#so i tell him to have the fucking SP’s do it. bc tonight is FRIDAY and they GET OUT OF SO MUCH SHIT

[heli0s-writes]

Good Enough

Summary: From this ask:  i read your deadcrush miniseries and ig i got caught in the feels and love the way you write 💛 i was wondering if you could write something bucky x y/n where she’s younger but they’re in a stable relationship and she becomes pregnant? like she‘s happy and excited but bucky is kinda worried bc of his genes, past, etc.

A/N: So sorry this took like five months! 2.5k words. Fluff with a little cussing involved.

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

“How do you feel about the color orange?”

It’s a Friday night in the tower, almost bedtime when you embark of a journey of questions, carefully placed breadcrumbs for Bucky.

“I feel… fine?”

“Light orange or dark orange?”

“What’s dark orange look like? A dirty penny?”

“Light orange it is.” You scrunch your nose at the thought of painting a room the shade he’s imagining.

“What for?”

You shrug.

When you both brush your teeth, you take glance at him in the mirror, eyes trailing from his brow to his chin, attentive to the way his nose slopes and his jaw cuts. Jesus, you’d be lucky if--

Bucky mutters from behind a mouthful of toothpaste suds, “What is it?”

After four years it makes sense that he would be able to figure out when you’re keeping thoughts to yourself. He’s in your head, Bucky Barnes. Even when he’s not there, you’re thinking of him. Every second of the day, really. It’s Bucky breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all other hours, too. It makes you a little bewildered with joy that you can feel so much for a single person.

Even before he kissed you at the end of that horrid mission--- when you nearly drowned in some lake in Scotland. He had plunged into the murky depths, arm gushing blood, yanked you up onto shore and performed CPR. Your ribs nearly broke and Sam was by his side, head in his hands. Get up, get up, get up, goddamn it!

With a final two-handed press into your chest where the slightest bit of crunching could be heard, you spat. Two mouthfuls of foggy blue-green right into his face.

FUCK!

Sam sighed in relief, leaning back with his hands on his waist because if you hadn’t woken up, he thought, Bucky would have burned down the entire country.

I think--- another sputter as you attempted to catch your breath—the fucking Loch Ness monster--- fuck. I think I saw that shit.

Blinking the prickling from your eyes, you struggled to see clearly from the swelling of your lids. Your sternum felt bruised, and in front of you, Bucky looked about ready to burst into tears.

You got a little—haha—my spit—on your face.

He snarled and you reeled back in response. He snarled and shoved you back into the mud and kissed you until you coughed again into his mouth, a final splash dowsing a blazing moment.

Sam looked away with a grin and spoke into his earpiece, updating the rest of the team of your status. She’s up. Well—sort of. Barnes is kind of all over her.

Even before that moment, your head had been swimming with all thoughts of him along with desperate attempts to drive them away—make them small and unseen so you don’t trail behind him like a lovesick idiot.

He was the damn Winter Soldier. He was a legend and you were just a loud-mouthed kid, only twenty.

You had been rough around the edges, needing a lot of preparation and training before you could run any missions. There was a lot of difficulty at first, especially when it came to Steve. You were always too clumsy, too brash, not enough pirouettes and cartwheels. Whatever.

So, after days of doing nothing but getting scolded and running simulations alone with FRIDAY, Steve dragged Bucky into the weight room where you were throwing a seventy-pound medicine ball around like it was a can of soup.

Punch her. Steve had commanded with a smirk, a little irritated that earlier in the day you kicked his legs out underneath his shield. Punch her with your arm.

You almost shit yourself. And Bucky looked like he could have, too. It took a lot of yelling from Steve, yelling back from Bucky, and incomprehensible yelling from you before Bucky was so overwhelmed with the noise that he just did it.

That powerful arm pulled back, whirred, launched itself forward and you had bat it away like a ping pong ball, feet grounded assertively. Wide blue eyes pierced you, made your heart leap into your mouth, and when he did it again you were so struck by him it hit square in your chest.

Steve clapped his hands together. Great. Meet your new training buddy. You two rough each other up—Buck, you get her right because she’s inconsistent and I’ve got her signed up for a patrol three weeks out.

