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valhallavalkyrie9 · 2 days ago

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i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

───────��────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

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valhallavalkyrie9 · 4 days ago

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valhallavalkyrie9 · 4 days ago

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𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6,068

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: returning to the small wyoming town you were raised after a sharp fall from grace, your music career having turned into mindless pop you were forced to churn out by your manager and now ex, a return to home is just what you need, the perfect place to take a break from the life of a pop star, and also to meet some old faces.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rhett is jealous again, tense eye contact, niki being a walking green flag, swearing and slight arguing.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the niki fangirls are gonna love this one, the niki haters maybe not so much, sorry not sorry. the reposts and comments are so greatly appreciated my loves, your feedback means the world and keeps me motivated! please enjoy chapter three!

Aside from the slight talking to from your father when he had come home about an hour later, with a soft reminder to just let him know next time, the night trailed off to be particularly uneventful after the video call with Amanda had ended.

The next morning, you’d hopped into the shower first thing, suddenly feeling all the more grateful for the list of shower supplies you had no doubt Amanda had gone to the trouble of ordering and sending out to you, as they’d been waiting for you ready to go in the shower caddy on the first day.

Soaps that smelled like honey and facial exfloiator had seemed to be exactly what was needed to make you feel recharged and invigorated, washing away the sour emotions of last night.

Reminding yourself of the meditation tracks your therapist had sent to your phone as you stepped back out of the shower, you took the extra time to blow dry your wet hair, putting it up into a claw clip before changing into a comfortable set of grey lounge wear.

Today was a day that was whole heartedly for you, you knew your father was out today, so the entire house was solely your own for a few sweet hours.

Having initially began the day with a coffee and a quick fifteen minute guided meditation out on the porch, just as was recommended, a womans soft breathy voice guiding you through breathing exercises and wellness techniques that you were only half paying attention to.

Your reflex was to grab your phone and post your regularly scheduled promotions for whatever sponsor you were set up with for the day, but here you were, no pressure to post anything, no schedule to follow.

In short, you felt like you had too much free time to do anything with.

Standing on the porch looking out into the driveway in the distance, you could only huff and walk back inside, looking for something that you could fill your day with.

There was only so much old coffee to wash off of the mugs on the sink, polishing them to perfection was enough to waste away a whopping seventeen minutes, you’re only other option to sit on the plush couch and flick on the tv on the wall.

Sitting cross legged, you flicked through a few channels, nothing but older sitcoms played out on the tv stations out this way, maybe a local ad here and there.

As you flicked once more to another channel, the sound of the halfway point of a song began, realising you’d flicked onto the MTV of all things, surprised they even aired it out this far.

Within seconds, you recognised the song to be one of your own, the music video playing along with it, the skintight outfit you were wearing glistening while you danced, two other backup dancers imitating the movements behind you.

You could remember filming this one so clearly, the green screen you’d been made to dance in front of a clear memory, now superimposing you against a backdrop of what you guessed was meant to be the top of a building.

Inbetween the shots of you dancing and singing, they were followed by snippets of you splayed out onto a silk sheet on a bed, the little black nightie they’d put you in leaving little to the imagination as you made bedroom eyes into the camera, just as you were directed to.

It was hard not to cringe, you didn’t even hate the song entirely, the lyrics were just empty against what could have been a half decent hook.

Words of desire towards nobody in particular, singing about how much you loved some imaginary person and how badly you needed them.

The next shot seemed to be you in some sort of leather leotard with gold details, walking through a crowd of people in just as odd outfits dancing along to the song you were lip syncing against.

Unable to watch anymore, you flicked over to the next channel not even caring much for what was on there anymore, even if it was just so that you could have some background noise.

The feeling of your phone vibrating next to you was a welcome distraction, even if it was just a notification from the weather app.

Oh. This was much better than the weather.

A text message, from an unknown number, that didn’t remain unknown for long as you actually opened the message, reading keenly as you found yourself sitting up straighter.

‘hey, its niki. i hope you dont mind, your dad gave me your number before he left last night.’

Even thought you ached to check whether or not he’d actually asked for your number, or if your dad had simply offered it, which did actually sound like something he’d do to be polite to one of your old highschool friends, you resisted, some part of you trying her hardest to remain composed and play it cool.

Is it weird if you respond back too quickly? Would he know you’ve done nothing all day except stare at your phone and cringe at old music videos.

Tapping the back of your phone against your hand impatiently, you allowed at least a minute or two before you even looked at the message again, feeling the slightest bit giddy.

Finally allowing yourself the privilege of typing back a message, you’re teeth sunk into your bottom lip just a little bit as your nails tapped lightly against the screen.

‘oh hey! that’s ok, we probably should have exchanged numbers anyway, considering, haha.’

Unable to help yourself, you screenshotted the message, along with your response, sending it straight to Amanda, already knowing that she would want to be the first of all people to know.

Watching the text you had sent her turn green, as well as the small ‘read’ icon coming up from the bottom almost immediately, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the facetime request all ready popped up onto your screen, the photo you took of Amanda when you were out to dinner spanning across the screen.

Opening the call with a soft hum sound, Amanda’s face came into view, a grin on her face rivalling that of the cheshire cat.

From what you could see, she was in her gym clothes, her hair in a low bun and a fresh sheen of sweat on her face as she walked to the locker room.

“What did i tell you.” she spoke as soon as she was alone in the locker room, shaking her head at you in the way she always did when she was proven right.

“Ok but like, this doesn’t mean anything solid yet.”

Your response only made her smirk more, her head turning as she opened up the locker containing her bag.

“Clearly he wants to give you something solid.”

Letting out a cackle, your head flying back slightly as you stood yourself, walking to the kitchen and placing the phone on the window sill so that you could make another coffee as you talked.

Before you could continue, you heard your phone vibrate, looking straight at the screen and squinting as you read the message that popped up.

Hearing the vibration through the face time call, Amanda’s wide eyed looked only made you grin more, putting a hand over your mouth to laugh as she placed her airpod in her ear to get ready to exit the gym.

“What’d he say!” she begged, waiting impatiently as you opened the message and read it silently. “I want you, baby, come round to my house so I can bend you over my kitchen table.” Amanda’s poor impression of some kind of latin accent and her comically deepened voice only made you roll your eyes.

“Shut up, thats not what it says.”

Finally reading the message, you couldn’t help but hop in place a tiny bit and let out a small little giggle.

“He’s asking if i’m gonna be at the rodeo on Wednesday, his dad and him are gonna be running his food truck there.”

As Amanda let out a sound of glee, she held a finger to signal to you to wait a second as she opened her car door and got inside, positioning the phone up on her dashboard as she gripped the steering wheel of the parked car.

“So, first of all, you’re going” she began, already taking charge as if she was planning every little detail out in her head to the upmost significance. “And second of all, you will be calling me the night of to pick a pair of jeans that makes your ass look irresistable.”

Rolling your eyes, you pulled up a mocking salute, unable to say no to any of Amanda’s orders; To be completely fair, she knew better thank you about most of these things, having always been the one you came to for advice.

She felt untouchable to you sometimes, like she just had everything figured out, even if you knew in your heart of hearts it wasn’t true.

There had been more than enough times where she’d been vulnerable to you in the same way you had to her, the time’s she’d taken care of her niece when her sister had to go through some treatment at the hospital, the flowers you’d helped her pick out.

It was so often that she was looking after you, so coming around to her place to help her with some dinner and a helping hand with the fussy little seven year old girl had been something she’d barely even had to ask.

“Ok girl, i love you, but i have to get ready to head back home, i’m having Kaycey over again.”

