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artficlly · 3 months

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a dish served cold (mini series - part six)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x reader

after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, guns, violence, kidnapping, mentions of murder/death, sexual tension, death of parent, verbal fighting/argument, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, betrayal, animal death, hunting, mention of bounty hunters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: part six!! we're in the end game now, let me know your thoughts sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of deep purples and fiery oranges, casting the landscape in a warm, otherworldly glow before darkness took hold. You and Bucky watch the transition silently, feeling the cool evening breeze ruffle your hair and send shivers down your spine. The crackling flames of the campfire provided a comforting warmth, but you couldn't help but notice the biting chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

Setting up camp near the winding river had advantages; the proximity to water made it easier to replenish your supplies, and you planned to follow said river to an eventual civilisation, but it also meant lower temperatures. In the distance, the silhouettes of deer and rabbits darted across the plains, their movements accompanied by the gentle rustling of bushes. The haunting sound of coyotes filled the air, their distant howls echoing through the stillness of the night, a constant reminder of the untamed wilderness that surrounded you.

You had cooked up the last food, two cans of beans. One for you, one for Barnes. You were both starving after days of travel, so you did not bother to scrunch your nose at the food. A comfortable silence had fallen over both of you, but you couldn’t help but notice how Bucky’s eyes often drifted over to you. You wondered if he was sizing you up. The fire crackled and cast a warm glow on his rugged features, accentuating his intense gaze. You found his silent scrutiny both unnerving and intriguing, wondering what thoughts ran through his mind as he observed you.

Exhaustion weighed heavy in your bones, and you hoped the outlaw would fall asleep soon. It was unsafe to be the first, in case he slipped his binds and ambushed you. You can feel the weight of your eyelids as your head bobs slightly, trying to keep yourself awake. You scan the surroundings, the flickering light of the campfire casting eerie shadows across the clearing. Every rustle of the leaves or crack of a branch made your heart skip a beat. The thought of being murdered in your sleep undoubtedly motivated you to remain vigilant. You didn’t take Bucky for the cruel type. He was violent, yes, but not sadistic. At least you hoped.

“How’d you get into this business?” The outlaw's voice breaks the silence, and your head jolts upward to meet his steady gaze.

“Why?” You ask, voice tinged with suspicion. Did he still think you were just a bounty hunter after everything he'd seen?

“Just curious, that’s all.” It was as though the quiet unsettled him too, and he was anxious to fill it.

You consider his words, sucking on your teeth thoughtfully. Your mission wasn't driven by money; it was fueled by revenge. Vigilante was a more fitting title for you. Many had asked you the same questions along your journey. You'd stroll into ramshackle saloons and bars, ensuring to unbutton your bodice or blouse and wear a coy smile. Men, often foolish and drunk, rarely thought beyond their desires. It was easy to pick up a breadcrumb trail, piecing together murmurs and rumours circulating through the small trading towns. Each time, you spun elaborate lies; the truth was more mundane than any story you could fabricate. You'd tell them you were a descendant of a long line of bounty hunters, seeking revenge on the man who killed your one true love, or trying to impress a hardy gentleman back east.

Maybe tonight you could tell the truth. The two of you are alone now. His quickly approaching date with death warranted some honesty between the both of you. He didn’t even know half the story; at least, he hadn't picked it up. He had taken one look at your attire and fluttering eyelashes and dismissed you as harmless. Not a threat. He didn’t even know why, out of all the outlaws in the country, you had chosen him.

“‘Cause of my Pa,” you hum. Your voice is a soft melody in the stillness. You pick at some softer grass that protrudes from the earth. “He’s dead now.”

“I remember. You told me back in Crimson Junction.”

A genuine smile emerges on your face at his words. So he had remembered. “He was a hard-workin’ man, a blacksmith. He worked hard to keep me and my Ma fed. We were close, ‘least I was closer with him than I was my Ma. She always took it kind of hard, I think. Called us thick as thieves. One day, he and my Ma went a couple of towns over on the train for their wedding anniversary and left me alone at the house.”

