysitter. They’d sit in a window spot, eating cake and laughing until his stomach hurt. He remembered how every year the shop seemed to shrink, the table and the chairs became smaller, and eventually his feet would reach down to the floor. In the evenings his Da would come home to the family, all four children running to hug him, but on the 10th of March the hug Bucky got was especially long and tight. His Da would always be the one to bring the presents. Sometimes there were two or three small ones, usually small toys Bucky had seen in the shops, or books, once he could read. Other times there was one big present, a little machine he could assemble himself, a chemistry set or the pocketknife he had gotten for his tenth birthday. Really, those days, the 10th of March of every year until 1943 had to have been the best days of his life. Later, after he had met Steve, he still would let his Ma take him to the café, would still welcome his Da home, but in the afternoons, after class, he'd hang out with Steve, just taking walks and buying insane amounts of sweets on their way around the blocks.

Now… Bucky wished his bed would swallow him whole and spit him out tomorrow, preferably without his memories of this day. He wasn’t sure what the worst part of his birthday was now. That the whole world knew it was his birthday, and somehow expected him to do something meaningful that day? That everyone expected him to somehow make time so they could congratulate him for being born, when really he had had very little say in the matter? Or maybe it was for surviving so long? Yeah, he’d rather not be reminded of the conditions for his survival. 

Maybe he didn’t like his birthday, because while the whole world remembered, nobody ever really made him feel as special as his family had, with his Ma taking him out to the café, his Da handing him his present with a knowing smile, Steve sheepishly giving him a rolled up drawing of a spot Bucky had commented recently on liking, his sisters giving him flowers they picked themselves or trying to put them in his hair. 

These days, people shook his hand and said: “Happy Birthday” and kept moving along as if nothing had happened. Sure, he didn’t expect, didn’t want, the whole world to make a big fuss, but at least the few people he was closest to… Well, that wasn't a lot of people if he was being honest. There was Sam, for one. Sam, who had been sent on a mission to Alaska last night, so he wouldn’t be home for a while. Then there was Joaquin, if Bucky even cared to count him. Who had gone with Sam, for obvious reasons. Sharon hadn’t been in contact for months. And again, not necessarily the person he was closest with. That left…

Bucky sighed and sunk back in his pillow. Yeah, there was no way he’d celebrate his birthday in a meaningful way this year either. You were the one person he would always count on to have by his side, considering you weren’t nearly as often out of the city as Sam or Joaquin. But you had a deadline to meet for a project that had been going on for almost a whole year now, and Bucky understood that even if you could make time for something like his birthday, you probably would not be in the mood. If he were lucky, he’d get to see you tomorrow. Or on Wednesday. No, not Wednesday. That was too far away. 

He sighed again, running his hand over his face. This was pathetic. Hadn’t he seen you just on Saturday? The two of you had played darts with Sam, and you had been world-record-breakingly bad at it, and somehow it had been the most endearing thing Bucky had seen since- well, since the weekend before that, when you had put some cookie batter on his nose and laughed gleefully, apparently absolutely ecstatic about the way he had raised his eyebrows at you and pressed his lips together. The second part had mostly been to suppress the urge to kiss you, but his point was standing: it was absolutely pathetic that he, a grown man of what? 108 years old could not even go half a week without seeing you. 

His phone made a weird noise that faintly sounded like a cackle, which wasn’t surprising since the ringtone he had set for messages from Sam was a sound recording of the man himself laughing his ass off over a small mistake Joaquin had made. Grabbing the phone off his bedside table again, he opened the message, phrased in the usual nonchalant-sounding tone Sam loved to use. A few years ago, he might have been confused at Sam’s message, but by now he knew him well enough to understand that this was simply his way of showing he cared. Reading through the birthday message actually made a smile tuck at Bucky’s lips and he quickly replied with a heartfelt thank you, appreciating that Sam had taken a few minutes away from the mission to send him this message.

Realising that he couldn’t spend the whole day in bed, Bucky got up, making sure to disconnect his phone from the Wi-Fi so he wouldn’t be tempted to check social media, and made his way to the bathroom. A long shower, a hearty breakfast and two chapters of his current reading later, there was a knock on his door, making him pause mid-sentence. 

Quickly he went through all the people who would check up on him in person, coming to a similar conclusion as this morning: There was nobody. Sam and Joaquin were on a mission, Sharon was god-knew-where and you were probably drowning in work and incompetent co-workers… Now that he thought about it, he could pick up some lunch and drop by your workplace. That would mean for one, he might help you destress a little over shared lunch, and two he would get to see you before Wednesday. But… would you even have time to talk to him, even if it was just twenty minutes over some take-out sushi? Or would that just add to your stress? He’d hate himself, if he made your day even worse than it already was by additionally stressing you out over insisting he was so self-centred that he ignored your needs over his wish to spend his birthday with you.

Another knock on his door made him interrupt that thought and hesitantly he got up. What if his address had been leaked to the public again, and these were some people whose families the Winter Soldier had killed? Or worse: fans? He appreciated the support, he really did, he just wished people wouldn’t come up to him and confront him with their sexual fantasies about the Winter Soldier, the will-less killing machine he had once been.

Checking the camera next to his entrance made him furrow his brows in confusion and quickly he opened the door.