Nodding understandably, you gave her a smile as picked up the phone, using your free hand to run your fingers across your scalp, a small yawn coming out of your mouth.

“Tell her i said hi.”

Kaycey was adorable, but full of stubbornness, the pair of you slowly worked out what made her tick, how she preferred to watch old Bratz movies you’d watched when you were younger, as opposed to Bluey. As the facetime finally ended, the small chirp from your phone signalling the disconnect, you finally spared a look out the window, noticing the beginnings of rain falling from a now darkened sky, the first time it’s rained since the first time you arrived back in Wyoming.

Leaning against the wall as you held your phone back up, you continued typing out your response to Niki, assuring him you wouldn’t miss it, that you’d come up and say hi, even requesting the promise of some free food as a lighthearted joke.

Putting your phone down on the counter, you allowed yourself a moment to step outside, the pittering of rain already starting to sound out against the tin patio roof;

Just as you’d used to do all the time as a child, you took a deep inhale into your lungs, the unplaceable smell of the rain making your mind come flooding with nostalgia.

You’d had no idea just how good the smell of Wyoming rain smelled until it had been so long since you’d even been around it, finding yourself at a weird sense of peace that you hadn’t experienced for a long while.

When the night before the rodeo finally came, there’d been a steady stream of messaging occurring with Niki, messages exchanged reminiscing over highschool memories, asking about how his mother was doing and him gushing about how happy she was about the photo.

Graduating from texting to snapchat should have definitely been the first sign, or at least Amanda thought it was.

Soon enough you were receiving stupid little selfies of him grinning while stood behind the bar, captioned with things such as ‘it’s so dead here, don’t how know many more glasses i can polish’.

It was hard to pretend like you weren’t kicking your legs like a little girl whenever you received one of his absolutely adorable selfies, sometimes at home, sometimes at work.

It was on the off chance that when he’d asked how you were doing, you had a photo of a towel on the door, mentioning needing to take a shower in a bit.

The following snap you’d received from him only about a minute or two later had you with your jaw slack.

A cheeky grin on his face, obviously aware of the nature of the photo, there he stood in all his glory, his arm reached above his head to rest his hand on the doorway above him, his shirt riding up just enough so that you could see the beginning of a line going along his pelvis, a sneaky little hint of olive skin poking out.

For a moment you felt like you’d died and gone to heaven, the way you had to put a hand over your mouth to hide the small laugh of disbelief at his sudden boldness.

The caption didn’t help by any means, only agreeing that he himself also had to shower, the mirror in the bathroom providing just enough of a shadow so that he was slightly less in view.

At first, it was hard not to feel at least a little bit of panic, debating what exactly you could send back, whether or not you wanted to match his energy, return the bone he had thrown your way.

Brief consultation with Amanda has proved more than helpful, advising that an innocent enough little selfie in your pajamas laying on the bed was more than enough of a response, while still hinting at something more.

By no means were you about to jump into sending a nude to your old science partner, but there was certainly some little kick out of being subtly flirty, you definitely missed the feeling of being desired, to be chased, it was invigorating.

It was in all honesty refreshing.

As you placed your phone back face down on the side table, there was a level on anticipation to be found, even if it was late; knowing you were gonna see him tomorrow and that you’d had a pair of jeans hanging on your door along with the stetson your father had just let you keep.

Everything coming together made it hard to sleep at all.

With your father’s agreeance to drop you off at the rodeo, even if he wasn’t attending himself this time, he’d seemed please you were taking the initiative to go somewhere by yourself, musing about how he’d been invited to a poker night with some friends anyway.

Assuring that he’d have his phone on the entire time if you needed anything, he’d waved goodbye to you from the window of his truck, a pleased smile on his face.

The task of actually weaving through the crowds was daunting at first, but slowly you became used to the feeling of turning your body from side to side as you progressed forward, allowing yourself to move in the same rhythm as everyone around you.

There was definitely so much to see that had changed since when you used to go to the rodeo as a kid, more games for the kids set up, so many more different food options available, it was a weird, but not unwelcome change in the slightest.

Watching a group of kids throwing darts at the balloons set up on the wall in front of them, it was hard not to smile, your arms crossing over your chest and watching one of the smallest ones lining up their shot, concentration clearly ethched on his chubby little face, before he threw, a pop sounding out as he cheered with his friends.

Well that was just a little bit adorable huh.

Pulling your purse tighter to your shoulder, you’d hoped your choice of outfit was plain enough so as to not stand out hugely, the denim flare’s on your legs paired with a slightly cropped tee, simple enough, you’d hoped.

The smell of all the fried food only became more tempting the closer you got, being reminded of one of the reasons you’d even come out to the rodeo by yourself in the first place.

You kept your eyes peeled, trying to remember Niki’s description of the food truck that he’d shared over text, as well as a rough idea of where it’d be parked.

It was the bright yellow that initially caught your eye, followed by the small line following to the window lit up by fluorescent white light, only to finally land on Niki, there, in all his glory, a short sleeved grey shirt and apron around his neck.

He seemed so swept up by orders, handing food out of the window and yelling out orders with each docket printing out seemingly at an unforgiving pace.

You recognised his father, along with one other stranger, likely just another cook that worked at the restaurant, grilling away, working at a pace that made you nervous on their behalf.

Smiling to yourself, you approached patiently, waiting for the line to go down until you eventually got to the front, the anticipation killing you each time you’d step forward.

Just as professional as always, you heard Niki yell out a quick “Just one second!” as he hadn’t turned his head to look at you yet, punching an order into an ipad with the concentration of a nuerosurgeon.

When he’d finally looked down at you, you’re smile greeting him, it was quickly reciprocated, his eyes widening as he leaned forward slightly out of the window.

“Hey you! You made it!” he started, turning to look at the dockets printed and hanging above the grill, seemingly checking to see how it was all travelling before he turned back to you.

“If you give me like, five minutes, ill come out and hang, just gotta wait for the rush to finish.”

He was so sweet about it, seeming apologetic as if you weren’t the one he was preparing to halt his work for. Nodding, you gave him a thumbs up, going to turn before you heard his voice once more.

“Pendeja!” he yelled with a laugh, shaking his head when you turned back around “what do you want?” he enquired, gesturing to the chalk board on the side of the truck “on the house.”

“Niki, no, i can’t-”

Your protest was interrupted by a wave of his hand.

“Shut up and tell me what you want.”

God his smile was so gorgeous, even when he was telling you to shut up.

Letting out a sigh as you tilted your head, it was hard to concentrate on anything written on the chalkboard next to his head.

“Just surprise me.”

Finding a spot to the side was easy enough, settling yourself down on one of the many tables that had been set up as a place to eat, you could only wait in silence, finding yourself unable to do much else aside from checking your phone occasionally, pretending to be interested in the time.

Just as promised, after about five or so minutes, you could Niki arriving from the distance, two plastic plates in his hands, apron now discarded you didn’t know where.

Your arm extended out to wave at him, smiling brightly as he came to sit across from you, sliding the plate of food in front of you.

Only now that he was across from you did you realise that he was also holding two glass bottles under his arm, grabbing them and setting them on the table between the two of you, a satisfied sigh leaving his throat as he gestured to what you now realised was a corona.

“For you.” he spoke, nodding to himself, seemingly not noticing the way your face fell only slightly, still trying your hardest to maintain a smile.

You had absolutely no clue how to actually explain everything, the reason you couldn’t touch anything even slightly alcoholing, on top of how you might explain it to him without making him feel petrified at having offered you a beer of all things.

