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byhuenii · 1 month ago

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Dye Me a Lie

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Syonpsis You’re just a girl. an Avenger with a mind-reading gift, hair that changes when the heart breaks too loudly, and feelings for Bucky Barnes that you’ve done everything to bury. But the silence between you is loud. Misread glances, inside jokes that don’t feel like yours, and insane jealousy. He doesn't know how to love you. You’re not sure how to stop.

Word Count 9.5k

Tags + Warnings MISCOMMUNICATION. Warnings emotional repression, heartbreak, unspoken mutual pining, JEALOUSY, identity struggle, suppression of feelings, mild combat scenes, brief injury mention (non-graphic), sarcasm, mental health undertones (burnout, escapism via hair symbolism), language (mild), crying (a lot of it tbh), healing, deep character vulnerability. SEMI TOWER FIC AY AY AY! Not proofread lmfao

Readers playlist/Songs mentioned “I Like U” — NIKI “Normal Girl” — SZA “Party 4 You” — Charli XCX “Love Me Not” — Ravyn Lenae “Get You” — Daniel Caesar “Ribs” — Lorde

— Dye Me a Lie a girl going through everything with hair dye

You were just a girl.

That was the line you repeated in your head like a mantra. It sounded simple, grounding, honest. It helped keep you tethered when the world around you spun too fast, when your mind stretched too far into thoughts that didn’t belong to you, when the ache in your chest sharpened from unspoken feelings that had nowhere to go.

A girl. That was all.

You weren’t a god, or a super soldier, or a billionaire in a flying suit. You didn’t control the elements or conjure magic from your fingertips. You weren’t anyone’s chosen anything. You were born with a mind that never shut up, honed in the field to be quick, quiet, deadly. Your talents have earned you a place on the team. Your training made sure you stayed there.

But you were still just a girl.

Just a girl who couldn’t stop noticing the way Bucky Barnes stirred his coffee like it had done something to him personally. Just a girl who couldn’t help but flinch every time he smiled at Natasha like she was the only person in the room.

Just a girl who knew how to bury feelings, but didn’t know how to kill them.

Today had started like any other. Mission debrief at 0700. Training drills by 0900. Bruised ribs by 0935.

And now? Lunch in the compound cafeteria, pretending like everything inside you wasn’t unraveling one look at a time.

Sam sat across from you, slapping his tray down like a man without a single ounce of subtlety. “You’re gonna stare a hole through him, y’know.”

You didn’t even try to pretend. “Who?”

Sam gave you a long, slow blink. “Seriously?”

You followed his gaze. Bucky, in the corner. His hair pulled back, dressed down in a soft black tee, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Standing next to Natasha — again.

It was the way they leaned into each other. Comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

You tore your eyes away, heart twisting like it wanted to hide.

Sam didn’t tease this time. He just watched you quietly.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You forked a piece of food you couldn’t taste. The buzz of thoughts around you was white noise. Background static. None of them mattered. None of them reached you, because all you could feel was the weight of something that hadn’t even happened.

He didn’t look at you like that.

He never had.

And God, you wished you could shut that part of yourself off. The one that kept hoping anyway.

You had read his mind once. Years ago. On accident. Or maybe on purpose — you couldn’t tell anymore. It was right after a mission, blood still drying under your nails. You’d reach for him when he looked like he might collapse, tried to ground him with your voice, your presence — and your power slipped.

There was nothing there.

Just silence.

A wall of steel, reinforced by years of training, trauma, pain. Not just unreadable — unreachable.

You never tried again.

Since then, Bucky has been kind. Polite. Distant.

And you? You filled the space between you with wishes and wariness, and wore your feelings like armor you couldn’t take off.

You were still watching him when he glanced over.

Just a flicker. A second.

Your eyes met.

His brows twitched. His lips parted like he was about to say something.

Then Natasha nudged him, and he looked away.

You turned back to your tray and tried not to look like you were falling apart.

Sam exhaled softly. “So. Still think they’re just friends?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you keep looking at him like that.”

You laughed, short and humorless. “I’m not looking at him like anything.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Lying to a telepath is one thing. Lying as a telepath? Bold move.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Silence stretched between you. Companionable, at least. Sam didn’t push, and you didn’t explain. He just peeled the label off his water bottle and you picked at your food until the moment passed.

Later, when you walked the halls of the compound alone, you thought about what Sam said. You thought about the way Bucky looked at Natasha, and the way he didn’t look at you. You thought about the quiet.

You wondered if he would ever notice you the way you wanted him to.

You told yourself again: you were just a girl.

But you didn’t believe it as much this time.

You’d trained for this.

The sparring. The infiltration. The telepathic silence. The part where your heart learned to harden so your body could do what it was told.

But you hadn’t trained for being paired with Bucky Barnes for a two-week stealth recon mission in the middle of nowhere. Alone. Just the two of you.

No Natasha. No Steve. No emotional buffer or easy distraction.

And no escaping proximity.

It was a Stark-funded, S.H.I.E.L.D.-monitored “contain and assess” op on a black site suspected of trafficking experimental tech. Simple in theory. Dangerous in practice. Which is why they sent in two of the most capable people they had.

Unfortunately for you, those people were you — and Bucky.

“Try not to kill each other,” Sam had said with a smirk before you boarded the jet.

You didn’t even have it in you to glare at him. Not when your stomach was already doing cartwheels from the weight of Bucky’s quiet presence at your side.

He hadn’t said much since the briefing. A few nods. One “copy that.” A slight brush of his hand against yours when you passed him a file — accidental, definitely, and burned into your memory like wildfire.

The silence between you was deafening, but not cold.

Worse — it was careful.

The safehouse was tucked between jagged cliffs and dense forest, half-crumbled but wired with J.A.R.V.I.S. security. Two rooms. One bath. Zero excuses not to talk.

You unpacked your gear in silence, sorting through blades and dampening cuffs like they could distract you from how much you felt him behind you. How the hum of his brain — always too quiet to read — still managed to fill the room like fog.