“What are ya doin’ here,” he asked, irritated but unable to hide the smile that began pulling at his lips.

“Happy Birthday, Bucky,” you cheered, holding a bouquet of flowers out to him.

“I- uhm,” surprised, but now definitely smiling, he took the flowers and stepped aside, letting you in. “Thank ya!”

“You didn’t mention your birthday at all when we hung out last time, so I figured, I should check up on you,” you explained, following him into the kitchen after you had toed off your shoes in the hallway.

“Ya didn’t have to come,” Bucky told you, rummaging through his cupboards, looking for a glass that was big enough to fit the flowers. “I know ya super busy with that project.”

“Well, guess what?”

“Hm?”

“I handed it in-” you glanced at your watch, “about thirty minutes ago!”

“What? Really?” Surprised Bucky turned around to you, placing the flowers down and crossed the short distance to you, wrapping you in a rare hug. “Congratulations! Ya finally got it over with!”

“I do,” you grinned, hugging him back, and Bucky couldn’t help but hold you a bit tighter, feeling your warm body press against his, feeling your torso expand and deflate with each breath you took. He was inhaling the soft scent of your shampoo, his hands carefully resting on the thin jacket you were still wearing, and he had to remind himself, that this was a casual hug, nothing more. 

“I’m so proud of ya,” he whispered against your hair, before pulling away slowly, hoping you didn’t notice the blush on his cheeks. “I thought the deadline was Friday though…”

“It is,” you answered, taking a step backwards, unable to meet his eyes, and for a terrifying second Bucky worried he might have made you feel uncomfortable, but then you were smiling again and the thought evaporated from his mind. “I put in some extra work last week, so I could finish it in time to spend your birthday with you.”

“Shouldn’t we- shouldn’t we celebrate that it’s over,” Bucky asked, “I mean, it feels like a pretty big thing. Ya should celebrate. With ya co-workers or…”

You scoffed. “Nah, thank you. I have seen enough of them. And I do intend to celebrate. Tomorrow. Today’s all about you. So, what do you say: Lunch? Unless you have other plans?”

Bucky smiled. “All free,” he let you know before finally deciding on a beer mug Sam had brought him as a gift from his last trip to Germany, knowing fully well that beer did nothing to Bucky’s super-soldier body and metabolism.

After he had arranged the flowers, all while trying to ignore the way you were leaning with your shoulder against his fridge and watched him, he put on a shirt that made him look at least a little more like he was planning on heading out and his leather jacket, and let you lead the way to a small restaurant. 

It was almost impossible to find spots in Brooklyn that were not busy around the lunch time, but the restaurant you had chosen, in a small backstreet, seemed just far away enough from the big streets to avoid the worst of the trouble. It was a lovely little place, with a window nook, into which the waiter guided the two of you to sit, looking out into a slightly more crowded street. It was an Italian place, the walls painted with sceneries of the Mediterranean, small olive trees growing in pots next to the door, fairy lights in wine bottles strung along the ceiling, and soft, Italian music playing over speakers hidden behind fake vines. 

The elderly gentleman with a strong Italian accent, Emillio, handed the two of you menus and made a big gesture out of lighting the candle on the table between you, even while soft spring sunlight was flickering in through the window.

When he had stepped away again, Bucky leant over. “How confused do ya think he’ll be, when I order in Italian?”

“You speak Italian?”

He shrugged: “Well, a little.” He leant back again with a smug grin, watching as you were furrowing your brows.

“Since when?”

“Some time in ‘43, I guess… See, we were stationed in Italy, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little, if ya know what I’m sayin’.”

As he was speaking, your amused smile slowly dropped, and an expression of thinly veiled horror began creeping over your face.

“Shi- I’m so sorry,” you apologized, making it Bucky’s turn to be surprised.

“What for? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“For- I mean- I completely forgot you were stationed in Italy and now I dragged you to an Italian restaurant-”

“Oh, come on,” Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at the way you looked around, half-panicked as if the sight of a wine-bottle might trigger a traumatising memory for him. “I appreciate ya concern, I really do, but it’s fine, ya hear? It’s all fine.”

Reaching over the table, he covered your hand with his, stroking the back of it gently. 

“I love Italian food,” he reassured you, who only slowly began relaxing again.

“Ugh, I’m so stupid,” you groaned, turning your hand to wrap your fingers around his. “I should have thought about this.”

“No, trust me,” Bucky laughed quietly, leaning forward again, “It’s all fine. Apart from the fact that it’ll be hard findin’ a country in which I haven’t - worked, I do love Italian. And it’s romantic.”

He wasn’t sure why he said the last part, or why he thought it to be necessary to kiss the back of your hand, before placing it back down on the table. But the way you looked at him for a brief moment, before you averted your eyes as if you had seen something that wasn’t meant for you to see, was worth any possible embarrassment that could have followed. Because for a short moment, Bucky was sure he had seen a glimmer in your eyes. Not the kind of glimmer the girls in the ‘40s had had in their eyes when he had asked them to dance, the glimmer of a quick crush. But rather the glimmer that Sam always joked about being in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you or talked about you.

The first few times Sam had teased him, Bucky had still reacted to it, worried you might find out about his hidden feelings for you, but soon he had realised Sam always made sure to do it without you noticing; he was a good guy after all.