Opening your mouth to speak, you could only let out a small sound, seemingly having no clue as to how you would phrase it.

Noticing the look on your face, his eyebrows rose, concern seeming to cross over his features as he looked down at the spread he’d brought for you.

It felt rude to decline the drink he’d brought for you, no doubt from the fridge of the food truck himself, even worse if he’d actually bought it for you.

“Everything ok? Is it the food? I didn’t make it if thats what you’re wondering.”

His attempt at brushing it off with humour made you feel better in all honestly, a soft exhale of laughter leaving your lips as you leaned forward and hung your head slightly.

Looking back up, you gave him an apologetic look.

“No, the food looks amazing, it’s just..” part of you felt petrified to even touch the bottle, images of you drunk in the street in heels and a sparkly outfit while paparazzi hounded you coming to mind.

Keeping your voice low, you kept it to a simple “I don’t drink.”

Niki’s eye’s widened, his arm immediately coming out to grip the bottle, pulling it to his end.

“Shit, im so sorry.”

The fact he felt bad for something he didn’t even realise killed you a little, yet he seemed to shift the mood back over pretty quickly, sending you that same grin he’d sported in the bathroom photo.

“More for me.”

As you sat and ate, your discussion seemed to range from an array of different topics, old school memories that you were able to laugh about all the way to him explaining all the different times he’d had to kick people out of the bar.

All good things must come to an end evidently, your stomach sinking a little bit as the topic of yourself was brought back into discussion.

“So how long do you think you’re gonna be back in town for?”

The question was obviously innocent, but it only made that ever present anxiety in the back of your mind grow ten fold. The long answer was that you had no idea, would you just hide out here till you had no career to come back to?

Live off of the royalties of your songs for the rest of your life? Not likely.

As much as you wanted to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist past this small town, you knew there was still record studio executives waiting on you, of course the timeline of your recovery was in your hands, the scandal could still keep your name in headlines for at least a little while longer.

But eventually you knew in your soul they were going to start pulling out when you started dropping off the charts, fading into obscurity.

In the god’s honest truth you hadn’t even thought about it that deeply yourself.

“Absolutely no clue.” you laughed out, holding your hands up and shrugging your shoulders; you didn’t want to go into the details with Niki, you didn’t really wanna burden anyone with the details really.

“I guess this could be a good place for some inspiration, maybe write some new music while im here.”

You didn’t even know yourself if that was true, the inspiration in you had been long sucked dry, when your team started bringing on ghost writers and producers, assuring you that the money was worth the creative integrity.

Deciding that this conversation was doing probably more harm than good to your inner dialogue, you rose from your seat, gathering up the plastic plates and swinging your purse over your shoulder.

“I think i’m gonna go watch the bull riding.”

It definitely was a little bit rude, but the food had been long finished and you knew that there was only so long Niki’s father was going to tolerate him being away from the truck for so long.

“And you.” pointing a finger at him as he stood, placing his hands in his pockets

“Need to get back and keep helping your father out.”

Holding his hands up in a surrendering manner, he only nodded in agreeance with you, the smirk on his face carrying just as much mischief as it always seemed to.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do what i’m told, but only this time.”

Niki returned the gesture of a finger pointed at you as he began to walk backwards, shaking his head as he looked at you.

“I’ll see you round, Pendeja.”

Watching him turn to jog back around the corner to where the food truck was, you could only let out a small huff.

There was definitely an inner turmoil at play within you, that was for certain.

Niki was such a sweetheart, and clearly there was a mutual attraction shared between the two of you, but the petrifying fear of intimacy within you, much less whatever it was exactly that eas starting to bubble between the two of you, seemed to be taking precedence each time a little bit of progress was made.

Even now as you continued your walk towards the bull riding stands, finding a place to sit inbetween all of the other people that lined up to see some cowboys get flung, you were unable to stop the slight frown from cementing itself on your face.

The idea that you could get in the way of yourself that badly was infuriating, but then the idea of jumping straight into another man’s arms so soon after such a messy breakup was just the same.

Hell, the wound was only about four months healed, you still occasionally saw your ex’s face coming up on old mutual friend’s social media, it was nowhere near enough time to just brush something like that aside, right?

When do you know when it’s because you actually want something like that, and not just yourself desperately seeking out the comfort of trading one man out for another?

As the event began, that same familiar rock music blaring out of the speakers just the same as last time, you occupied yourself with watching men getting flung off of thrashing bull’s backs.

Even then, it’s hard to be distracted by self pity when you’ve got something so absolutely entertaining in front of you.

The stupid rodeo clown was even enough to have a laugh leaving your throat.

As fun as it all was to watch, the universe decided that it was particularly enjoying fucking with you tonight, considering that you’d forgotten one big fundamental detail at the bull riding that was currently on.

That detail, that important little smidgen you’d conveniently forgotten?

Rhett Abbott was coming on next.

It was the first time you’d even heard his name since the restaurant, much less seen him in person, having been so distracted by the prospect of meeting up with Niki, you’d completely forgotten about his existence all together. You tried to force yourself not be invested, truly, wanted to continue the air of not caring if he lived or died, considering that was obviously how he felt about you.

Yet when the horn rang out and you immediately heard the sharp clanging of hooves on metal as the gate was swung open, for some reason you just could not look away.

The bull was relentless, seeming to thrash itself in a change of direction as much as possible, determined to get what i considered to be nothing but an annoying flea off of its rump.

As much as you cursed the ground he walked on, hated the way he looked at you with an air of superiority. God, as much as you hated him for starting the nickname tweety bird in highschool.

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t doing a damn good job. You didn’t have to like him or even particularly enjoy his company to see that.

You could literally hear the cheers of the crowd growing wilder the longer he stayed on the bull for, that anticipation of waiting to see whether or not he’d get flung off before his eight seconds were up.

In some weird way, time seemed to be moving in slow motion, yet ultra fast all at the same time, with every millisecond that you didn’t hear the buzzer making your heart rate increase.

As soon as it rang out, like a choir of angels sent from heaven itself, you let out a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding, letting go of your purse handle which was now sporting little moon shaped indents from how hard you were gripping it.

The roar of the crowd around you was palpable, your silence pertaining more to your absolute shock, your mouth hanging open slightly.

As he finally allowed the bull to shake him off, being helped to his feet hastily by a handler as the rest worked at getting the bull back through the gate, you could see his chest rising and falling even from the distance you were at.

Adrenaline was a powerful thing, you knew that better than anybody, as you watched Rhett Abbott begin to bang on his chest like some sort of primal warrior, it was palpable.

His eye’s scanning the crowd hadn’t initially had you off guard, obviously he was enjoying the resounding response to his victory, continuing to bash his fist against his chest.

Even when his eyes landed on you.

As if set off, seeing you in the crowd, knowing you’d witnessed what just occurred, you weren’t sure if it was ego or something else entirely.

But you could have sworn he was smirking.

With a final bang to his chest, your vision might have been tricking you, but had he just nodded at you, a single, sturt nod before he’d turned to jog back to the gate, jumping it as if it was nothing.

You’re head tilted, eyes widening and brows furrowing.

Exactly what the fuck did he mean by that one?

Whether you were meant to be insulted by that, you had absolutely zero clue, the only thing you were certain of is that whatever it was, it was most certainly meant for you.

Left thoroughly confused by whatever it was that had just been shared between the two of you, you dispersed with the rest of the crowd when the rodeo was swiftly coming to an end.

Now noting the lights from games that were no longer on, as well as the now dwindling number of people around, the show grounds were suddenly seeming a lot quieter.

You were definitely tired, no doubt about that, hell, it was nearing almost midnight.