You were hyper-aware of him. The way he moved. The way he didn’t speak unless spoken to. The way his shirt clung to his back as he adjusted the surveillance monitors, flexing with the motion.

You hated yourself a little bit for noticing.

“Dinner?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You need food. Fuel. We both do.”

You stared for a beat too long. “Yeah. Right. Fuel.”

Fuel. Not a shared moment. Not anything.

Just survival.

Dinner was quiet. Rice, lentils, and a hard-boiled egg each, like this was prison and not a recon site. You sat across from him at the makeshift table, chewing slowly, watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You thought you were being subtle. You always thought that.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up.

Your fork froze mid-bite. “What?”

He glanced up then, eyes meeting yours.

You froze under the weight of it — not the blue, not the sharpness. The softness. The question behind the question.

“I’m fine,” you lied, because it was muscle memory by now.

He nodded. “Just seemed… off.”

You shrugged. “Guess I’m just not used to silence.”

A beat.

Then he surprised you.

“You always seemed quiet to me.”

You blinked. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. “Fair.”

You hated how much that tiny expression meant to you. Like it was proof of something you didn’t have the words for.

The next few days passed in patterns.

Surveillance. Night shifts. Radio intercepts. Late-night debriefs in low voices, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of screens flickering with static.

You began to move in rhythm — clearing rooms in tandem, anticipating each other’s body language, syncing like you were meant to do this forever. Like your minds were linked even if he was locked to your power.

You didn’t need to read Bucky’s mind to feel it — the pull. The glances held a second too long. The silence before he said your name. The way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

But he never acted on it. Never stepped past that invisible line.

And so, neither did you.

At night, you lay awake in your bunk, replaying every moment. Every almost. Every look that could mean something — or nothing.

You hated the uncertainty. Hated how much you ached for clarity. For closeness.

And the worst part?

You were starting to think you weren’t imagining it.

It all fell apart on the fifth night.

You were coming back from a perimeter check, soaked from the rain, hoodie clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You hadn’t spoken in hours. The mission had been tense — too quiet, too many variables.

You walked through the door, and Bucky was waiting.

His eyes scanned you instantly. The way your shoulders slumped. The way your hands trembled. He stood without a word, grabbing a towel from the rack and moving toward you like instinct.

He reached out — but paused.

Hold it there. Between you.

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move away.

His eyes searched yours like they were trying to read a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Why do you flinch when I get close?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

The towel in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

“Is it because of Natasha?” he asked quietly. “Because if you think—”

You laughed, bitter. “I don’t think anything. You’re allowed to be close to whoever you want.”

His brows drew in. “That’s not what I—”

“I don’t need an explanation, Bucky.” You stepped back. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He stared at you like you’d just said something in a language he didn’t understand.

You wished you could explain. Wished you could say: It’s not about Natasha. It’s about how much it hurts to want you when you don’t want me.

But you didn’t say anything.

You dried your face. Turned. Walked away before he could answer.

That night, you lay awake again.

But now, his voice echoed in your mind:

“Why do you flinch when I get close?”

Because I want you too much, you thought. Because I know you don’t want me back. Because I’m just a girl — and you’ll always be Bucky Barnes.

You were avoiding him.

Not well — you trained in evasion, not subtlety — but enough that it was noticeable. You took solo shifts for recon. Ate at odd hours. Slept on the couch instead of the bunk. You had your reasons, even if they were all cowardly.

Reason #1: You couldn’t stand another almost-touch.

Reason #2: You couldn’t hear your own heart breaking every time he looked at you with concern but not want.

Reason #3: You were tired of pretending you didn’t want more.

But Bucky Barnes wasn’t oblivious. He wasn’t stupid. He noticed. And more importantly — it got to him.

He started snapping more. Being colder. Less patient in briefings. His words clipped. His tone was sharp.

You knew what he was doing. He was trying to push you into talking. You’d trained with spies — you knew a pressure point when you felt it.

But you were stubborn, too. So you pushed back by pretending it didn’t bother you.

Until it finally did.

It started in the field.

You were on a covert sweep through the eastern corridor of the compound’s target sight — the first major breach of the mission. Bucky was on point. You were covered. You’d done this a dozen times before.

Only this time, you didn’t hear his callout in time. You hesitated.

And in that second of pause — a motion sensor was tripped.

The alarm blared. You scrambled for cover. Bucky yanked you down behind a wall, a metal arm pressed hard against your chest as bullets ripped through the space you’d just been standing in.

“Jesus, focus!” he snapped.

“I was focusing—”

“You were zoning out. Again.”

The words hit harder than any shrapnel.

You stared at him, breath catching.

He didn’t let up. “This isn’t just about your feelings anymore. You could’ve gotten us both killed.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it!” His eyes burned. “Whatever’s going on with you — the distance, the cold shoulders — figure it out. Fast.”

That was it. The spark. The break.

You shoved him back. “You don’t get to lecture me about distance.”

His mouth opened. “What—?”

“You think I’ve been distant? Try looking in a mirror, Barnes.” You weren’t yelling — but it was close. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for months. Smiling at Natasha like she’s the only one who gets you. Acting like I’m invisible unless we’re on a mission.”

He looked stunned. Not by your anger — but by the words.

You kept going. “I’ve watched you look at her like she matters. Like she’s something to hold onto. I get it. She’s perfect. She gets you. I’m just—”

“Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Or feelings.”

You stared at him, trembling. “You didn’t have to say anything, Bucky. I see it.”

He stepped toward you — too close. “You think me being close to Nat means I don’t care about you?”

“You’ve never once given me a reason to think you do.”

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

And then — his voice dropped.

“I notice you, y’know.”

You froze.

His tone was different now. Quieter. Angrier. Not at you — at himself.