You pause, taking a deep breath, before continuing. Your smile falters. “The day they were supposed to come back, they were late. I waited up all night, sick to my stomach. I went over all these terrible things that could’ve happened to them. Until my Ma returned home early in the mornin’, covered in blood, cryin’ her eyes out.”

Your face tightens, the muscles around your mouth drawing into a grimace. “There had been some holdup on the train, some robbery gone wrong. He was killed. Shot in the back of the head like some animal. My Ma, she watched the whole thing. She couldn’t do anything. Just screamed.”

You lift your gaze, meeting Bucky’s eyes with a hard stare. “They never caught the guy.”

The blood drains from Bucky’s face as he listens. You continue to fidget with the grass, your brows scrunching in thought, the memories as vivid as the day they occurred.

“Every day I would go down to the sheriff station and look at the bounty posters. I would look at the faces of the men. My Ma pointed out the poster of the man who she claimed was responsible. And I would stand there, and I would stare, wonderin’ if we would get the justice we deserved.”

“Where was this robbery?” Bucky questions, his voice strained. You ignore him.

“The law lost interest, some rich stagecoach was robbed, and all their eyes turned away.” You continue, a bitter edge creeping into your tone. “It made me sick that those men, the men who swore they would bring justice, abandoned us so quickly, all for a few more dollars.”

Bucky’s face twists with horror and guilt as the weight of your words settles over him. You watch him for a moment, your expression cold.

“Me and my Ma had some money, but we were gonna starve without my Pa’s work. We couldn’t work the forge or have a bank account… so we sold it. The best I could do was marry and send money back to my Ma but… but all I could do was stare at those posters. So I bought a horse with what little we had left, took my Pa’s rifle, and rode out. I followed hints and leads until I found a trail.”

“Ya don’t understand—” Bucky speaks up again, near-begging. Your eyes snap upward, and you lift your chin high, your mouth set in a firm line.

“That trail led me to Crimson Junction. It led me to you.”

The silence returns, thicker and uncomfortable. Bucky’s eyes are downcast in shame, like a scolded dog. Your stomach twists, a nauseating frustration gnawing at your gut. You rise to your knees, your knuckles white as you aim your rifle over his heart.

“And to think, I spent weeks or months staring at your picture on a poster," you continue, your voice akin to a snarl. "I thought when I found you that you’d be some monster. I knew in my heart that you were evil because you shot my Pa. In the back of the head, no less, like a coward. You couldn’t even shoot a man who was lookin’ you in the eyes."

You pause, a mix of exasperation and disbelief in your tone. “I wondered if you’d have horns like a devil or hooved feet. But when I saw you… you were normal. And instead of this wickedness I had prepared myself for, you showed me kindness. In that saloon. You didn’t know me, yet you protected me.”

You lock eyes with Bucky, demanding an answer. “Why?”

Bucky remains silent. You lurch forward, still aiming the gun.

“Why?!” You scream at him, your voice echoing through the quiet of the night. The outlaw doesn’t even flinch.

“Because it was the right thing to do.” Bucky replies quietly, his eyes casting down again for a moment before meeting yours again.

You sneer at him.

“The right thing? The right thing to do?” You scoff, your tone laced with utter disbelief. You let out a sharp, almost delirious laugh. “You killed my father. You. You killed him. He turned his back, and you, like a coward, shot him. You pulled that trigger.”

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Ya left your home, marched out into this desert… all because of yer father?”

“Yes.” You say, chest heaving with each breath. “My mother is still in mourning, you know. Dressed in black each day, that’s if she even gets out of bed. It was never about the bounty money, but justice. It was about revenge. I would bring you back to Aramiah and I would watch you swing. You’d take your last breath, and the last thing you’d see would be me and my Ma smilin’ up at you.”

“That’s why you’re draggin’ us all the way to Aramiah? For revenge?” Bucky barks.