As much fun as it had been to go out by yourself for the first time in ages, the task you were now faced with of getting home was already proving itself to be a daunting one.

Exiting into the now nearly empty parking lot, you stood by the entrance and pulled out your phone, tapping the name ‘dad’ in your contact list and putting the phone to your ear.

Soft ringing was all that you could hear, feeling your heart drop a little bit as it continued, all the way up until his voice mail began to play.

Sucking in a sharp and nervous breath, you hung up and dialed his number again, waiting with a nervous breath, reassuring yourself that he’d probably just put his phone down somewhere and that any minute now he’d pick up.

Yet as his voicemail continued once more, you already felt a lump in your throat as panic began to set in.

Trying two more times evidently wasn’t a big help, doing absolutely nothing to remedy yourself.

Pacing back and fourth by the entrance was doing little for you, running your free hand along the seamline of your jeans not helping in the slightest as your heart beat hammered in your own head. As your own thoughts began to get to you more and more, you subsided in your attempts to call your father, nothing the fifteen percent battery life left on your phone, if he tried to call you back, a flat phone would do absolutely no good.

Yet as about ten more minutes passed, no buzzing from your phone, you were now cursing softly to yourself, feeling tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you rummaged around in your purse for some sort of miracle, anything to feel like you were doing something other than just standing there about to cry.

“What the hell are you still doin’ here?”

Initially, you jumped at the sound of a voice behind you, turning to see who it was however, only made you want to sink further and further into your little pity party.

“Fuck off, Rhett. I really don’t need this right now.”

Any attempt to hide the way your voice wobbled was futile, turning your head up to the sky to try and blink your tears out of existence as you let out a shaky exhale.

“Hey, fuck you. I was just checkin’ to see if you were okay. Christ, don’t worry about it.”

His response only made your lip wobble more, your head hanging as you heard him walk past you, the gravel crunching under his boots, growing softer as he walked towards his truck.

Desperation was a powerful thing, top it off with you on the verge of a panic attack wondering how the hell you’re going to get home that doesn’t involve walking and becoming coyote food.

“Rhett, i’m sorry.” you wobbled out, the sound seeming to stop the cowboy in his tracks, duffel bag hanging off his shoulder as he turned to watch you walk towards him.

“Please, I know you fuckin’ hate me and god knows I don’t know why. But I can’t get home, my dad was supposed to pick me up and he’s not answering me.”

Almost as if you could quite literally see him deliberating, he looked across at you, your puffy eyes and wobbling lip seeming to be enough to appeal to his better nature, whatever the beef seemingly shared between the two of you.

“Fuck sake..” he whispered to himself, letting out a huff as he unlocked his truck and opened the driver side door. “Get in.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, you scurried around to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door and moving a few things off of the passenger seat before sitting down and closing the door.

Trying to compose yourself as he got in next to you and shut his own door, you could hardly even focus on how you were now sitting in the truck of a man you apparently hated.

“I can’t take you to your pa’s place.” he started, his tone already laced with annoyance at the predicament he had found himself in and somehow agreed to.

As he spoke, you waited him to finish, already not loving the idea of not being in your own bed tonight, but anything was better than being stranded out here at night.

“It’s the exact opposite of where I live and I’m fucking exhausted.”

You couldn’t blame him in that regard, you were just as tired if not more, feeling as if you could even fall asleep on these seats, as uncomfortable as they were.

“But, I have a pullout couch you can crash on, just don’t make too much fuckin’ noise and i’ll take you home in the morning, gotta head out that way anyway.”

Nodding, you were in no position to say otherwise, and you knew you were already on thin ice anyway, arguing against him could result in him rescinding his offer of transport all together.

“Ok.” you spoke, trying to calm yourself down and relax knowing you were gonna be safe for the night “I’ll be quiet as a mouse, you won’t even know i’m there i promise-”

As you spoke, he sent you what could only be described as a warning look, tired and exhausted eye’s telling you all that you needed to know.

“Starting now.” you finished, buckling you seat belt and keeping your gaze out the window as his truck pulled out of the parking lot.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @foreverchangingmind . @tsukikyo . @marsupialnoises . @iknowrocknroll . @astromilku .

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valhallavalkyrie9 · 4 days ago

Text

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6,489

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: implied panic attack, swearing, rhett is an asshole in this one im sorry, flirting, jealous rhett if you squint

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so with this chapter comes the introduction of a new character, along with the expanding of another, if you'd like me to, i'll make a post with their face claims because there were definitely faces in mind while writing them haha. i hope you enjoy this one, we get a teensy bit more rhett (i promise there'll be more soon)

As of this morning, you’d so far managed to reorganise your childhood bedroom, something you remembered one of your health coaches mentioning echoing in your head, feng shui helping out with these sorts of things, or something along those lines.

Even if you didn’t entirely understand how it worked, a change of scenery to a bedroom with a pretty large load of memories could definitely be a start to feeling human again.

As the day progressed, you’d even managed to help your father out with aurora, the silence as the two of you worked at brushing out her coat and refilled her food tray’s being just as good a bonding activity as any, all the small steps that were beginning to make you feel like you’d never even left your home in the first place.

It was pretty obvious even to yourself that this was all being done in order to distract yourself from the prospect of dinner with the abbots tonight, your father explaining that it was Cecilia’s idea, overjoyed by the prospect of you being back home and wanting to catch up on some long overdue time.

He’d told you that you were allowed to say no if you wanted to, hinting at the fact that there was obviously some tension with the idea of being in a place with ready access to a bar.

Promising he’d be by your side the whole time, expressing that he’d be ok with taking over ordering if you weren’t feeling comfortable with the idea, even offering to politely ask the other abbots if they could go with just cola’s for the night.

Your life coach’s shrill voice had rung in your head, always with the daily motivations, encouraging you to do one thing that terrified you every single day, that it was important to do things that scared you.

That was probably why you’d agreed, reasoning with yourself that it would be nice to go out and just eat something that wasn’t a health food, something fried, maybe even something cheesy, all the things you’d been conditioned to stay away from by the personal trainers hired by your manager.

It’d been so long since you’d gone without somebody telling you what to wear, always having an outfit ready to go for you when you stepped out of the shower, so it suddenly dawned on you that you had no idea what to even wear tonight.

With your father not exactly being a fashionista by any means, it didn’t seem reasonable to ask him for advice on your clothing choices, the only other person you could think of, hell, the only other number in your phone other than your psychiatrist for emergencies, was Amanda.

As you pressed the button on the screen to attempt a face time call, the soft ringing tune emitting out as you stared at yourself, taking a moment to prop the phone up on your bedside table and kneel, your hands and chin resting on the wood as you waited for an answer. The hum of the facetime being answered sang out, the image of amanda holding her phone in front of her face, clearly on the couch and resting, nothing the silk bonnet on her head and the oversized reader glasses on her face.

Formality was something you’d both thrown out the window less than a year after she became your lawyer, getting to the point you’d sleep over at each others houses, have pizza nights while discussing things all the way from copyright issues all the way to each other’s sex life.

“Whats up, sexy?”

Her voice brought a smile to your face, greeting you as if you weren’t hundreds of miles away and as if you hadn’t spoken for almost a week.

“I need your help.”

You hadn’t meant for you tone to sound so panicked, regretting it straight away as she sat up straight, her face becoming concerned, as she put her wine glass down on her coffee table with a clink.

“Whats happened, is TMZ trying to contact you again? I gave them that cease and desist, I swear to god if i have to get-”

Her ranting, even if overly concerned, was a nice little reminder to how much she cared, the fact that most lawyers wouldn’t feel personally offended on their clients behalf, and yet Amanda always did, she always seemed to genuinely want your safety and well being maintained.