“I notice when you laugh at things no one else hears. I notice when you change the way you move depending on who’s in the room. I notice the way your eyes stay on the exit, always calculating. And yeah — I noticed you stopped sitting next to me. Stopped smiling. Stopped trying.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought you were pulling away because I made you uncomfortable. Because I said or did something wrong. I didn’t know it was because you thought I didn’t care.”

Your voice came out small. “Do you?”

His jaw clenched. “Every damn day.”

Your heart squeezed. “Then why—”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “You don’t even let me in.”

“That’s rich,” you whispered. “Coming from the guy I can’t even read.”

He blinked. You hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped — years of restraint breaking open like a fault line.

You stepped back, eyes stinging. “I tried. Once. After Sokovia. You were shut off. So I shut off, too.”

Bucky’s expression cracked right down the middle.

The mission was still live. The alarms had died, but the consequences hadn’t. You both knew it. Still, neither of you moved.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You nodded. “I didn’t want you to.”

A beat. Two.

Then he spoke again.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

And finally — finally — something in you broke.

Tears burned your eyes. You didn’t let them fall. You just nodded again. Swallowed the hurt. Pressed it down into the same box where you kept all the almosts.

“I know,” you said.

And this time, you were the one who walked away.

–

The mission ended three days later.

No casualties. Data secured. A win on paper — but you didn’t feel victorious. You felt emptied out. Like a building left standing after a fire, charred beams and all.

You barely spoke to Bucky on the ride back. Just gave your report, nodded when needed, and stared out the quinjet window like the sky had answers you didn’t.

He didn’t try to talk to you either. And maybe that hurt worst of all.

You didn’t mean to dye your hair. Not really.

It wasn’t even premeditated. You got home, stood in the shower for forty-five minutes, and when you looked in the mirror, you didn’t recognize yourself.

You didn’t look heartbroken. You looked fine. And that made you furious.

So you drove to the nearest drugstore in sweats and sunglasses, grabbed whatever boxes your hands landed on, and spent the rest of the night in your bathroom.

Pink. Brown. Cream. Strawberry. Chocolate. Vanilla.

By sunrise, your hair was a swirling mess of Neapolitan.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t delicate. It was loud and bright and stupid and so obviously the kind of thing someone does when they’re trying not to cry again.

You stared at yourself. A stranger in the mirror — but one who looked closer to you than the “fine” version did.

This was your war paint. This was your screw it hair. This was your “I’m still here and I feel too much and I don’t know how to stop” signal.

Wanda came by first. She didn’t ask, just hugged you like you were made of glass and said:

“You look powerful.” And that almost made you cry.

Sam was next.

He walked into the rec room, did a full double take, and then grinned like a menace.

“Alright, Neapolitan. Who broke your heart and where’s the body?”

You threw a pillow at him. He dodged. Barely.

“I’m fine,” you said, which fooled no one.

Then came Bucky.

You hadn’t expected him to be in the common area. You especially hadn’t expected to run right into him while balancing a cup of hot tea and your frayed dignity.

He stopped cold when he saw you.

You froze, too.

His eyes scanned your face — and then your hair. You could see the exact moment it registered. His jaw tensed. His expression softened in the same breath.

“You changed your hair,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Good observation, Barnes.”

A pause.

“I like it,” he added.

You scoffed. “You don’t even know what it means.”

His voice dropped. “Try me.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because in that second, he looked at you — really looked — and you saw it in his face: He got it.

He saw the war you’d been fighting with yourself. The colors you’d wrapped around your grief. The piece of your identity you’d painted just loud enough for someone to finally notice.

And maybe — maybe — he’d start noticing more than just your hair.

You started keeping your door closed again.

Not locked — because that would mean you were trying. Closing was enough. Closed said “I’m here, but don’t.” It said you were keeping it together.

It said:

“This room is Switzerland. No one gets in unless I let them.”

The team noticed. Of course they did. You were never the aloof one. You were the one who asked how people liked their coffee. Who made dumb nicknames. Who wore three different colors in your hair like it was armor.

And now? Now, you weren’t even you.

Wanda didn’t push. She just brought takeout and sat near you with music playing low and didn’t say anything about your red-rimmed eyes. Sam made sure to crack jokes loud enough for you to laugh at from the hallway. Tony upgraded your room tech. You didn’t ask. He didn’t mention it.

Clint just looked at you once over breakfast and went,

“Ah. That kind of heartbreak.” Then handed you the last donut. No questions asked.

But Bucky? Bucky was quiet.

He didn’t come to your room. Didn’t seek you out. But he also… didn’t keep his distance. Not really.

Because suddenly — suddenly — he and Nat were everywhere.

Laughing low near the mission board. Whispering in the hallway. Sitting close during briefings.

You told yourself it was nothing. They were old friends. Partners in the field. Comfortable.

But then you saw the way he looked at her — the kind of soft familiarity that you didn’t have. The kind you’d wanted.

And it broke something in you that hadn’t been cracked before.

You didn’t confront him. You just… vanished.

Not physically. You still showed up to train. To plan. You spoke when spoken to. You were competent. You were a professional.

But emotionally? You shut every door.

You stopped making jokes. Stopped sitting at the kitchen counter in the morning where he always found you. You avoided any room he was in longer than necessary.

And when he said “Hey” once in the hall, testing the waters, your “Hi” came out cold enough to frost a window.

He didn’t try again after that.

“Y’know,” Sam said one night, flopping onto your couch, “you’re allowed to be pissed.”

You didn’t look up from your screen. “I’m not pissed.”

“You’re right. You’re livid.”

You sighed. “He can do what he wants.”

Sam tilted his head. “But can you?”

That shut you up.

You thought it would stop hurting. It didn’t.

Because every time he laughed at something she said, a tiny part of you splintered. Every quiet smile he gave her felt like another door slammed in your face. And the worst part?

You weren’t even mad at her.

She was kind. Brilliant. Brave. She deserved the world.

You were just… a girl. A mind reader. A combat expert. A bleeding heart with Neapolitan hair and no one looking.

So you distanced yourself harder.