“I’m beginnin’ to think I should’ve shot you out here and put you down like the animal you are. ‘Least I’d have the guts to look you in the eye while I did it.” You hiss.

Bucky rises to his knees, his movements slow and deliberate as he shuffles towards you. Your shoulders tense involuntarily, and your hands are steady on the rifle as you watch him pause before you.

“Then do it,” he challenges.

The pounding of your heart reverberates in your chest, feeling as if it might leap out of your throat. The sound was as deafening as the rushing flood waters that had devastated Crimson Junction. You could do it. You could end the journey that you had foolishly started. You could end this cycle of violence and suffering.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your arms began to tremble under the strain. Bucky did not move an inch; his eyes were locked with yours. Silent acceptance. It made you sick.

Would killing him really end the cycle? Or would the wheel spin once more, creating a new path of destruction through your actions? Your head ached with the weight of the decision, and your palms were slick with sweat. Was this the path of righteousness, or was it wickedness in disguise?

You could kill him; you could end it. But it still meant your Ma would starve. It still meant you’d have to return the same as you left. You’d still have to marry and carry the weight of all you had been through and all that was to come. Even if you were not the one to pull the trigger, even if he swung… would you feel better? Would there still be a pit in your chest that seemed to deepen with each passing day?

It would pass.

It will pass.

You threw the rifle to the ground with a grunt, sitting back on your haunches. Bucky observed you with a grim expression, mirroring your actions as he lowered himself to the ground across from you.

“I will watch them hang you.” You tell him, hands shaking. “I will watch you die, and the world will be better for it.”

—

A fine, ethereal mist lay over the landscape in the early morning, casting a dreamy veil over the terrain. Dew clung to every surface, tiny beads of moisture coating the grass and bushes like delicate jewels. Even your hair and clothes were damp, the moisture seeping into your skin and leaving a slight ache in your bones when you awoke.

Both you and Bucky were quick to rise. There was no need for words; you both understood the urgency of covering as much ground as possible before the midday sun turned the desert into a scorching furnace.

This wordless routine continued for several days. Each morning, you would wake early, drink from the river, and follow its current through the arid landscape. Bucky, his hands bound, trailed behind you on the horse. By midday, you would seek out any available shelter—a rock, a tree—anything to provide respite from the relentless heat. As the sun dipped below the horizon, you would resume your journey, travelling until darkness enveloped the land. Then, you would light a fire, rest, and prepare to repeat the cycle the next day.

The two of you did not speak again until the third day.

The river's water kept you both hydrated, but the cool liquid did little to sate your hunger. The two of you sat under a sparse tree, its leaves rustling in the gentle breeze as shadows and light danced across your skin. The patch of shade was so small that your shoulders were pressed against each other, despite your mutual disdain.

Bucky leant his head back against the trunk, loose strands of hair tickling his forehead, his eyes closed. You, meanwhile, eye him cautiously, your arms hugging the rifle in your lap. Despite his constant nonchalance, you never let your guard down around the outlaw.

Just as you thought he had drifted asleep, Bucky’s eyes crack open as your stomach growls. It has been grumbling for the past two days, the lack of food and constant exertion were wearing you down to exhaustion.

“Ya know, we see animals all the time while we’re walkin’. Why don’t you shoot one and feed yerself so we both don’t have to listen to yer stomach wailin’ all the time?” He asks with a sigh.

You swore he was asleep. You had counted his breaths and listened as they grew slow and deep. Now he was peering across at you. His tone didn’t sound hostile, but it certainly wasn’t concern laced. He was rather frustrated, like he had discovered the solution to the mystery, but you were still struggling to solve the first clue.

“You really think I haven’t already thought about that?” You snip back, your voice sharp. Bucky’s eyebrow twitches, a flash of irritation crossing his face as he leans back against the rough bark of the tree.

“Ya know how to hunt, right?” He asks, his tone flat and expectant.