“No, no, no. it’s not that!” you laughed through your words as you raised your hands up in a stop motion, shaking your head as she put a hand over your mouth to hide your snorting laughter.

“You’re gonna think its so stupid.”

Her face seemed to calm down immediately, a smile returning to her face as she reached forward to grab her wine glass again.

“Making me put down my wine and everything, this shit better be good.”

Laughing together, your leaned your head to the side and let out a huff, looking back over to Amanda as she settled back into the couch.

“I got invited out to dinner.” you started, opening your mouth to keep going before Amanda spoke up again, her eyes widening.

“You got asked out?” her excitement was palpable, already jumping the gun “Heyyy! I know that’s right!” “No, girl.” you were both laughing, cackling even, like a pair of teenagers; thats how Amanda made you feel, you could let your guard down around her and immediately share your deepest thoughts because you know she’d keep them entirely to herself, that she’d encourage you wholeheartedly and unwavering in whatever you wanted.

Finally finding the strength to continue talking through the laughter, you stood up and let the phone camera show you in full view, the third dress you’d tried on so far coming into view, one of the black versace ones you’d found, still sporting two little gold emblems on the straps, maybe just a little bit too much for dinner with your dad’s friends.

“It’s my dad’s friend and his family, it’s just down at a little diner type place, i think.”

Smoothing the black fabric over your body, you turned back and fourth slightly, looking at yourself in the phone camera as Amanda nodded along.

“But i haven’t had to dress myself for like, three years, i have no fucking clue what to wear.”

Shaking her head as she chuckled, Amanda pointed a manicured finger towards the lens, effectively pointing at you.

“Only someone like you could complain about having nothing but couture in your suitcase, girl.”

As much as you were embarrassed, she was right to a certain degree, of course you were grateful to have all the beautiful clothes you did, much less the wardrobe’s filled with them back in your house in LA, but there was also a level of respect to be held when going out to eat with people who’d probably only be willing to spend good money on a pair of sturdy boots.

“Yeah but like, I don’t want his family to think im trying to, like, flaunt my money on them. I just want something nice and simple.”

Amanda’s brows raised, clearly unimpressed with your attempt at nice and simple, giving you a look that told that you’d been called out immediately.

“How hot is he?”

Immediately her question made you furrow your brows, shaking your head as you opened your mouth to respond.

“What do you mea-”

“Bitch, you would not be pulling out the Versace medusa 95’ maxi if there wasn’t somebody coming to dinner that you want to see you in that dress.”

Her voice was mixing with laughter towards the end, her head turning up to the ceiling as she fixed her glasses from where they’d fallen slightly.

“I thought this was nice! It’s plain!”

“It’s four thousand dollar’s! I know! Cause i was there when you bought it.”

Only able to put your head in your hands, you let out a deep sigh and stepped forward, kneeling once more and resting your chin on the end of the side table, a face like a kicked puppy.

“What do you suggest instead then?”

At your question, Amanda only held up her hand, raised eyebrows with a smirk as she took a another sip of her wine before speaking.

“Oh, you’re wearing the Versace, Bitch.”

With Amanda staying on the line with you, all the way through to setting the phone, ceiling up, on the bathroom counter so you could keep chatting with you while you showered, you realised just how long it had been since the two of you had just had some proper girl time.

After everything had happened, she’d helped you so much, barely giving you any time to even spend together, it felt amazing to just talk shit the same way the pair of you always had.

She guided you through how to style your hair as you sat at your vanity, leaving your hair down being enough to off set the dress, now looking a bit more casual with a nice black cardigan being placed over the top of it, enough so that you still looked nice, but didn’t look like you were going to some fancy dinner back home.

“Do the Fenty gloss, I put it in your makeup bag when i was packing your stuff.”

Ordering you like you were a drill sergeant, you could only smile as you ran the plus applicator over your lips, your makeup finally completed with a soft popping of your lips to smooth the gloss over.

“It still doesn’t mean anything, his eldest sons married, and the other ones an absolute dick.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t give him a huge fuck you by looking this good to dinner.” she responded back with lightning wit, raising her eyebrows at you as she closed her fridge door, having been in the process of starting her own dinner by the time the two of you started ending the call.

In the process of saying goodbye, you could hear a knock on your slightly open door as your father poked his head in, his tartan shirt and vest already on as he gave you a look over.

“Very nice.” he feigned, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head, just as he’d always used to whenever you’d taken the time to get ready for somewhere.

“Alright, I love you, have a nice dinner, and update me when you get home or i wont leave you alone.”

Amanda’s order’s were clear, only answered with a shake of your head as you picked up your phone, standing from the vanity and grabbing your purse.

“Love you too.”

The air outside was warm, just as it always was in Wyoming at this time of year, your cardigan doing more than enough to keep your body temperature on the reasonable end.

The ride on your father’s truck only seemed to fill you with the same anxiety you felt while you were getting ready, the closer and closer you came to town only seeming to fill the void of your nervous feelings.

It was a beautiful little place, seeming to boast a very classic southern feel, a neon sign with the name plastered on it, this place had been here since you left, and it still seemed to be going strong, you even remembered the guy who owned it’s name, Earl.

Exiting from the truck, you checked your appearance in the window, making sure your hair wasn’t placed oddly and that none of your makeup was smudged, some small part of you not completely sure why you cared so much for your appearance, Amanda’s words seeming to playback in your own head like a broken record.

There was certainly some satisfaction to be found by sitting down at dinner and having a couture dress be a big fuck you to the Rhett, to show him that despite his attempts at hurting you in highschool, you were now in a place where you never had to worry about money again.

Yet it still felt so vain, even for you.

Heading inside, your father placed his hand on the back of your shoulder, guiding you towards the large table where’d you’d all seemingly be placed for the night, a small rectangular sign with the word ‘BOOKED’ in white letters sitting there waiting for you.

Sitting down on the wooden chair beside your father, he pulled his stetson off his head and placed it on the table, clearing his throat as he got comfortable.

“Do you want cola, Ducky?” he offered, turning slightly to look at you as you nodded softly.

“Thanks dad.” you confirmed, watching him get up and head towards the bar, greeting the bartender with a familiarity that wasn’t unusual for him.

Pulling out your phone, you checked yourself in your camera, seemingly developing the checking in on your appearance into a nervous tick that was beginning to make itself known, if not that, seemingly just not knowing what to do with your hands was enough.

Time seemed to move at a different place as you sat there by yourself, waiting for your father to come back from the bar as he chatted away, eye’s occasionally flicking at the door each time it opened, waiting to see who was coming in.

Eventually, just as your father sat back down, a sip of ice cold cola slipping down your throat was enough to calm your nerves, the chilled glass leaving condensation on your fingers.

Yet again the sound of the door opened, your eye’s turning to it instantly, expecting it to be just another guest that you didn’t recognise.

Instead, the familiar look of Cecilia and Royal came into your view, their eye’s peering at every table until they landed on the two of you, a grin coming to Cecilia’s face as she waved at you and approached, Royal following behind with his hands in his jean pockets.

The absence of their two sons was notable, almost swearing you felt a bit disappointed, quickly offset and Cecilia came round to where you were, allowing you to rise from your chair and pull in her in for a soft hug.

Any plans to dress down had been subsided when Cecilia looked you up and down, her brows raising as she smiled.

“This is gorgeous.” she said softly, thankfully not making a show of pointing out your choice of attire.