But having seen this small spark in your eyes now, gave Bucky confidence like he hadn’t had in a long time. He had been good with the ladies once, he knew how to talk to them, make them swoon, and there had never been one who he had taken interest in, who he hadn’t gotten to take interest in him, too.

Oh, knowing he could probably get you to make a move on him without having to reveal his feelings first gave him a boost of confidence he knew would end in disaster. That left only the question of whether he wanted to. This was no date after all. It would be unfair of him to use what had been but a split second’s impression as a basis to turn a casual lunch into something you might not have intended at all. But did that mean he shouldn’t try?

Bucky was watching you closely, how you opened the menu and scanned the pages as if looking for something. You seemed nervous, biting your lip absentmindedly, and your eyes always flickering up, as if tempted to look at him. The good kind of nervous, he concluded, not the bad kind.

“I think, I’ll stick with pasta today,” you told him, finally looking up, allowing him a break from his racing thoughts.

“Oh, pasta sounds good,” Bucky agreed, “I think I’d like some carbonara. Haven’t had that in a while. At least if they don’t put cream in it.”

After Bucky’s unusually carefree and outright flirty gesture, the rest of lunch passed without any more incidents. Bucky ordered food and drinks for both of you in Italian, using the opportunity to ask whether there was cream in the carbonara (there wasn’t), and Bucky’s apparently fluid language skills were enough to draw several other staff members to your table, all of them Italian as it seemed and all of them in one way or another related Emillio.

As Bucky was talking to who he assumed to be the husband of the original waiter’s cousin, trying to explain that, no, you were not his wife, not his fiancée either, and no he was not about to propose to you, he could feel your eyes on him. Unable to help himself, he glanced over to you, finding you were watching as he was speaking in Italian, gesturing almost desperately to the clearly amused older man in front of him. You had tilted your head to the side a little, a soft smile on your face, your eyes taking in his gestures as if you were studying him. When he met your eyes, your smile broadened, and he lost his train of thoughts, stuttering over his own words, before quickly averting his gaze again. It was impossible really, how easily you made him lose his train of thoughts. All you had to do was smile at him and any rational thought was replaced by the thought of you.

The food was, for a lack of better words, otherworldly. It tasted better than anything he had eaten in a very long time, but he wasn’t sure how much of this credit should be paid to the kitchen, and how much to his company. You had eaten with a clear appetite, enjoying the meal as much as he did, sometimes closing your eyes in bliss at the delicious dish before you.

Of course, you had also tried almost killing him with a heart attack, as you had fed him some of your food with your own fork, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t the first time. You often shared fries while walking in the park and yes, it had happened that you fed the fries to him, but usually Bucky followed up the action with a sharp stare over at Sam, as if daring the superhero to call out the gesture.

After finishing the meal, the plates had been taken away, and Bucky had ordered coffee and dessert for both of you, before you pulled out a small package you seemed to have hidden underneath your jacket.

“It’s nothing special,” you apologised, sliding the in flowered paper bound package over the table to Bucky.

“What is it,” he asked, a curious smirk pulling at his lips. 

“A birthday present. From both Sam and me. As I said, nothing special, but… you know.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment before he reached out, taking the package. Judging from the weight and the size, and the way it felt under his fingers, he suspected a book. Suddenly his throat started to feel weirdly rough, and he quickly swallowed away the awkwardness. 

“Ya didn’t have to get me anything’,” he quickly said, hoping his eyes didn’t look as wet as they felt. It had been a long time, a really long time since he had been given anything physical as a present that wasn’t meant to help him fulfil some kind of duty for the giver. 

“It’s your birthday, of course we had to,” you disagree. “Well, I say we but Sam wasn’t really that involved in the process. I think he’s more the ‘let’s make memories together’ kinda guy.”

Bucky chuckled at your description of Sam, remembering how he had threatened him with taking him out for drinks after coming back from the mission he was on now. Running his hands over the smooth wrapping paper, Bucky pointed to it.

“Can I open it?”

“That’s what it’s for, sure!”

Encouragingly you lent forward, propping your elbows on the table. The light of the candle between you mirrored in your eyes and for a moment, Bucky was threatened to get lost in the light that seemed to pour out from you, but then he quickly turned back to the package in front of him. Carefully he tore at the scotch tape, making sure not to rip the paper too much. Sure enough, once he folded the paper away, he revealed a book. Flipping it, he curiously studied the title.

“‘The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring’,” he read out loud, showing you the cover as if you hadn’t been the one who had chosen the book for him. “By… wait, that name sounds familiar. Tolkien… Isn’t that the author of ‘The Hobbit’?”

“That’s him,” you nodded, smiling as you watched Bucky flip the book over so he could study the cover himself again, the dark blue fabric with the silver imprinted letters. “It’s… well, it’s like a sequel to ‘The Hobbit’, but following Bilbo’s nephew. You mentioned having read ‘The Hobbit’, so I thought you might enjoy it. The whole ‘Lord of the Rings’ is three parts, but I need presents for Christmas and your next birthday, too, so don’t you dare buying the other books yourself.”

Bucky nodded with a smile, fighting the urge to look up at you again, flipping open the book instead.