You remain silent, tilting your head away so you don’t have to look at him, staring instead at the distant horizon where the distant, blue mountains stood ever vigilant.

“Yer Pa taught you how to shoot, but he didn’t teach ya how to hunt?” He questions again, astounded.

“He taught me how to protect myself from other people. People like you. His lessons were usually of the ‘wherever you shoot you’re bound to hit something important enough’ variety.” You retort, bitterness creeping into your voice as you clench your fists in your lap.

“That don’t answer my question.” He presses, eyes narrowing.

“People are big, usually runnin’ towards you. So we would line up bottles and cans… I never had movin’ targets.”

Bucky sighs in disbelief, his bound hands raising to rub his face in exasperation. “So yer gonna let yerself starve? On account of what—pride?”

“And what do you suggest I do? I’m not wastin’ bullets teachin’ myself out here.” You snap, turning your head to finally glare at him.

“Well, I know how to hunt.” He offers, his voice calmer now, almost coaxing, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

“You don’t seriously think I would give you the gun?” You scoff.

“It was worth a try.”

“Unbelievable.” You mutter under your breath.

“I could teach you. Tell you how hunt… how to aim right—” Bucky starts, his voice more earnest now, leaning slightly forward.

“I’m not givin’ you this gun Barnes—” You cut him off.

“I weren’t sayin that—”

“Then what are you sayin’?!”

Maybe it was the relentless heat bearing down on you both, making the air thick and maddening, but you wanted to wring his neck out of sheer frustration.

“I can tell you what to do. You hold the gun and I can guide you.”

You pause. The sweltering sun seemed to amplify every irritation, yet you couldn't deny the practicality of his offer. You study his face, searching for any trace of deceit. The hard lines of his jaw and the determined set of his eyes all speak to his desperation—a desperation that mirrors your own.

“Would that really work?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, his gaze unwavering, the honesty in his voice catching you off guard. “But it sounds better than starvin’.”

You narrow your eyes at him, weighing the risks, your fingers digging into the coarse fabric of your skirt. The memory of your father, of what Bucky had done, gnaws at you, but so does the gnawing emptiness in your stomach, the fear of dying out here alone.

“Alright,” you finally concede.

A reluctant truce.

—

When the overhead sun slowly began to dip across the blue skies and the late afternoon heat started to sizzle out, you and Bucky emerged from your shade. The heat of the day gave way to a more bearable warmth, and the sky began to change colours as the sun descended. Bucky had explained to you earlier that rabbits were most active at dusk or dawn, which worked well for you since your skin already felt burned to a crisp.

The two of you lay parallel to each other, downwind from an active burrow the outlaw had spotted during your short scouting mission away from the riverbed. Tall grass tickled your skin as you settled into position, the skies blooming in beautiful oranges and pinks as the sun sank below the horizon.

You lay close to one another so that Bucky could whisper instructions to you without alerting your prey. Your forearms and shoulders knocked against each other occasionally as both of you leaned on your elbows, scanning the environment for any signs of movement. The proximity was necessary, but it also brought an unexpected sense of intimacy that neither of you acknowledged.

It was strangely peaceful, as if the tension between you had been cut. You had spent so many days boiling over, caught up in your terrible thoughts that repeated in circles in your head. Having a moment to focus on something other than your misery was weirdly pleasant, even if the company wasn’t.

“There. By that bush,” Bucky hisses beside you, his voice barely a whisper. His body is tense, every muscle coiled in anticipation. You follow his gaze, your own limbs frozen, acutely aware of the need for stillness. “Ya see it?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice equally low and hushed. Your fingers tightened around the metal of the rifle, the surface warm and slippery from your sweaty touch.

“Aim up yer shot like you would normally.” The outlaw instructed, his head dipping slightly as he remained locked onto the rabbit through the tall grass.