And that’s when Bucky noticed. Noticed in a way that made him ache.

Because you weren’t just cold — you were gone. You didn’t laugh around him. Didn’t look him in the eye. Didn’t even think toward him anymore.

You just became… quiet.

And that silence? It haunted him.

–

You didn’t mean to dye it again.

But Neapolitan started to feel… childish. Loud in a way that didn’t protect you anymore. It didn’t say, “I’m healing.” It said, “I’m stuck.” And you were tired of being stuck.

So you dyed it at 3AM, half-asleep and half-desperate, staring at the dye boxes like they were mood rings.

You picked black, copper, and blonde.

Messy. Bold. Uneven. A little wild.

Calico.

A patchwork of colors that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. A kaleidoscope of chaos. But this time, there was no symbolism spelled out. This time, it was messy on purpose.

Sam took one look the next morning and raised a brow.

“So we’re in our feral girl era, huh?”

You sipped your coffee. “Apparently.”

Bucky didn’t comment at all. Just stared. Longer than he should’ve. Then looked away like it burned.

He finally cornered you in the gym. No audience. No mission. No excuses.

You were mid-set, gloves on, sweat slick on your brow, and there he was — standing like an apology without a mouth.

“Are you ignoring me forever?”

You didn’t pause. “I’m not ignoring you.”

He tilted his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You slammed the gloves into the mat and stood.

“Do you want a fight?” you snapped.

His brow furrowed. “No. I want to talk.”

You exhaled, sharp. “About what? You and Nat? About how I’m supposed to smile while you two play secret spy whisper games and pretend like it doesn’t feel like knives every time I walk into a room?”

He looked like you slapped him. “It’s not like that—”

“Then explain it, Barnes.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “She’s helping me with something. It’s not— I didn’t know it looked like that.”

“You didn’t know?” Your voice cracked. “You didn’t know it would hurt watching you give someone else the softness I wanted from you?”

He went still.

You took a breath, voice quieter now. “I’m not mad you’re close to her. I’m mad you didn’t even notice it was breaking me.”

Then — the worst part.

He stepped closer. Guilt written across every inch of him. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I was scared.”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Of you. Of how much I care. Of the fact that you look at me like I’m someone worth loving and I don’t— I don’t know if I can be that.”

Silence.

For a moment, it almost sounded like honesty. Almost felt like something soft was trying to bloom.

But then he added, “And I didn’t think it was fair to ask you to love someone like me.”

And that?

That undid it.

You flinched. “Then you should’ve left me alone. Instead of giving me almost.”

He froze.

“I would've almost taken the silence over.”

And you walked past him. Left him in the echo of his own cowardice.

Sam found him twenty minutes later.

Didn’t ask. Just threw a towel at him and said:

“You messed that up real good.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Sam continued. “You don’t get to be scared and selfish. Pick one.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She was finally pulling herself together,” Sam said. “Then you hit her with just enough hope to wreck her all over again.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one ever does,” Sam cut in. “But it still hurts the same.”

Silence stretched.

Then Sam looked him dead in the eye.

“You want her back? Do better. Or let her go for real.

–

You don’t shut down. You evolve.

That’s the worst part.

You don’t cry in corners anymore. Don’t hide away or stay quiet. You show up. You spar again. You make breakfast and snarky comments and laugh like nothing’s wrong. You’re back to being the one who can level Tony with a single dry remark, who can out-quip Sam, who makes Wanda snort-laugh during debriefings.

You’re fine.

You’re so fine, it’s starting to terrify the people closest to you.

Because your hair is still calico — wild, a little chaotic, like it doesn’t care — but you’re brushing it like you’ve got nothing to hide.

And that? That means you’re hiding everything.

Bucky notices. But it’s too late.

You’re friendly. Polite. You greet him when necessary. You hold doors open. You speak during missions.

But you don’t look at him like you used to.

No soft eyes. No quiet smiles. No mental whispers of “please just say something.” You treat him like anyone else.

Like he’s no one special.

And it kills him.

Because he still looks at you like you hung constellations in the sky and he forgot how to read them. Because now that he knows what it felt like to almost have you, the silence is unbearable.

But you?

You just keep going.

“Thinking of changing it again?”

It’s late. You’re on the rooftop with Sam and Wanda, drinking something hot, watching the city glitter below.

Your fingers tug at a copper strand, thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ve been thinking red. Like cherry soda red.”

Wanda hums. “You only go red when you want someone to notice.”

You smirk. “Well, someone should.”

Sam glances sideways. “Are you trying to make someone jealous again?”

You exhale slowly. “No. I’m trying to forget someone who didn’t choose me.”

They don’t say anything after that. They don’t have to.

He tries again — too late, too little.

You’re walking back to your room when you see him — leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

He doesn’t speak right away.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “If this is another almost-apology—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I just… I wanted to ask how you’ve been.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He frowns. “I mean it.”

You smile — sharp, not soft. “I’ve been incredible. My hair looks like fire, I’ve been sleeping eight hours, and I haven’t cried over you in at least a week.”

His jaw twitches.

You tilt your head. “Anything else?”

He wants to say yes. You see it in him. He wants to say everything. But he doesn’t.

And that’s when you know: he’s still scared.

You nod once, like that’s all the closure you’ll ever get. “Good talk, Barnes.”

Then you walk away.

–

The breaking starts small.

Wanda sees it first — in the way you stare at your own reflection like it’s a stranger you’ve almost learned how to mimic. In the way your laugh is just a little too loud, a little too sharp.

“You know he looks at you like he’s drowning,” she says one day, mixing dye with gentle hands.

You shrug. “Let him. I already swam to shore.”

She hums. “And yet you’re still dyeing your hair over him.”

You look down.

The bowl is full of warm brown and honey blonde.

Less armor. Less noise. More… you. But the kind of you who wants to be chosen. The kind of you who wants someone to say,

“I see you, even when you’re quiet. Especially then.”

When she finishes, you blink at the mirror. You look soft. Normal.