“Oh, it has a map,” he exclaimed, quickly busying himself with studying the drawings, running his fingers over the familiar names of the Shire, Rivendell, the Misty Mountains. “Maps are good.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you told him, and finally he gave himself permission to look up at you again. Which turned out to be a big mistake, because you had that soft expression in your eyes again, which made his knees weak and made him want to reach out over the table, intertwine his fingers with yours, and kiss your hand again without having to hide the admiration he held for you.

Not long after, your coffee and desserts got served, giving Bucky something else to focus on besides the way his heart kept beating at a fast pace, almost as if your presence alone kept him alive. That you still kept looking at him so softly, laughed freely at his jokes, and reached out to touch his hand once or twice was not helping him. 

As he was chewing on a spoonful of tiramisu, arguably the best he had ever had, he looked out of the window into the street beyond. It reminded him of the afternoons, in which his Ma had taken him to the café. The scent of black coffee in the air, the sweetness of a creamy treat on his tongue… sure, the street outside looked different, the clothes he wore, the company he kept. But at the heart of this memory there was always a window out into a busy street, the scent of coffee in the air, a dessert on his spoon and a woman he loved in front of him. Back then, it had been his mother, now you. You, who were so different from his mother, who he loved in such an entirely different way. But still he loved you, he loved you like he had never loved anyone before.

The realisation hit him in that moment, that yes, he had gone out with countless girls in his life, but none of them had ever even remotely meant as much to him as you did. What if he lost you, too? The same way he had lost everyone else he had ever loved, first his family and friends when he had gone to war, then Steve, when he had left him for the past? What if you left him too? What if his love would not be reciprocated? Was today just an outliner instead of a glimpse into his future? Would that soft look in your eyes fade again once he stepped outside this restaurant? Would the brush of your fingers against his stop meaning anything?

A soft touch against his cheek startled him back into the moment. Looking over, he realised he had frozen while looking outside, the spoon with the next bite of tiramisu halfway to his mouth. You had stood up from your seat, propping yourself up on the table with one hand, as you brushed at his cheek with the other, a concerned look in your eyes.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

“I-” Only then he realised that you had brushed at a tear that had run down from his eye. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was thinkin’ of my Ma and… she would take me out to a café on my birthday, every year. It was just her and me, showin’ me that even though she had three small children at home, I was still important to her. I was-” Bucky’s throat closed up, and he averted his eyes, from where you had sat back down again, only dropped his spoon into his plate, and ran his hand over his face. For the second time in less than an hour, realisation hit him so hard, that he felt like all air was knocked out of him. “My family loved me so much. My Ma, my Da, my sisters- I was loved so much.”

It was embarrassing, to cry in front of you, in a public restaurant of all places, but he couldn’t help it, he didn’t want to help it. He had to be honest about his thoughts to someone, and you had always felt like the safest person for that. While he tried regaining his composure, you took his other hand, wrapping both of yours around his, and held it tightly. 

“I’m happy that you had such a wonderful family,” you told him quietly. You didn’t tell him not to cry, didn’t tell him to calm down, he realised. You acknowledged his feelings, and that did not help his helpless love for you at all. “I’m happy you were loved by the people around you. And I’m so sorry that they’re gone now. But I need you to know that you are still loved. It can’t replace the way your mother loved you, or your father, or your sisters. But you are still loved.” You hesitated, and for a moment Bucky wondered whether you had read his thoughts, this nagging question of whether he was even still worth being loved after all he had done, after all the suffering he had caused. “And you are worth it Bucky, always have been.” Maybe you were destined to be with him, as his friend at least.

It took a few minutes for Bucky to calm down, before he felt confident enough to drop his hand away from his face again. All the time you never had let go of his other.

A few minutes passed, and he was back to smiling, thanking you quietly for being there for him, which you waved off with a smile, reminding him that you would always be there when he needed you to be. Besides, it was his birthday, and yes of course, you would be there for him on his birthday, too.

By the time you had finished your dessert and coffee as well, Bucky felt like he had lost all sense of time. And for the first time in a long time, he loved it. The lines between his old life and his new life were blurred by the feeling of your consideration for him, this feeling of being cared for so naturally being something he had not dared hoping he would ever get to experience again. At the same time, it seemed impossible to tell how much time had passed since you had stepped into the restaurant together. Had it been only twenty minutes or ten hours? And this morning seemed as fast as half a lifetime away anyway. 

When you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, Bucky quickly took the chance to pay for the meal, even though he knew you had wanted to invite him, which earned him a scolding and a pout from you, as you returned, but knowing smiles from the staff, who had insisted on not billing him for the dessert. In turn he made sure to tip them generously.

After you had calmed down from scolding him, and accepted your fate, you grabbed your jackets and headed out. The sun was shining, surprisingly warm spring air met you as you stepped outside, followed by the calls of ‘thank you’ and ‘come back soon’ from the waiters.

Bucky flipped up the collar of his leather jacket, as if subconsciously bracing himself for what was inevitably to come next: saying goodbye to you. You had spent already more than half of your day on him, had stressed yourself out the entire previous week to even make time for this, and while Bucky had spent half of his brain capacity over the past hour on finding a way to drag the inevitable out, he felt like it would be inappropriate for him to try and keep you around for much longer.

You had stepped out of the restaurant first, after he had held the door open for you, and now you were holding your face into the sun, eyes closed as you let the beams warm your skin.