You follow his instructions, moving slowly and deliberately. Using the sights, you guide the barrel to the left, aligning it with the small, delicate form of the rabbit. Your heart pounds in your chest as you rest your aim over the rabbit's shoulder, sucking in a slow, steady breath. Through the sights, you can see its twitchy little nose sniffing cautiously and its beady eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

“Good.” Bucky’s voice was low and grumbling. The praise left a heat in your gut. “Aim over the head if ya can. Better to save as much meat as possible.”

You follow his guiding words once more, adjusting your aim and lifting the barrel slightly. The rabbit moves forward a step, its ears twisting, still unaware of the danger.

“Now, deep breath. Squeeze the trigger nice and slow,” he instructs, his voice a low, calming murmur. You can feel his warm breath ghosting across your cheek.

You follow his words, your fingers hovering over the trigger as you breathe in deeply. The rabbit's whiskers twitch and its nose sniffs the air cautiously. You exhale slowly, centring yourself, your finger now steady on the trigger.

The shot rings out—a sharp, deafening crack that echoes across the empty plains, momentarily drowning out all other sounds. Around you, wildlife scatters in a flurry of motion; birds take flight in panicked flocks, and deer bound deeper into the desert, their white tails flashing in the fading light. You grit your teeth, a frustrated sigh escaping your lips as the rabbit's white tail disappears into its burrow, unharmed.

“I told you this wouldn’t work.” You grumble, pushing the rifle away with a rough shove.

It was not like you to be quick to give up. You had always been fiercely determined your entire life; that’s how you ended up in this mess in the first place. You did not falter when faced with difficult or even seemingly impossible tasks. But this journey, this desert, had worn you down. Maybe it was the hunger and heatstroke talking, but you felt as though holes had been worn into your very being, draining you of the strength that had always defined you.

With a groan, you roll onto your back, your arm draped over your brow as you stare upward at the sky. The deep blue was darkening, and the warm light of the sunset was casting the world into a purple haze as the twilight hours descended. The stars began to peek through, tiny pinpricks of light in the vast expanse above, indifferent to your struggles.

Bucky was silent beside you, but when you glance over, you realise he was watching you with an uncharacteristically soft and unguarded expression. The usual brooding edge of his expression seem to soften in the fading light, his eyes reflecting a quiet concern.

“We still have time. Sun’s not set yet,” he says, his voice gentle, almost coaxing.

You consider his words, your empty stomach clenching so hard it was nauseating. “This isn’t working,” you repeat yourself. The outlaw frowned, his brow furrowing in thought.

“It’s not that it’s just—” He sighs, tilting his head slightly as if searching for the right words. “Yer too tense, you need to relax a bit, yer shot jerked up.”

“Barnes—” You begin with a grumble and he cuts you off.

“One more try. I think I might go mad if I have to listen to yer stomach wailin’ any longer. If ya untied me, I could guide ya better,” he says, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained serious.

You scowl at him, the idea of untying him again makes you uneasy. There was an unspoken truce between the two of you. You had untied the man before, and he had not moved to attack you. He had kept his word, proving to be more useful than you ever wanted to admit. Maybe his help would get you this rabbit... but you certainly would not be giving him the gun.

As you mull over the decision, you can't ignore the twisting hunger that makes every second feel like an eternity. The analytical side of you recognised the sense in his suggestion. With a reluctant sigh, you reach over and begin to untie the ropes binding his hands. Bucky remains still, his eyes never leaving your face.

Once freed, he flexes his wrists, rubbing at the raw skin before turning his attention back to you. “Alright, let’s do this proper.” He says, his tone more focused now.

Once again, you find yourself in position, stomach flat against the ground, shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky. The earthy scent of the soil mixed with the faint fragrance of prairie grass fills your senses, grounding you. It didn’t take long for the rabbits to reemerge, their eager movements a testament to their obliviousness to the two of you tucked between blades of grass downwind.

Your sights rest on a clear shot, a rabbit out in the open, less obscured by foliage. You watch it as it sniffs around.