You look like a girl who wants to be loved. Not survived.

Sam doesn’t ask. He just throws an arm around you.

He finds you in the common room, staring out the window like you’re trying to read omens in the traffic.

“You okay?” he says.

You nod.

He hums. “Liar.”

You smile — brittle. “Getting better at that.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t get too good. We need the honest version of you around.”

You nod, trying not to cry.

He pauses. “You know he’s gonna show up too late, right?”

Your throat tightens.

Sam looks at you with soft, clear eyes.

“Don’t let him take the best parts of you with him.”

Tony’s advice is sharp, but not unkind.

“You’re not hard to love,” he tells you, passing you your tablet.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re not hard to love. He’s just bad at directions.”

“…I don’t—”

Tony sighs. “Look, kid. People like us — we shine weird. And some people need a damn map to find the light.”

You look down.

He pats your shoulder, softer now. “Someone will find you and say, ‘There you are.’ Not ‘What do you do’ or ‘Who did you save.’ Just… you.”

And Clint? He hits you where it hurts, but it’s exactly what you needed.

You’re sitting beside him on the roof, legs swinging over the edge.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I saw you pull away,” he murmurs. “From him. From yourself.”

You sniff. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s your choice now.”

You turn.

Clint finally looks at you.

“You don’t have to be the cool one. The unbothered one. The just-a-girl one. You’re allowed to want something. Even if it scares him.”

You blink fast.

He adds, “And you’re allowed to walk away if he never stops being scared.”

But when the collapse comes, it’s because of him.

Because Bucky sees your hair and something in him shatters.

You look soft. New. Real.

You look like someone trying.

And it kills him. Because he knows it’s not for him anymore.

But he still tries. God, he still tries.

“You dyed it again,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You look—”

“Don’t.”

That shuts him up.

You turn, eyes bright with too much. “Don’t you dare say something kind. Not after what you didn’t say.”

He stares. You stare back.

Then you break.

“You made me feel crazy,” you whisper. “Like I was seeing things that weren’t there. Like I was asking too much for wanting someone to choose me back.”

He’s quiet.

You laugh bitterly. “I changed everything about myself trying to be easier to love. Calico hair, Neapolitan, brown with gold — none of it made you see me.”

Then your voice cracks.

“I would’ve loved you with everything I had.”

And he— He finally breaks, too.

“I know,” he chokes. “I know. And I’m sorry. I was scared. You make me want to be someone I’m not sure I can be.”

You step back.

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

He flinches.

You add, softer now, “But I hope one day it’s not yours either.”

And you walk away.

–

It starts with a song.

It’s nearly midnight. You’re stretched out on the floor of your room, headphones on, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly. Your new hair — soft brown with streaks of honey — is spread out across the floor like it’s trying to be gentle with you.

“I wish I was a normal girl...” —SZA in your ears.

You close your eyes and breathe in the sound.

You’ve never been normal. Not with your powers. Not with the chaos in your chest. Not with the way you feel everything is too hard, too much, too loud.

But for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, you pretend you are. You imagine a life where love isn’t complicated. Where Bucky Barnes isn’t a question mark branded into your ribs.

You picture someone — anyone — choosing you without flinching.

Then the next track rolls in.

“We can talk it so good…We can make it so divine” —Lorde, sharp, aching.

You laugh under your breath.

Because yeah. You still like him. You’re just done bleeding for it.

–

The mission comes at just the right time.

It’s a low-stakes one: intel retrieval, some clean-up, a detour through Prague. You go with Sam and Wanda. Just the three of you — the trio of the “don’t-ask-me-about-Bucky” club.

Wanda notices immediately. “You’re smiling more.”

You stretch your arms, crack your back. “I’m emotionally reborn.”

Sam snorts. “You say that like you didn’t cry to a Charli XCX remix two nights ago.”

You grin. “It was ‘Party 4 You’. Show some respect.”

“and crying to Lorde?” Sam raised an eyebrow a small smirk at the corner,

“That counts plus it was ribs!” You scoffed light, “and don't act like you didnt cry either sam!”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but you catch the way she watches you carefully — how she’s waiting to see if you’ll fall apart again.

You don’t.

Even when a group of Hydra stragglers trap you in a narrow alley, even when your comms buzz with static, even when Wanda loses line of sight — You still don’t break.

You let your fists talk. You let your mind twist one of their thoughts into mush just long enough for Sam to dive in from above.

You’re fast. Efficient. Ruthless.

But you’re also laughing by the end of it — bloodied but breathing, alive.

Sam claps you on the back. “There’s my girl.”

And something in you eases. Because yeah.

Maybe you’re still aching. Still haunted by a pair of stupid blue eyes. But you're still you.

And that’s something.

Coming home is harder.

Bucky doesn’t say anything when you walk through the compound doors.

But he looks.

Hard.

You don’t meet his gaze. You joke with Tony, high-five Client, make fun of Sam’s flying posture.

But when you pass him — your shoulder brushing his just slightly — you feel it

That familiar pull.

The yearning hasn’t left.

It’s just quieter now.

You listen to one more song that night.

You’re in your room, hair still damp from a long shower, skin smelling like lavender and fire.

“I only threw this party for you…” —Charli XCX again, soft and glittering in your headphones.

You stare at yourself in the mirror.

Not a normal girl.

Not his girl.

Just a girl.

And somehow, that’s enough. At least for tonight.

–

It starts with silence.

He doesn’t say your name. He just shows up at your door at 2:17 a.m., soaked from rain, like the universe itself couldn’t keep him away.

You don’t open it at first. You stand on the other side, forehead pressed against the wood.

Your heart’s thudding. Loud.

He knocks again.

“Do you love me or love me not?” The lyric filters through your Bluetooth speaker, too soft to blame but too honest to ignore.

You open the door. And there he is — raw and real and ruined.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice cracks. He swallows. “Please.”

You say nothing. Just step aside.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He just paces. Wet boots on hardwood. Dripping guilt across your room like it’s a confession.