As Steve promised, three weeks later, you were crammed into a tiny car next to Bucky. The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

It was a joke, to start, but you really had it bad, finding yourself more anxious and fearful, and covering it up with smart quips and comments in hopes of throwing him off.

Barnes, you get The Avengers Ass Award from me, Cap be damned.

Absurd bantering during jogs together when he would stop to pull his hair back and you were struggling to keep up. Your spine tingled when a strand of hair fell forward and hung over his face. Bucky are you from Tennessee ‘cause you’re the only ten-I-see.

He would laugh and wink, call you baby, and egg you on because kids are inexplicable, and Peter Parker’s twitter feed had opened his eyes to all sorts of compliments used in the modern age between friends.

Yeah, you would grin, totally, friends. Me and you, totally, definitely, friends.

Eight months later, Scotland turned the whole thing sideways.

Yeah. We all knew. Y’all are stupid-cute. Sam had snickered. In your ear through the comm link were cheers and whooping. Bucky turned red like the cut on his arm.

-

“What about green? How do you feel about green?”

“You’re doin’ the thing again.” His comment borders on annoyed as he gives you a sideways glance, throwing his toothbrush back in the cup with a tinny clink.

“What thing?”

“Pretending you’re deaf.”

“Okay...” You smirk, “but what about green? You like green?”

He scoffs, moves so that he’s behind you and swings both arms around to lock over your middle. His chin rests on your shoulder, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your cheek. Once again, you’re reminded of just how much you adore him. Your tummy flutters with nerves as his eyes find yours in the glass, big and curious.

“What’s goin on with you? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

-

Tell me what you’re thinking.

The fallout of Scotland lingered awkwardly after the plane ride when he rushed back to his room taking long strides and not giving you another glance. He didn’t even have the courage to look at you—only facing the side wall, tucked himself behind the button panel.

Two weeks passed before you cornered him in his own room and spoke those words that would eventually become an integral part of your relationship.

Tell me what you’re thinking, Bucky. If it was a mistake, tell me. If it wasn’t, tell me. You’ve been avoiding me and look—Barnes, I want your goddamn babies, but c’mon. You gotta throw me a bone, I’m shit at reading signs.

There was a strange look in his eye, an overcast sweep staring at his hands clenched together tightly, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t laugh at your jokes. The plates whirred to his left, the knuckles turned bone white on his right. You opened your mouth silently. Three breaths passed before you pushed him up against the wall, using all your strength to peel his hands away.

Then, a kiss. The softest of kisses you could give another human being. Because he was made of memories and regret—pieced back together in the form of Bucky Barnes as fragile as a glass menagerie. You didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking again—it was all over his face: He wasn’t good enough. He was a broken thing. You deserved better. Someone your age, maybe someone who could give you a different life.

So, as you had always done, you bat it away and grabbed him by the face. The second kiss had bruised you both. Sam didn’t let either of you live down matching cut lips for a month.

-

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask quietly, ignoring Bucky’s question as you snuggle up next to him in bed.

“Darlin’… I’m tired. Either tell me what it is, or lemme go to sleep.”

You pout and ram your forehead into his arm childishly, “Just tell me!” Usually he thinks it’s cute when you act like this, but tonight he’s had enough of it. He calls your name in a low tone, the same kind of voice Steve uses when you’ve been too nonchalant with mission orders.

In the dark, you grip onto his hand and press your cheek against his arm, commanding your throbbing heart to still just for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to Clint’s place last year?”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. And he—he had some of Laura’s family over?”

“And that wretched green bean casserole?”

You laugh a little, swallow thickly, “Remember after dessert when I asked to hold the baby?”

Bucky pauses, digs around in his brain for the moment, “Yeah—you said it was ugly and…”

The lamp on the end-table floods the room orange as Bucky sits up and peers down at you still attached to his elbow. There is recognition in his eyes and suddenly he looks his age—pallid, gaunt, and so deeply afraid. You can only manage a tiny lopsided tug of your lips.

“Are you?” He asks, voice shaking.

You wring your hands nervously, shut your eyes, and hope that when they open Bucky’s expression would change from pained to elated.