“You need to breathe, sweetheart,” Bucky hums from beside you, his voice a low, calming murmur. You fought the urge to roll your eyes, your mouth set in a determined line, and your shoulders tense. Bucky shifts beside you, his movements are deliberate and slow. Your head swivels away from your prey to look over at him in disbelief.

“What’re you doin’—” you protest, only to cut yourself short. The outlaw had pushed himself up on his elbows, his hands coming to rest on your shoulder blades. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, locking you in place.

“Relax,” he mutters, his voice soft yet firm, as he applies gentle pressure with his palms against your upper back. The word was more of a command than a suggestion, and it resonates deep within you.

Brows drawn together, you face forward again, focusing on the rabbit. You’d have to process the outlaw nearly being on top of you later. His palms smooth across your shirt, the rough texture of his calloused hands against the soft fabric. He gently guides your pose until your shoulders are relaxed, and the tension gradually dissipates under his touch.

You try to focus on your breathing, each inhale and exhale is measured and slow. Bucky continues to adjust your arms, indicating small movements with the slightest nudge of his hands. His touch is careful, almost tender, as he directs you, his fingers brushing against your skin. Then, his hands sweep down until they rest on your lower back, the warmth of his palms seeping through your shirt. His chin comes to rest over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.

Much to your annoyance, you find that his silent suggestions were indeed helpful. Your body feels strangely at ease, even with him practically perched atop you. Your skin burns under his touch, heat flooding your cheeks as you try to focus on the task at hand.

“There you go, darlin’.” He whispers into your ear, his breath warm and his voice a low, soothing rumble. You can feel the vibrations of his tone through your back. Turning your focus to the rabbit once more, you breathe as he instructs, the rise and fall of your ribcage pressing against his chest with each inhale and exhale.

You pull the trigger.

To your disbelief, the rabbit drops dead instantly.

A profound silence envelops both of you as the final echo of the gunshot fades into the distance. Bucky straightens up and offers a lopsided grin. You finally turn your head to stare at him in astonishment.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, but a smile begins to tug at your lips.

The tension that had coiled tight in your chest unravels all at once, replaced by a surge of elation. Laughter, raw and unfiltered, bubbles up from deep within you. It's a mixture of disbelief and relief.

Bucky shares in your joy. His chuckle is a deep, rumbling sound that mingles with your laughter, a genuine grin spreading across his rugged features. "Hell of a shot."

Overcome with emotion, you surprise yourself by throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. His body stiffens momentarily, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy. Then, as if suddenly remembering he had control over his own body, he relaxes into your embrace. His hand finds its place gently on your back. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your rapid pulse.

Then, as quickly as it surfaced, you jerk away with flushed cheeks.

His gaze flickers, darkening with a primal intensity.

You remain shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass, the warmth of his body lingering where your shoulders, arms, and hips meet. A gentle breeze sweeps through the prairie, causing his dark hair to flutter. You swallow hard, but you can't bring yourself to look away from him.

The brief moment of triumph from shooting the rabbit—a moment of success after days—begins to fade. Bucky reaches forward, wordlessly and tenderly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Hunger still bites at you, but alongside the physical ache, there’s another hunger—an unsettling, confusing desire for the man beside you.

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. A part of you craves more. You want him to trace his fingers down your cheek, across your collarbone, and down to the swell of your breasts. You want his touch desperately, painfully. You're starving for him, your entire body trembling with need as you imagine his hands roaming lower, his lips searing against your skin. You long to feel his sculpted muscles beneath your fingertips, to draw unimaginable sounds from him with just your hands and mouth.

Maybe it's the madness of being under the sun for days on end, a blend of starvation and lunacy. Food is just meters away, yet you can't tear your gaze from him. Not as you lean into his touch, not even as your lips part.

Not even as you foolishly reach out, running your fingers through his hair.

And maybe he is just as foolish and hungry as you, because the outlaw grasps your face gently between his palms. His calloused hands are warm against your skin. He hesitates for a heartbeat, searching your eyes for any sign of resistance. When he finds none, he leans in and kisses you.

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