“I keep seeing you in every corner of this place,” he says. “And it kills me that I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

You stay quiet.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I messed it up. I know I messed it up. But you have to understand, I didn’t know what to do with what I felt.”

You flinch. “So you ignored it?”

He stops pacing.

You whisper, throat caught in a ball “Or did you just ignore me?”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Any of it.”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “That’s the thing, Bucky. You don’t get to decide that for me.” tears threatening to spill eyes glossy.

He steps closer. The room gets smaller. The air gets louder.

“I think about you all the time,” he breathes. “When you dyed your hair brown, I thought—God, I thought I lost you. Like I finally saw you trying to be someone else because I made you feel invisible.”

You look up. “You did.”

Silence.

“Don’t you come back no more… don’t you come back at all…” Ravyn Lenae’s voice whispers in the corner.

His breath hitches. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stare at him.

Then—quiet, calm, steady:

“Then why did you spend so long acting like I wasn’t something to hold onto?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because now? You’re the one walking away.

You sign up for the next mission within the hour.

High-risk, high-speed. Undercover extraction. Wanda signs on first. Then Nat.

She meets your eyes across the mission board and says nothing. Just nods — like she knows exactly why you’re doing this.

Like she knows the sound of a girl trying to outrun a heartbreak that won’t stay quiet.

–

Nat doesn’t hold grudges. You never did either.

She leans against the helicarrier wall before the jump, eyes on you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “I’m tired.”

She hums. “He’s trying.”

You look away. “So am I.”

Nat studies you for a long second.

Then she says, “Sometimes, trying isn’t enough.”

You almost break again.

But then Wanda walks up and slides her hand into yours — steady and sure.

“You ready?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Let’s burn it down.”

The mission is brutal. So are your thoughts.

You don’t think about him when you’re fighting. You think about breathing.

About surviving.

About being something other than a girl with a bleeding heart.

But when you’re alone, during a lull in fire, perched on the rooftop with sweat on your brow and blood on your hands—

You think about the look in his eyes when you walked away.

You think about the question that song whispered:

“Do you love me, or love me not?”

And the answer he never gave.

You come back different.

The bruises bloom yellow on your arms. Your heart’s still cracked in that delicate way — not broken, but echoing every step.

You come home to the Compound late at night, your hair tied up, hoodie too big, eyes too quiet. Wanda gives your shoulder a squeeze. Nat doesn't say much, just offers a tight smile.

You pass Bucky in the hallway. He freezes. You do too.

He looks at you like he’s about to say something. His mouth opens.

But then Nat calls his name from the common room.

And he turns away.

Again.

The laugh comes out of you sharp.

In your room, alone, you laugh bitter and quiet. Because of course. Of course.

You almost died, and he still couldn’t say anything.

You strip out of your tac suit, stare at yourself in the mirror. The brown and honey-blonde hair is still there. Still soft, still trying.

But your eyes are starting to look like someone you don’t recognize. Like a girl who doesn’t believe anymore.

He tries. But too softly.

–

The next day, there’s a coffee cup waiting on the kitchen counter.

It’s your order.

You know it’s from him — he’s the only one who remembers the stupid oat milk and one pump of cinnamon.

You pick it up. You sip it.

But you don’t say thank you. You don’t go looking for him. Because what’s the point of breadcrumbs when you’re starving?

Sam watches you with narrowed eyes.

“He’s a damn idiot,” he mutters.

You smile without humor. “Yeah. Well. I’m done waiting for geniuses.”

He corners you later. Too late.

In the training room. Just you, the punching bag, and the ghosts.

He walks in slowly. You feel him before you hear him. The way the air shifts. The way your ribs lock.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he says softly.

You land another punch. And another. “Say what?”

He’s behind you now. “That I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

You stop.

Turn.

You’re sweaty. Tired. Raw.

“I don’t need you to apologize for the past,” you say. “I need you to show up in the present.”

His face cracks. “I’m here now.”

You nod slowly. “But I’m not sure I am.”

You grab your bag and walk past him — shoulder brushing him again.

But this time, you don’t look back.

The final twist comes from Clint.

Later that night, Clint finds you on the roof, eating ice cream straight from the tub.

He sits next to you with a grunt.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve seen Bucky fight gods and aliens. Never seen him look more scared than when you stopped talking to him.”

You snort. “Well. He should be scared. I’m terrified.”

Clint grins. “You are. But you’re also a girl who deserves to be loved right. Loudly.”

You go quiet.

Then: “Do you think he ever will?”

Clint sighs. “I think some men have to lose the best thing in their lives before they realize it was the best thing.”

You say nothing.

The wind whips your hair around your face.

Brown and gold. Still soft. Still burning.

And that night, you dream of the sea — and you wonder what it feels like to be wanted without fear.

It starts in the hallway. Of course it does.

You're just walking. Sweatpants. Hoodie. Hair pinned back.

The kind of morning where the coffee tastes like survival, and your soul feels heavier than your bones.

And then he’s there. Bucky.

Leaning against the hallway wall like a question with no answer.

And your phone’s still playing softly through one earbud—

“Every summertime / Every now and then you cross my mind…” — and he hears it. You know he does. You both freeze.

You keep walking. He doesn’t let you pass.

He gently reaches for the earbud cord, slides it out. His hand lingers for a second too long.

You whisper, “Don’t do this if you’re not gonna finish it.”

He looks at you.

“Finish what?”

You blink hard. “This half-version of you. The breadcrumb kindness. The Almost. I’m tired.”

His voice drops to a crackling whisper. “So am I.”

You stare at him. “Then why did you wait until I changed my whole self just to survive you?”

He sees it now — the hair.

It’s midnight purple, thick and soft and unreadable.

He opens his mouth like he might ask what it means.

But I don't.

Because he doesn’t need to. Not if he’s really paying attention.

It means this:

It means longing. It means a bruised kind of hope. It means the kind of hurt that’s grown roots.