Sitting back down, the four of you sat across from one another as the couple settled in, Royal muttering something about going to get a beer before he stood and walked to the bar.

Almost as if she could tell that the absence of her son’s was standing out, Cecilia spoke first.

“Sorry we’re a little late, we had to sort out who was riding with who.”

she began, shaking her head and chuckling.

“Perry had to run and pick up Amy from school on the way, so Rhett rode with him just so we could get here quicker.”

You weren’t sure who Amy was, but judging by the fact that school was mentioned, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together and guess that Amy was his daughter.

There was something wholesome about Perry Abbott being a father, based on your memories of him having a small line of girlfriend’s throughout school, you didn’t pick him for the type to settle down and have kids.

But then again, no one from highschool would guess you’d have played the NFL halftime show, but you did that anyway, so there wasn’t any room to judge there.

“Amy’s a big fan a’ your’s honey.” Cecilia spoke, reaching across the table to place a hand on top of yours, a cheeky smile coming to her face.

“She always asks your daddy about when she see’s him, she was just beamin’ when we told her you’d be at dinner tonight.”

You couldn’t pretend that wasn’t amusing, the idea of Rhett Abbots own neice being a fan of yours; it may have been slightly egotistical, but you had a vision in your head of some little girl bouncing around the house singing your songs while he uncle cringed.

Then part of you felt that signature anxiety come back all over again, there was no doubt your recent fiasco’s had been anything but a bad example for her, guilt panging in your heart at the idea of breaking some poor little girls heart with all the news that’d been printed about you.

The thoughts ringing in the back of your mind were distracted as the sight of Royal walking back over caught your vision, his two sons walking beside him as he pointed out where you were all sitting, both brothers turning their heads to look over in the direction.

You were the first person Rhett looked up, almost as if he’d been searching for you in particular, his eyes keening over you and your appearance for a few split seconds as they walked over, only for the two of you to break the held eye contact at the same time.

The little blond girl holding Perry’s hand must have been Amy, considering the fact that she had most of her face hidden behind her father’s hand, one eye peering out at you nervously.

Smiling softly, you felt flashbacks to all the other times you’d been greeted by young fans, their nervous faces always making your heart feel warm.

“Hi Amy.” you spoke out, her eyes widening as she realised you knew her name, her gaze flicking to her grandmother who only smiled back at her knowingly, the young girls mouth opening to reveal a toothy wide eyed smile.

She spoke your name as if it was a magic spell, her stature starting to go giddy as Perry only laughed. Pulling the chair beside you out, you patted the wood.

“I think you should come sit next to me, huh?” you spoke, Amy looking up at her father only to receive a nod of permission, the young girl practically running around the table and hoisting herself up into the chair despite her height, you had no doubt she was used to needing to hoist herself up onto horses anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Rhett sitting down beside his mother, greeting her with a low voice and a nod of his head in your fathers direction.

It was a pointed choice to focus your attention on Amy, the best way to avoid any eye contact with Rhett, as well as just something wholesome you could spend your time doing.

Picking up a menu, you held it up so the both of you could look at it.

“Now, I haven’t been here in awhile.” you began, squinting your eyes slightly as you looked over all the options before you. “So you’re gonna have to tell me what’s good.”

You spent the majority of your dinner answering Amy’s questions, pulling out your phone to show her the selfies you’d taken during tours, mirrored photos of you in a makeup chair with your tongue sticking out, all of which she adored.

As you all ate, your father chattered away with the rest of the Abbotts, Cecilia occasionally sparing a glance at you and smiling, adoring the happy look on her grand daughters face.

Every now and then, your eye’s drifted over to Rhett for only a few seconds each time, watching him nurse the beer in his hand, sometimes looking at your father, other times looking right at you, his eyes narrowed and boring into you.

Ignoring his stares was easy enough, especially when Amy continued to talk at a thousand miles per hour.

Taking a moment to lean over to your father, you whispered to him that you were just gonna order another cola from the bar, his gaze silently asking you if you’d be okay, his waryness not unwarranted of course, but you held confidence in yourself, assuring him you’d be fine.

Standing and pushing out your chair, it would be hard to pretend you didn’t feel Rhett’s gaze on you, smoothing out your dress and walking over to the bar with your purse in hand.

Even now years later, Earl and his wife ran this place with a large amount of love and commitment, it could be seen in the way that the place was still filled with people every night even now.

The bartender had his back facing towards you, cleaning a few glasses with a rag as you placed your phone down, his head turning suddenly to look with wide eyes before a smile set onto his face.

For a few seconds that you stared across at each other as he made his way to you, your mouth feel open as you finally recognised him as an old highschool friend, coincidentally enough, also happening to Earl’s son, Niki.

“Oh my god.” you spoke out, shaking your head as he grinned at you.

“Hey there stranger.”

It had seemed that puberty had rammed him like a truck, the once mousey boy you used to see washing dishes in the back now standing at least six feet, his welcoming smile accompanied by a light stubble against his strong features.

“I don’t choose to believe it’s you, there’s absolutely no way.”

Your words made him laugh, his head tipping back slightly as he did, his laugh sounding like a river of velvet running into your ears, his teeth no longer sporting the braces he had in highschool.

“Believe it mija. Though I should be saying the same thing about you, huh?”

His reminder of your career and status made you mockingly put a hand over your face, cringing slightly as you laughed along with him.

“I saw you on tv only a few months ago, in that weird sparkly get up.”

Taking a moment to rack your brain, you guessed he was talking about one of the recent shows you did in florida, a part of a small tour to promote an album that was just released at the time.

Realising which outfit he was talking about, you feigned offense, jokingly putting a hand over your heart and opening your mouth in shock.

“That was an archived Mugler they pulled out just for that show, it was a privilege to wear.”

Not seeming to take you seriously whatsoever, he crossed his arms and leaned against the back end of the bar, looking across from you and shaking his head.

“More like C-3PO.” he laughed out, unable to hold the laugh you let out in response, remarking at the familiarity of looking like a gold robot, even if it was Mugler.

“Not funny.” you tried to scold through your laughter, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear as you picked your wallet back up, unzipping it and pulling out your card.

“Oh, that’s right, im workin’.”

Sharing another laugh together, he stepped towards the register, holding his index finger up to begin punching in whatever it was that you wanted.

“What can i get you.” he paused, turning his head towards the back before looking back at you and leaning in. “Between you a me, if i could get a pic with you for ma, it’s on the house.”

Rolling your eyes, you held out your card to him.

“Just a cola is fine, and i’ll take the picture for Camille, but im still paying for it.”

Making a small victorious pumping motion in the air, he stepped to the side to pull out a class, using one of the pumps to start filling it before placing it in front of you, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone.

Watching him walk around the bar and flip up the counter top, part of you did feel slightly embarrassed, but you knew it was for his mama, so you didn’t have the heart to say no.

Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, holding up his phone to take a selfie, the pair of you smiling brightly as it clicked a picture and added it to his gallery.

Pulling his arm away, which part of you almost felt sad about, he opened the photo and looked at it, grinning.

“Hell yeah, she’s gonna love it.” putting his phone back into his pocket, he crossed his arms once more and leaned against the customer side of the bar, obviously intent on still chatting with you as you took a sip of your drink.

“I remember how excited ma was when she heard your name on the radio, came straight home and asked if i remembered you.”

The image definitely warmed your heart a bit; you hadn’t actually realised just how many people here were excited for your rise to fame, always assuming you’d been pretty promptly forgotten only a few days after you left.

“She claims she always knew you were gonna be famous, said she knew from the first time you sang the national anthem before one of the rodeo’s in ninth grade.”