For a moment, Bucky stopped in his tracks, just looking at you. You had never been especially guarded or scared around him, not even in the beginning, not more than one would be around a normal stranger anyway. Now, you were completely relaxed, a soft smile on your face, lashes resting against your cheeks, shoulders dropped casually. You were stunningly beautiful, Bucky realised, not for the first time. He wished he could take a picture of you like this, burn the memory into his brain to always return to this moment, you, standing in the sun, so relaxed and carefree, him, in his leather jacket, the book you had given him for this birthday in hand, the fabric of the spine weighing heavy against this skin.

“So!”

Tearing Bucky out of his happy little bubble, you turned to face him, eyes sparkling, happy. God, he loved you.

“Where to now,” you asked, turning to head towards the next bigger street, Bucky falling into step beside you. “I was thinking, since you’re interested in engineering, there’s this new, interactive museum in Manhattan, combining engineering and art, the Museum of Art and Technology. I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in, but it sounded kind of interesting…”

Bucky was only half listening to what you were saying, too distracted by the way your hand kept brushing against his with each step. Carefully he moved his fingers, prolonging the contact with the back of your hand for a few moments, and with the next time your skin brushed against the cool vibranium of his hand, you slipped your hand in his, wrapping your fingers around him in a manner that made his breath catch in his throat in the best way possible. In disbelief he looked up from the ground he had fixed his eyes on, surprised when he found you were already looking at him expectantly.

“What do you think,” you asked, clearly referring to a question he hadn’t caught, too distracted by the fact that you had just taken his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it were routine. He wanted it to be routine, wanted it to become routine. He’d never be able to forget the soft touch of your hand in his either way.

“Museum,” he asked back, the single word the last thing he had processed before getting distracted. 

“Of Art and Technology,” you repeated, looking away from him again. “Wanna go?”

“Now?”

“Sure, now. Why not?”

“Ya don’t want to- go home or…” Bucky trailed off, keeping his eyes on you, watching how you were walking next to him, still holding his hand. Were you really as calm as you seemed? Didn’t it turn your whole world upside down that you were holding his hand?

“What,” you laughed, “do you? Already had enough of me, Barnes? Wait-” Suddenly you stopped, turning to him, your fingers loosening around his, but he held on; he wasn’t prepared to let go of you yet. “Do you want to go home?”

Bucky stared at you, just half-registering your question. There was a sudden vulnerability, almost hurt, in your eyes, which he didn’t like. He didn’t want you to feel anything but safe and cared for while you were with him. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, and the open, unguarded gaze with which you had been looking at him the whole day, began closing up as if you were preparing to be told off.

Quickly Bucky shook his head. “No,” he told you, maybe more forcefully than necessary. “I don’t. I wanna go to that museum with ya. I wanna-” 

He stopped mid-sentence, not sure what exactly he was supposed to say other than that he wanted to keep spending time with you, that he was so infinitely glad that you had come to see him today, because it felt impossible to wait until Wednesday until he would allow himself to make up an excuse to see you.

But even those thoughts were lost when he looked at you, at how close you stood to him, still holding his hand, eyes widened slightly as if you were the one who was fearing rejection. Your lips were parted slightly, looking soft and sweet in the afternoon sun, their shape as perfect as if crafted by Michelangelo from living flesh. And that was where his mind stopped, like a cracked record, unable to move on from the thought of your lips, the thought of wanting to kiss your lips. He had wanted to do it for so long, had spent every minute in your presence wanting to kiss you. Why couldn’t being your friend be enough? Why did he have to want more than you had already given him? But he was selfish- for the first time in so, so long he was selfish enough to ask for something that was not offered to him.

“I wanna-” he repeated, unable to look away from you, “Can I kiss ya?”

Your eyes skipped between his for a terrifying moment, as if you were evaluating the honesty behind his words, and then you lent in, closing the gap between you, and pressed your lips to his, making his breath hitch and a shiver run down his spine. Closing his eyes, he gently tightened the hold on your hand, pulled you in until you stood chest to chest with him, and tried wrapping his arm around you without having to drop the book he was still holding. His whole world tipped over, gave the phrase of ‘falling in love’ a whole new meaning, but he didn’t mind it one bit, not with your hand on his chest, not with your lips, tasting of coffee and tiramisu against his, not when he could feel - not see, but feel - the way you smiled into the kiss.

When you pulled away, Bucky knew he was wearing the widest grin, not that he minded. It seemed like you noticed, too, because you reached up, and ran your thumb over his chin, along the lower line of his lips, scanning his face with what seemed like infinite softness in your eyes.

“Did you think I’d say no,” you teased, making him shake his head slightly.

“Can never know, love,” he offered with a smirk, making you raise your eyebrows.

“Where’d that nickname come from,” you teased, slowly pulling away, Bucky giving in only reluctantly.

“Oh, would ya prefer sweetheart? Honey? Angel?”

“Stop it,” you laughed, clearly flustered, making him grin wider. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Trust me, I haven’t even tried yet,” Bucky chuckled, pulling you into his side affectionately. “So, museum ya said. In Manhattan?”

Nodding, you began walking to the closest subway station, and while you started explaining about the museum, Bucky couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, his birthday could become his favourite day of the year again.