It means: you’re still here, but you’ve built a castle of silence around your heart.

He knows he can’t knock it down this time. He’ll have to ask for a key.

Later, you’re sitting on the edge of the beach.

Sunset bleeds across the sky like someone split open a ripe peach. Sam invited everyone for a “team reset” and bonfire. You're surprised when Bucky shows.

Even more surprised when he sits next to you.

Neither of you speaks.

Then: “I never told you about the first time I noticed you.”

You blink at him.

“I really noticed you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Was it when I knocked you flat in training?”

He gives a crooked smile. “No. That was when I fell in love with you.”

Silence.

“It was the time before that. You were walking out of a mission briefing. Hair all cotton candy and chaos. I remember thinking… ‘God, she looks like she doesn’t even know she’s the most alive thing in the room.’”

You don’t respond.

Because how do you respond to that?

So you say what you’ve never said.

“Do you even know how badly you hurt me?” Your voice cracks. Just barely.

“I used to think your silence was mysterious. But it was just cowardice, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just look at the water.

“I wanted you to choose me,” you whisper. “But I guess I wanted it to matter to you first.”

Bucky finally turns. Eyes full of something that looks too much like an ache.

“It did matter. I just… didn’t know how to love you in a way that didn’t end with me losing you.”

You nod slowly.

“Well. You lost me anyway.”

And still…

There’s no yelling. No grand kiss in the sand.

Just quiet.

The kind that says: We’re not fixed. But we’re not broken beyond repair either.

His fingers graze yours.

You don’t pull away.

But you don’t hold on either.

–

After the beach, the next morning:

You walk into the kitchen. Tony is making something suspicious with a blowtorch. Wanda’s sipping tea. Sam’s already grinning when he sees your hair.

Everyone stares.

It’s no longer calico.

Not brown with honey.

Not Neapolitan.

Not soft.

It’s midnight purple, and no one can read what it means.

Except Bucky, who finally doesn’t try to guess.

He just meets your eyes with something like understanding.

And you…?

You just sip your coffee and say, “Morning.”

Like maybe — just maybe — being “just a girl” is enough.

–

You don’t ignore him. But you don’t invite him in.

It’s a quiet sort of standoff.

You train with Sam. You spar with Nat. You do recon reports with Steve. Debriefs with Tony. Quiet nights with Wanda and the occasional drink with Clint.

But Bucky?

Bucky gets the version of you that’s polite, efficient, and unreadable.

You laugh at Sam’s jokes. You tease Clint. You roll your eyes at Tony.

But Bucky? You barely look at him.

And it’s killing him.

The compound feels too small sometimes.

You pass him in the hallway. You’re carrying a box of gear. He holds the door open. You nod. He doesn’t move.

Then softly:

“You’ve changed your hair again.”

“You noticed?”

“I always do.”

You say nothing. Walk past.

His voice breaks slightly.

“What does this one mean?”

You pause. Then: “If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know.”

That stings. But you mean it.

–

You spar with Nat one morning. She doesn’t pull her punches.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

“Y’know,” she says between strikes, “he talks about you like he’s trying not to. Which means he is.”

You duck a punch, spin her to the mat.

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?”

Nat breathes hard beneath you. “Because he’s scared. He thinks if he touches it, it’ll break.”

You get off her. Offer a hand up. “It already did.”

She takes your hand. Hold it for just a beat too long. “He doesn’t know that.”

That night, you hear him outside your room.

Not knocking.

Just standing there.

Maybe for thirty seconds. Maybe longer.

You hold your breath.

He never knocks.

He walks away.

Wanda corners you in the library.

You’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, headphones in, pretending.

She taps your shoulder. Her powers buzz against your skin gently.

“I didn’t read your mind,” she says. “But I felt it.”

You take out one earbud. “Felt what?”

“You feel like you’re one hallway away from a scream.”

You say nothing.

Wanda sits beside you, gently braiding a loose strand of purple behind your ear.

“You’re trying so hard not to hope,” she says. “But it still leaks out of you.”

You laugh, soft and bitter. “I’m tired of wanting what won’t come.”

Wanda leans her head on your shoulder. “Maybe he just hasn’t figured out how to come the right way yet.”

Mission prep. One week out. Just you, Sam, and Bucky.

Tension like a live wire.

Sam fills the space with banter, but you and Bucky keep dodging glances like they’re weapons.

During gear check, he stands too close. His hand brushes yours.

You don’t pull away.

He doesn’t apologize.

That night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why almost-love hurts more than heartbreak.

Because at least heartbreak ends.

–

You sneak out with Wanda and Sam to sit by the water. You don’t speak.

Wanda brings wine. Sam brings music. You bring the version of you that’s holding it together.

They don’t press you. They just exist beside you.

And in the waves, under the stars, your hair catches the moonlight. Midnight purple that looks almost black, almost soft, almost real.

Sam finally says it:

“He’s drowning in you. And he doesn’t know how to swim.”

You whisper:

“I’m not asking him to. I’m just asking him to stop pretending he’s not in the water.”

It starts with your hair. Because of course it does.

You hand the dye box to Wanda without a word. Sam’s sitting backwards on a chair behind you, watching like it’s a ritual. Because it is. It always has been.

Wanda hums as she parts your hair. Her fingers are gentle, reverent. Sam starts reading the instructions even though you both know you won’t follow them.

“You sure?” Wanda murmurs, already knowing the answer.

You nod. But it’s not about the dye.

It’s about surrender. About saying: “I’ve tried everything else and I’m tired of hurting quiet.”

The color bleeds in like sunlight cracking through

It’s coral red—not firetruck, not crimson. Softer. Warmer. A glow from within. And the money pieces? Soft blonde. Like forgiveness at your temples. Like a whisper of light you didn’t think you deserved.

Wanda helps you rinse. Sam holds the towel for you. You stare in the mirror when it’s done, and for once—you don’t try to decode it.

This isn’t a message.