Shaking your head, you laughed along with him, unable to stop yourself from feeling a little sheepish, he’d most definitely had what your personal trainer referred to as a ‘glow up’, what with his softly toned arms and absolutely gorgeous shoulder length hair pulled into a loose low bun.

“Yeah well, never would have guessed you’d grow out of your braces.” your joke only seemed to make him smile proudly, pointing at his now perfectly straight teeth with a massive grin.

“You like em, huh?”

It was slightly adorable how proud he was of of his new smile, his pointed hand moving to scratch his stubbled jaw line, before promptly moving to tug on his ear softly as he turned his head to look across the restaurant.

Making eye contact with you once more, he seemed to only smile across from you in silence for a moment before speaking once more.

“Well, if you ever come in for a drink again, make sure you stop by and say hi okay? I’d hate to miss you before you skip town again.”

It was a joke of course, but part of it stung, of all the other people from highschool you’d seen so far, niki was probably one of the closer friends you’d had, considering he was your science partner for the better part of two years in school.

You could distinctly remember the time he’d cursed up a storm in spanish when he’d burnt his hand on the bunsen burner he’d been clumsily setting up, the loudest youd ever heard his voice ring out before.

In your haste, you’d hardly even said goodbye, much less even told him you were leaving, you could only imagine him finding out from his mother or father, wondering to yourself if he’d ever looked for you, unsure why he hadn’t seen you around for days.

Your brows furrowed upwards slightly, just about to open your mouth before a voice rang out from behind Niki, the source hidden until he turned.

“Y’know if you keep flirtin’ with the bar staff, no one’s gonna get served.”

As Niki turned to reveal Rhett standing with his upper arms leaned against the bar, his head directly forward and not looking at you, you couldn’t hide the sour expression that came to your face.

Just as always, maturity seemed to escape him, Rhett still seemed intent on ruining anything that made you happy, for no particular reason at all.

Turning back to face you, Niki only made a mockingly terrified face, his mouth falling open in a silent cry of terror before he grinned at you, lightly brushing your upper arm with his hand and stepping off of his spot at the bar, walking back around to get behind the counter.

“Another beer?” he asked Rhett, who only nodded his head and held up his empty bottle, a douchey way to do it in your opinion, but maybe he could make anything seem douchey.

Nodding back, Niki disappeared behind a corner, off to find the brand from one of the many mini fridges lining the inside of the bar.

Unable to hold back the small scoff that left your mouth, you held your cola in one hand, your purse in the other, and made your way to walk past him and back to the table the rest of the family was at.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

His comment was enough to make you whip around, your eyes wide and brows turned downwards.

Finally he turned to look at you, leaning his elbows on the bar top and tilting his head as he stared across at you, an eyebrow quirked in what felt like an extremely judgemental look.

Unsure exactly what he was referring to, but having enough of an idea, you placed a hand on your now jutted out hip, narrowing your eyes at him.

“You wanna tell me what you mean there?”

Your voice was sharp, experience from shutting down invasive interviewers on live TV having gifted you with more than enough candor and confidence to match his hostility.

Raising his arms mockingly, Rhett’s voice heightened, seemingly trying to imitate you.

“Ooh, do you wanna take a photo with me? Did you buy my newest album?”

As he continued, his voice grew out of the mocking impression of you and back into his own voice.

“You really can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?”

His words stung, his lack of understanding doing nothing except infuriating you.

In highschool, the things he was saying might have made you cry, but now, it only made you want to point a finger in his face and insult him right back.

If what had been happening recently, all of the shit that brought you back to this dustbowl in the first place was anything to go by, maybe if he was smarter he could have guessed that you want to be anything BUT the center of attention.

Any good mood you might have had tonight had been thoroughly spoiled by an ultimately unnecessary comment on Rhett’s end, the anger bubbling up in your stomach currently keeping you almost completely silent as you took a deep breath before saying something that might get you in trouble.

“First of all, Rhett. He asked for the picture, it was for his mother.”

As he opened his mouth to say some other undoubtably snarky number, you raised your finger, pointing across at him before he could say anything.

“Second of all, I seriously don’t know where you get off coming at me like this, I dont know what the hell i’ve done to make you despise me, but I haven’t come back here to make nice with you.”

Watching you speak, Rhett’s attitude only seemed to grow worse by the look on his face, your response seeming to egg him on if anything, another scoff leaving his lips as he took a few steps towards you, only stopping when he was so close you could almost smell the minty gum he was currently holding between his teeth.

Narrowing his eyes at you, his head leaning down to keep his voice low, he finally responded.

“You seriously think waltzing around with your father on your arm is gonna make anybody think you are anything except the shallow diva you’ve always been?”

Even if you’d opened your mouth to speak, nothing could come out, you were just standing there waiting for something smart to conjure up into your head.

Yet when Rhett only scoffed once more before stepping past you and heading back around the corner towards where everybody was sitting, you could only stay stood there, staring at the deep red carpet that had no doubt seen some better days.

You wanted to go sit back down without a word, to smile and pretend like you weren’t upset, because that would have been the stronger thing to do, the better way to stick it to who had seemingly become a bully, yet you couldn’t.

Stringing your purse over your shoulder, you walked over to the hostess stand, the smiling young woman waiting to bid you a goodbye, all ready seeming to gear herself up to ask if you enjoyed everything.

Trying your hardest to muster a smile back, you pulled your card from your wallet, handing it to the young hostess as politely as you could.

“Put everything that table sixteen ordered on here.”

It was the least you can do for the rude exit, a nice offset when the rest of the Abbott family found out you’d left without saying goodbye.

“Just apologise and tell them i wasn’t feeling good.”

The hostess nodded, pulling up your bill on her little tablet, implementing the card details as she made a comment about how nice it was of you to pay for the whole dinner, comments that only seemed to go through one of your ear’s and out the other.

Just as you were about to turn and exit, your sudden realisation at the lack of transport had you leaning back towards the hostess, your voice low.

“Could you call me a taxi please.”

It was pretty obvious that you going to absolutely cop it from your father when he realised you’d left in a taxi without him, so to hopefully soften to blow, you’d waited until you were pulled out of the restaurants car park to reach for your phone and send him a quick text message.

‘Went home to rest, love you.’

You’d hoped that would be enough to offset the unexpected exit, that on top of paying for everything. It wasn’t like you didn’t have the money anyway.

One of your only hopes was that the Abbott’s didn’t take it as an insult, your own anxiety no doubt would find some way to convince yourself it was somehow rude.

But you feared that if you’d sat back down at that table, you wouldn’t have been able to hide your absolutely disdain for Rhett.

Sending your father the text had reminded you of your promise to update Amanda; Honestly, she felt like exactly who you needed to talk to more than anything right now.

It hadn’t taken long to arrive back at your house, only about twenty minute drive, thank god.

Paying the driver, you stepped out and headed back inside, pulling your cardigan closer to your body as the temperature seemed to want to make a show of dropping unexpectedly.

Your bedroom had never seemed more inviting, your vanity still as messy as it was when you left the house in a haste, a habit that you never seemed to let go of even after years.

“So wait, you’re telling me you were absolutely killing it with this hot bar tender and then he not only comes in and breaks it up, but then insults you?”

Turning to make a face at the camera, you watched Amanda’s face curl into a cringe; she was laying in bed holding her phone up as she talked to you while you were in the process of taking off the makeup she’d so meticulously helped you with.

“Uh huh.”

Your response only made her let out a sound of dislike, waving her hand up to express it even further.

“He’s lucky I wasn’t there, honestly. I’d have had him by his ear makin’ him apologise.”