[system-to-the-madness]

Next Time - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Pairing: James Buchanan ‘Bucky‘ Barnes x fem!Reader AU: StarkTower!AU Genre: fluff Word Count: 3 149 Warnings: mentions of food, mentions of injury (neither Bucky nor reader), implied sexism (against Reader, not by Bucky), no use of “y/n”, Bucky calls Reader “doll”, flirty!Bucky (that’s a warning) Summary: Working at a career fair was somewhat ruining your day, until Bucky showed up A/N: First half is me ranting about my part-time job, second half is (obviously) me daydreaming about getting saved from my part-time job (no, the coworker isn’t this bad irl. he’s worse)

You weren't entirely sure what annoyed you more: your aching feet, the constant scratch in your throat or the dull, thrumming pain in your head.

Working career fairs was brutal, unexpectedly so. Especially because you had no idea why you of all people had been sent here, feeling like you were lacking social skills more than most other agents currently employed at Stark Industries. What made things somewhat worse was that while you were an agent, you were still expected to dress in a tight skirt, white blouse and a blazer that made the whole outfit a few levels too warm for the overheating exposition hall.

Worst of all were the shoes though. Where you were used to comfortable sneakers or heavy military boots on missions, you now were forced to wear a pair of cute heels that felt like they were several numbers too small for you. But they, just like the other clothes, were part of the uniform you had been given by the PR department of Stark Industries for this fair, so you wore them. But you'd make sure to complain to Tony personally afterwards. And to Steve, even though he was not involved at all. And to Bucky, of course. 

For a moment you stumbled over the phrase you were in the middle of reciting, the thought of Bucky interrupting the flow of words you were repeating for the at least 100th time since yesterday morning.

The young woman before you opened her mouth as if to say something, making you interrupt yourself and raise your eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes," you asked, inviting her to ask the question that obviously seemed to have risen to the top of her mind.

"Actually, would I get to work with Steve Rodgers?" 

She was far from the first person to ask you this since you had begun supervising the stand at the fair, and you were certain she wouldn't be the last inquiring about work with the Avengers themselves. You had made sure to avoid mentioning that you personally joined them on missions regularly, worried they thought by following the same path as you, they’d get into the same position.

Truth was, there were hundreds of agents just like yourself working at Stark Industries, which had become the non-corrupt replacement for SHIELD, but hardly any of them ever got to work with the Avengers. The only reason you were, was because you had been (un-)lucky enough to be in the training room the one time one of the training dummies had malfunctioned while Tony was working out, and if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, your knowledge of mechanics and your fighting skill, Bucky might not be the only Avenger with an arm prosthesis now. After that, Tony had decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep you around, and now you were the Avengers’ backup. 

Of course, you had known you would get asked about how people could start working together with the Avengers when you had - albeit reluctantly - agreed to work on the career fair, but what was annoying was that people didn’t ask outright. They always told you all kinds of stories, mostly revealing in these stories already that they wouldn’t make it very far in Stark Industries, before they finally pulled out the “Would I get to work with (insert Name of Avenger) in combat?”. 

By now you had found a decent mixture between heartfelt-seeming regret and professional distance, a voice you had, today alone, used at least a dozen times. 

“Mr. Rogers is currently working on establishing a brand-new rehabilitation clinic for veterans and low-income households, so we are uncertain when he will return to combat,” you informed the young woman before you.

Looking at her, you should have seen it coming, really, especially the question for Steve specifically. Her hair was curled in a way that reminded you of the movies of the ‘40s, her lipstick an unusually bright red. She had clearly dressed up as if she were to meet Steve here personally.

“If you are interested in working with Mr. Rogers,” you continued, pulling a leaflet from one of the stands on the small table you were standing at, “I can recommend you looking into our social program, where we make top quality health-care available for those people who otherwise could not afford it on their own. It’s a program Mr. Rodgers and Mr. Sam Wilson are both very passionate about.”

You continued explaining to her how to apply to an internship program, since she lacked experience in any of the fields that would have been required for her to be able to apply for a job, but you could tell she had lost interest in it the moment she had seen the one eyed veteran who was smiling up at her from the cover of the leaflet, and a few minutes later she left, taking the leaflet along for politeness only.

Sighing quietly and rolling your shoulders, you reached for your thermo-cup, which was standing hidden away on a lower level of the table, only to open it and realise it was empty. 

“Oh, what’s that? Where’d you get that? Can I have some?”

With some people it would have been endearing to get asked so eagerly. Peter Parker for example. Or maybe Scott Lang. But your coworker was neither, and it wasn’t quirky or cute either, for multiple reasons. The first one being that it was not even noon, you were not even halfway through the day, your throat was burning from the dry air and talking basically non-stop, and now your tea was empty. Then there was the lack of food being provided at the fair. Yesterday there had been catering, but this morning you had learnt the catering company had messed up and there was no lunch being provided. There were no proper breaks either, which would allow you to go shop for take-out, so you would have to go until the evening without any more food. Or tea. Bleak prospects.