It’s just a version of you who finally took back her voice.

And then you see him.

You’re walking back to your room, headphones in, the chorus of “I Like U” playing like a secret you’re too tired to guard.

“I want you / I want you / I want you / I want you to have me too…”

And he’s there. Bucky. Leaning against your doorframe. Not running this time.

He sees the hair.

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t ask what it means.

He just says:

“You always change your hair when you crash. What’s this one mean?”

You sigh. Pull one earbud out. Step forward.

“It means I’m done waiting for you to catch up.”

And Bucky—finally, finally—breaks.

The confession isn’t neat. It never could be.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he says, voice rough. “Every joke you told that I couldn’t laugh at because I was too busy memorizing the sound? Every time you walked out of the room I felt like gravity left you?”

You blink. This is too much. Or maybe it’s just enough.

He steps forward. Hands shaking. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than my past.”

You say nothing.

Because if you speak, the dam might break too loud.

So you do what you’ve always done: You put your headphones back in. Turn the volume up.

“I like you / I like you / I like you / Sorry I never meant to…”

And he sees it.

Take the earbud from your ear. Puts it on his own.

And just says, soft:

“Me too.”

–

You laugh. It cracks like thunder through silence.

“That’s it? After all that, you just—‘me too’?”

He grins. Eyes shining, ruined, real.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner? That I was scared? That I thought I didn’t deserve you? I am. I was. But I’m here now.”

You look at him.

And finally, finally, you let yourself believe it.

It’s not perfect. It’s not tied with a bow.

But he takes your hand.

And this time? You hold on.

Hard.

–

You’re on a Quinjet again.

The seat beside you is taken—by him, now. Always by him.

Sam flies. Wanda reads. The clouds roll like waves beneath you, soft and silent.

You're on a low-stakes recon mission in Norway. Just a supply sweep. Easy. Quick.

The kind they give to agents who deserve a breath. The kind they give to people in love, who need time to just be.

You lean your head on Bucky’s shoulder. Your coral red strands fall against his black jacket. His gloved thumb traces idle shapes on your knee.

You don't talk. You don't need to.

This is peace.

And you earned it.

You land just after dusk.

The mission is routine. Wanda takes points. You and Bucky sweep the perimeter.

But there’s a moment—just before you enter the outpost—when he grabs your wrist.

“Wait.”

You blink up at him. He looks nervous.

“I just…” He clears his throat. “You’ve changed again. Not your hair. You. I mean—not changed like—God, I’m screwing this up.”

You laugh softly.

“I get it,” you say. “I feel it too.”

He exhales. Relieved.

“I just didn’t know someone could feel so much and still keep standing.”

You shrug. “I didn’t know someone could love me exactly as I am. Not as a hero. Not as a mind reader. Just...”

“Just a girl?”

“Yeah.”

And he leans in.

This time, the kiss is soft. Like rain. Like recognition.

The mission ends. But the softness stays.

Back on the jet, Sam grins but says nothing.

Wanda nudges your foot with hers and whispers, “I told you. He just didn’t know how to come the right way yet.”

You laugh.

Later, in your room, you find a note on your pillow in his handwriting:

“You were never just a girl. But I love you like one. Simply. Deeply. Without question. -B”

You tuck it under your pillow.

You let your hair fall in messy waves.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t wonder what the color means.

You don’t think about what people see.

You don’t need to read anyone’s mind.

Because finally, finally—

Being you is enough.

Just a girl. Just a heart. Just this.

And he chooses you anyway.

Always.

–

It’s late.

The compound is quiet, lights low, windows open to a summer night breeze.

You’re curled on the couch, legs across Bucky’s lap, your fingers idly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

The TV hums with some old black-and-white movie Sam insisted you’d both like. You stopped watching ten minutes ago.

Because Bucky hasn’t stopped looking at you.

And you can feel it.

That low hum behind your ribcage. That frequency only you can hear.

So you do it.

You slip quietly into his mind—not digging, not forcing—just listening to what spills over when his guard is down and you’re close and his heart is too loud to hide.

And you hear it.

“She’s gonna see it. She always sees it. God, say something, say something—”

“I’d give her everything if I could just figure out how to say it out loud.”

“I don’t know what she sees in me but I want to be what she keeps looking for.”

“Please don’t stop looking.”

And then, softer—

“I love her. I don’t know how to not love her.”

You blink once.

Your chest aches in that way it always does when someone tells you the truth without meaning to.

He sees it—he feels it. You don’t hide the fact that you’re in there.

He reaches up, brushing your cheek gently with his thumb.

“Caught me,” he whispers, a little crooked smile on his lips. “Didn’t mean for all that to spill out.”

You lean your forehead against his.

“I’m glad it did.”

Because it’s not a grand speech. It’s not a perfect line from a movie. It’s not fireworks or confetti.

It’s just him.

Raw. Real. Yours.

And his mind is no longer a maze of doubt and silence— It’s a love letter.

One you were always meant to read.

He doesn’t say "I love you" again. He doesn’t have to.

It’s in the way he pulls you closer. The way his hand settles over your heart like he’s memorizing the rhythm.

Outside, it’s raining. The windows fog.

And in your headphones, just barely audible—

“Through drought and famine, natural disasters / My baby has been around for me…”

You press a kiss to his jaw.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re too much. Or not enough.

You’re just a girl.

And for him?

That’s everything.

Wanda watches you from the hallway. Sam nods once when Bucky walks past holding your hand.

Clint mutters, “Took ‘em long enough.”

Tony raises a brow. “Called it.”

Steve? Steve just smiles quietly and doesn’t say a damn thing.Because he knows— Sometimes, the best stories take time to burn right.

(You've got mail!) OH MY GOD IM SO NERVOUS TO POST THISS I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS AND I WANTED TO GET THIS DONR BEFORE MY TRIP SO ITS A LITTLE BIT OF THIS A LITTLE BIT OF THATT AND IM LIKE RAAAAA

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