“Shit, baby. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Okay, guess you’re not taking it well.” Your face burns with embarrassment before the heat falls into your stomach like stones. It should have been a moment of bliss—when the man you love would scoop you up into his arms and spin you around while confetti flakes sprinkles from the sky. Then, fireworks, shot by Iron Man would spell Baby Barnes! in the background.

Instead, Bucky looks like he might die on the spot.

He can’t help but feel so worthless, because he hardly feels like he deserves you most days, much less face the thought of bringing an entire person into the world. A child. An innocent. And him—unworthy of goodness.

He chokes, “Baby, I—the, fuck. I can’t give this kid—” He sputters and groans, throws his head back against the wall and you think you might hear the plaster cracking behind his skull. Your face twists into a look of irritation.

“You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

He looks up, shocked, then quickly ashamed.

-

I can’t give you the life that you deserve. You’re… you’ve got better options than me. You deserve to be with someone your age.

Four months after the near-drowning and the most perfect, sweetest, kiss. Four months after telling you he would love you, Bucky pulled away in the middle of the night and shut himself out of his own future. You had laughed, and then cried, and then let him have his way. Okay. Yeah, if you really think so.

The next week, Tony threw a party for the new SHIELD recruits and you had gotten extremely drunk off eight mouthfuls of whiskey. Across the room was one very expensive Japanese vase, standing five feet tall and gaping at the ceiling.

The recruit next to you watched in awe as you tossed all empty shot-glasses clear over the heads of seventy people and they crashed into the chasm of the urn, hand up dramatically as if you were making a 3-pointer. Steph Curry with the shot, boy!

Tony sent Bucky a contemptuous look and mouthed fix this the same time the young man’s arm snaked around your waist. Then, you clasped your hand over his with a wolfish grin and waltzed with him out of the room.

Bucky stormed after, snatching you off the recruit who was happily kissing you against the wall. Bucky scowled, squared his shoulders and demanded to know what you were thinking.

With a wide and slow sweep of your outstretched hand, you bowed, teetering just a little.

Buck, you said I deserved better. Here it is. Its name is Henderson.

Bucky pointed at the agent, suddenly caught in the middle of a quarrel he never intended on seeing. The Winter Soldier, looking like he could level the floor, and you, just as strong, glaring back matching his ferocity. You think this … boy –a condescending scoff sent Henderson shrinking down-- could give you better?

He’s my age! Wasn’t that your suggestion? Hey! Henderson, you can give me ‘better’, right? Go grind on each other at a club like us kids do? Make-out in public and dry-hump in the car before fucking all night at your place? Or hey--- let’s fuck all night right here! Do you know—Henderson, do you know whose room is two doors away from mine?

Henderson had been smart enough to sneak away before he could see Bucky press you up against the wall and latch his mouth onto yours. Tears were streaming down your face, way before your tirade had finished. It poured and dripped and wet the front of both your shirts. Bucky Barnes, you’re full of--  

He didn’t let you finish. He held your face and wiped your tears. He kissed you again for the last first time, rekindling the fire he had been trying to extinguish.

It would burn, Bucky thought then, until you chose to leave him, because he wasn’t going to leave you again.

-

“Say it to me again.” You hiss, “Try me.”

“Baby…”

You crawl on top, grab his face with one hand and squeeze until his cheeks mush up and his mouth hangs open. “Don’t be so fucking self-deprecating! I don’t like it! You’re being mean to my Bucky and I’m gonna beat you up because I love him!”

“Un--- o—okay- hon, leggo—” the words escape him pinched together, but you are stubborn. You hold on longer, glare at him harder until he lets out a long-suffering sigh, relenting with a smile—still crushed by your thumb.

Happily, you give him a kiss on the cheek and let go. Bucky rubs his jaw where your fingerprints feel like they might bruise more than just his ego.

A tentative look at your belly, still smooth and firm. His hand finds the plane of it, fingers brushing the skin and over newly forming goosebumps. A surprising amount of excitement flutters in his own at the thought. It’d be good. A good baby. Made up of him and you, and the love you’ve fostered in him, too.

“Mmm, so… green?” You mutter, leaning down to kiss him once more. “How do you feel about green?”

Bucky laughs into your mouth. Defeated. Elated.

“Yeah. Green’s good, honey. Green’s good.”

-

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