The most important reason why you were closer to ripping your co-worker's head off than to smile at him, was that since yesterday morning he had barely done any work. While you had talked to hundreds of people, handed out leaflets, explaining sectors of the company and and and, he had strolled around the fair, grabbed goodies left and right, strolled off to buy coffee (without bringing any back for you), had napped in a corner and taken the only chair available to lounge around in. And the little time he was at the stand, he didn’t bother talking to the people who asked him questions, instead sent them all your way so you barely had the time to take even a single sip of your beverage. All in all, he was less useful than a brick would have been. At least a brick would not have interrupted you mid-sentence while you were attempting to explain to a seventeen year old how to apply for a scholarship to study medicine.

While you still were trying to gather your patience, Matt, your coworker had already plucked the thermo-cup from your hand and sniffed it.

“What are you having,” he asked again.

“Nothing, it’s empty,” you answered coldly, taking the cup back out of his hands and placing it back down with more force than necessary. 

“Hi, could I ask you guys some questions?”

The somewhat unfriendly bickering between you and Matt got interrupted by a visitor and the moment you looked up you wanted to bolt. It was obvious what his real question was, considering he was dressed in a black leather jacket with too many straps over his chest. The left sleeve of the leather jacket had been removed and replaced with some cheap, metallic-silver fabric and a red star had been stitched onto the upper arm.

You did your best not to show your distaste for the fashion choice the visitor, a man in his early 30s, had made, but it was hard. You didn’t mind the fact that people came dressed up like their favourite heroes, even though there was a time and a place for everything, and career fairs were not necessarily the time and place for superhero costumes. You could even get the people who put effort into recreating the Winter Soldier uniform and their bizarre way of sympathising with the unimaginable terror Bucky had gone through, even though you doubted they would feel so comfortable wearing it if they knew the way Bucky’s screams from nightmares echoed through the hallways of the tower, or how during training, sometimes if you grabbed him in a certain way, there was a flicker of terror in his blue eyes. He never let up, never gave in, but it was there, and it haunted you even weeks later. So yes, in your personal opinion, since you were confronted with Bucky’s suffering first hand, there would have been better cosplay choices out there. Bucky Barnes for example, instead of the Winter Soldier. But the jacket you were looking at was cheap, and made without much thought to detail like a real cosplay would have been, and somehow that was even more upsetting. Still, you swallowed down your personal feelings and put on the smile that was faker than the plastic imitating real leather on the guy’s jacket.

“How can we help you,” you asked instead, fighting through the urge of turning away when the guy stepped closer and the scent of obscene amounts of aftershave started filling the air.

“So, actually I’m interested in how to become an agent,” he told you, his eyes flickering over to Matt momentarily.

“Oh really,” you noted, feigning surprise. “Do you have a college degree or any military experience?” Those were standard questions, and depending on the answer, there were different possibilities to apply to get taken into the program.

“Not really,” the man answered, “It that necessary?”

“No, it’s not, it will just take longer before you’ll-”

“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Matt interrupted you. Again. “She just makes things seem more difficult than they really are.”

The man glanced at you before he turned to Matt, both of them ignoring your disbelieving and unnerved raised eyebrows.

Turning away and shaking your head slightly, you reached for a small bag of gummies, the only food you’d have access to until the day was over, when suddenly a voice behind you spoke up.

“'scuse me, ma’am, a minute of your time?”

You didn’t have to see who had spoken to recognise the soft Brooklyn accent, the smirk in the voice.

“What are you doing here?”

The smile on your face was instant and real, for the first time today. Leaning against the table, just a few inches away from the man in the bad Winter Soldier outfit, leant nobody other than Bucky Barnes himself. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, a blue henley and a leather jacket pulled on top, looking rather unremarkable, just another guy in the crowd. 

“Thought ya might need some lunch,” he smirked, placing down a paper bag on the table between you, watching your eyes widen as you recognised the logo.

“Is that from this bowls shop I’ve wanted to try,” you asked, getting on your tiptoes and unfolding the paper bag to glance inside.

“Yeah, I made a proper fool out of myself, tryin’ to order there,” Bucky admitted, but watched satisfied as you looked up at him with a beaming smile. “I just had them pack all the things I know ya like.”

“You’re an angel,” you sighed, looking up at him where he was leaning against the table smiling down at you. The temptation to get up on your tip toes again and press your lips to his was rising, but you held back, and instead leant a bit away, getting yourself out of the danger-zone were you were starting to loose trust in your self-control. Bucky, who had leant in a little, seemed to realise you were drawing away and leant back a bit, too.

“Oh, and I forgot this-” 

Reaching into his back, he pulled out a thermo-cup, one that you knew definitely belonged to him personally.

“I made some tea, the kind my Ma made for me whenever I had a sore throat,” he explained as he placed it down next to the paper cup. “It doesn’t taste quite right but it’s drinkable.”

It didn’t matter how it tasted; you didn’t give a damn. Bucky Barnes had made the effort of cooking tea for you, driving to a popular restaurant to pick up some salad bowl you had maybe wanted to try eventually and then had taken everything half-way across the city for you. And now he had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I overheard ya telling Steve yesterday that ya throat was sore from talking so much so I thought… yeah, well.”

“Marry me.” It was a joke, or at least you told yourself it was, but in this moment you really doubted anyone could ever be more thoughtful and perfect than Bucky.

A hint of red spread over his nose and he laughed the kind of laugh that made him seem carefree, but underneath you knew he was flattered.

“Any day, doll,” he grinned, reaching out and flicking his thumb over your chin in a flirty gesture that you would have allowed nobody but him and drove heat to your cheeks. “When are ya gettin’ off?”

He was leaning against the table again, and with how he was looking at you it was not hard to imagine that this was the exact way he had once used to chat up girls for dancing. Back then none of them had ever been really special to him, but ever since you had first trained together over two years ago, he had been unable to think of anyone other than you. Maybe that was the reason why it had taken him so long to finally relax around you enough to really flirt with you.

“When I'm getting off,” you repeated his question. “At six, why?”

“‘cause I was thinkin’, we could grab somethin’ proper to eat, at a restaurant,” he suggested, and if you had known him any less, you might have missed the way his eyes scanned your face carefully for any hint of objection as if he were scared you’d decline.

“At a restaurant,” you echoed, an ache setting in your stomach at the conflicted feelings that were overcoming you at the invitation. “I-”

“Ya really don’t have to, it’s just a question,” Bucky laughed, but you could feel how he was already drawing back into the shell it had taken you months to draw him out of. 

“No, Bucky, I do want to go,” you denied, quickly looking around if anyone had heard you mention the hero’s name. “It’s just- Okay, listen. These clothes?” You pointed to your blouse. “They look great, but they are uncomfortable as hell.”

It almost seemed like Bucky barely noticed the second part of the sentence, because his eyes were still wandering up and down your body with an appreciative smirk.

“Uncomfortable,” he repeated, as if to prove to you that he had listened, his eyes snapping back to your face.

“Yes, and I really don’t want to go out in them. But the clothes I have, to change into, are… not something I can wear to a restaurant.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Hoodie and sweatpants,” you explained.

“Ya look hot in hoodie and sweatpants,” Bucky replied without hesitation.

“Thanks, but- not the- not the point,” you shook your head, trying to ignore the way your heart jumped at his nonchalant compliment.

“So… not restaurant,” Bucky nodded, as if thinking to himself. “Okay, I’ll make ya a deal, doll.” He leant in as if conspiring with you, the mild smell of his cologne and deodorant hitting your nose. It was strange how the calming effect of his presence took the tension off your shoulders immediately. “Tonight, we’ll go to a diner, instead of a restaurant, but next time, I’ll take ya out properly.”

“Next time?” You were painfully aware of how you had to look like a deer caught in the headlights. Next time?

“Next time. Dinner and dancin’ and all. I’ll take ya out like ya deserve, not just diner dinner and,” he motioned to the paper bag, “take-out salads.”          

“Dancing,” you repeated, still stuck on that part, feeling increasingly like a parrot.

“Dancin’,” Bucky confirmed. “The proper way. I’ll be in a suit and ya- just wear whatever ya feel good in. Ya look amazing no matter what ya wearin’. And then I’ll show ya how to dance the foxtrot, and the tango.”

“I do know foxtrot,” you reminded him, slowly beginning to gain ground on him again after he had completely thrown you off with his sudden invitation. Leaning in a little closer, you smiled. “And Tango.”

It was easy to tell that Bucky liked your response, because a light flickered in his gaze. It was a shimmer you didn’t see often, but Steve had once told you the Bucky from the ‘40s had always had it in his eyes.

“Then it’s a deal. Tonight, we’ll do the diner, and next time dancin’,” he summarised, making you tilt your head at him.

“No offence, but why does this feel like you’re about to take me out on a date,” you asked, still not entirely sure if maybe you had just misinterpreted his cocky smiles and flirty demeanour for more than it was.

“‘cause that’s what it is, doll,” he grinned, pushing away from the table. “And I promise ya, ya won’t regret it.”

It was fascinating, watching Bucky so confident and cocky all of a sudden, a shine in his eyes, his shoulders relaxed, lips drawn into a victorious smile.

“I should hope so,” you answered, glad that underneath his confidence you could see the excited giddiness that proved to you that him asking you out was something he meant with his heart.

Bucky grinned and waved, before turning around, and even though your well-trained eyes tried to follow him, he had already disappeared in the crowd without any of the visitors, who were so keen on working with the former Winter Soldier, recognising him.

On his way out, he pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the chat to Sam, punching a message into the keyboard before pressing send.

Bucky: that was a trap

Sam: wahtd i do? jst told you to get her lunch!

Bucky: you knew i’d have to ask her out when i'd see her in that uniform. before some douche does.

Sam: so youasked her?

Bucky: yeah. diner today, next time dancing

Sam: uuuuhhh. knew the skirt would get you there

Bucky: never think about her wearing a skirt again

[system-to-the-madness]

I once again fell back in love with Bucky Barnes' blue eyes, and now that I actually have a little bit of time, I've ended up completing 4 oneshots for him (another 3 are half-written). For the finished ones we have:

The Winter Soldier almost shot Reader twice and now she struggles to look at Bucky's eyes

Established Relationship: Bucky being heads over heels for Reader but still insecure

Bucky dropping off food at Reader's workplace while simultaneously applying as boyfriend

Reader thinking the Winter Soldier got triggered during a mission and worrying for Bucky

Without telling you which story is which, giving you a (fragment of a) line...

I'll post all one shots that I finish, so you'll definitely get to read them all, this is just about which one I should post first.

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