It was a correct assumption that talking to Amanda was going to make you feel better, the image of her holding Rhett by his ear bringing a smirk to your face, as petty as it might have been.

Continuing as you rubbed the makeup wipe along your eye softly, trying your hardest to get the last remnants of the black inky mascara off, you let your thoughts go out loud.

“I just don’t even understand what I did to him? I don’t get why he’s going out of his way to be such a asshole.”

You finished with a deep seated sigh, running your hands along your now freshly cleaned face and standing to start the process of changing out of the dress, bringing your phone with you.

“You should fuck the hot bartender.”

Unable to hold back the burst of laughter from Amanda’s version of problem solving, you placed the phone on your bedside table and began to rummage through the suitcases to find something to wear to bed.

“Niki.” you clarified.

“Yes exactly, you should fuck Niki.”

Holding a hand up, you shook your head, pulling out a pair of printed pajama’s that you were certain would do the job.

“I can’t do that, I haven’t even been here for a week.”

“Who gives a fuck? Listen, when he was talking to you, was he making eye contact? Was he touching you? I need to know these things to make a correct assumption.”

Stepping away from view of the camera, you started the process of unzipping and hanging up the dress in your closet, you tried to recall the way Niki had spoken to you previously, buttoning up the top half of the pajama’s when you finally stepped back into view.

“Well, he stepped around the bar to keep talking to me, and when he left he touched my arm like-”

You imitated the motion just as Niki had done to you before, Amanda’s mouth falling open as you picked up your phone and sat down in bed, pulling the blanket over your legs.

“Oh, girl. He’s DTF. Send me a photo, right now.”

Rolling your eyes, you minimised the face time, pulling up facebook and hoping and praying that you could find a photo of Niki somewhere.

Roughly a minute into your search, you stumbled upon what looked like a recent photo on the restaurants facebook page oddly enough, it was him smiling with his dad, holding up a sign to celebrate ten years.

God he looked good in the photo too.

His hair was pulled into a loose low bun just as it always was, his smile shining as he had an arm around his father, the two of them proudly holding up the sign.

Saying nothing as you took a screenshot and sent it to Amanda, you waited without saying a word for her to receive and look at the photo.

Immediately, you knew she’d seen it, as you heard a comical exaggerated moan come from her end, watching as she seemed to sit up in her bed to look at the photo.

“Are you kidding me? This how they make em’ down in Wyoming?”

“Well, I mean, His ma’s from Mexico, but yeah.”

Nodding her head satisfied, she let out a small “Mhm.” of approval, laying herself back down in her bed and taking off her glasses.

“You have my approval and my blessing.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @foreverchangingmind . @tsukikyo . @marsupialnoises . @iknowrocknroll . @astromilku .

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valhallavalkyrie9 · 4 days ago

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𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,214

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of drug addiction, drinking, bad highschool memories, cheating, frustrating miscommunication.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hey pookies, so despite only just finishing one series, i've already started another because im a glutton for self torture. not a huge amount of rhett in this until the end because i wanna get our reader established first, keep an eye out for part two and please message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

life was nothing but a series of twists and turns, followed by hard fucking drops.

from the moment of your ‘discovery’ by an agent of a recording company just after graduating high school, you’d been pretty damn certain life was going to be absolute roses from here on out. a promised escape from the country town in wyoming to the beaches and glamour of los angeles.

it was exciting, going from a nobody that occasionally sang in a bar or two in your home town to now having an entire team behind you, helping you pump out records and preen you for live performances across america.

maybe you should have known from the beginning it was too good to be true.

with the money that came from your bursting career, do too came the parties, the drinking, the endless supply of anything you wanted at your finger tips, any and all abuse of your health was brushed aside by everybody around you, to the point that as long as they were able to get you awake enough to sit in a makeup chair and put a coffee in your hand, it didn’t matter what you’d done before.

even with all of this, you’d managed to stay afloat with your manager by your side, the man you’d come to think you’d fallen in love with, he’d been there with you the moment you arrived in hollywood, it was only inevitable that you’d have fallen head over heels like an idiot.

he was just the same as the others, allowing you to put your body through hell every night as long as you were able to make him money in the day time, each time pushing you to harder and harder limits. more hours in the studio, songs written faster.

by the time you were four years into your blossomed career, your music had almost completely lost the soul it had started with, power anthems of love and loss reduced into standard pop that came with flashy music videos and tedious choreography.

it was bound to all come crashing down sooner or later in retrospect.

when you’d caught the man you loved in bed with your makeup artist, you’d thought at the very least that he might have at least tried to defend himself, cook up some half baked lie following the basic premise of “it’s not what it looks like.”

instead he’d only smirked at you, making a comment about how nice you looked, an evident jab based on the fact that your makeup was smeared from the night of partying and your glittery clothes were still on.

despite the fact he was your manager, he seemed to have no problem letting you crash completely.

with the tabloids pumping out images of you running out of the hotel looking the way you did, it wasn’t hard to out the pieces together about your issues, scathing headlines painting a picture of a washed up popstar going into a downward spiral.

maybe he hadn’t actually expected you to fire him, expected that you would actually have made sure you weren’t stuck in any sort of binding contracts from the beginning.

because when you’d opened the door of your hollywood home and saw your own father standing there, you couldn’t have held back the cry that left you.

you hadn’t spoken to him for at least a year, when he’d brought up concerns for your partying, the people around you twisted his words, making it seem like a personal attack in a convincing enough way that you’d cut him off entirely, believing in your heart of hearts that he was trying to jeopardise your career.

the day your father had driven almost three days out to LA to find you, when the tabloids had no doubt finally made their way all the way down to wyoming, that was the day you’d hesitantly allowed him to help you get the therapy you needed.

with a few final comments from your lawyer, the official word out was that you’d temporarily retired into rehab, and that you would be spending some time with family while you recovered.

you thanked the stars that you at least had hired a good lawyer, one that actually gave a damn about her job, you’d even dare say about you.

amanda was fresh out of law school when you’d hired her, a risky move, but one that paid off, considering that your ex was now almost penniless, save for the small settlement that had been offered in order for him to keep his mouth shut.

you’d damn well nearly cried all the tears out of your body when you gave her one final hug before getting in your fathers truck and prepared for the long drive back to wyoming.

you really, really didn’t want to go back home, with the embarrassment of public opinion of you, as well as just an overall dislike for the almost deserted town you grew up in, you knew you had to bite the bullet should you be able to recover, as well as try to salvage the damage to your career.

when your mother died, you offered to move your father to los angeles, more than enough money at your disposal to set him on a gorgeous ranch, but he’d refused, always proud; he’d always said he was born in this town, and he’d die in this town.

it was a pity you didn’t share the same sentiment in the slightest.

the long drive had been worsened by the fact that your body was still recovering from the detox you’d been forced to undergo, weak from the horrible sleep you’d been having, and exhausted from all the med’s you had to take afterwards.

you’d managed to almost entirely pass out within about 45 minutes.

even over the span of almost two days and one truck stop, your father had spoken very little.

there was much between the pair of you to be worked out, so much anger shared mutually that needed to be addressed.

when you hadn’t come back to wyoming for your mothers funeral, your father had never sounded more heartbroken over the phone, one of the only times you’d ever heard him genuinely sound like he was gonna start crying any minute.

in your barely sober state, you’d said some words you’d regretted the moment they left your mouth, the guilt eating away at you every day since then, and probably would for the rest of your life.

when you’d finally spotted the welcome sign for the small town you grew up in almost two days later, you couldn’t ignore the growing dread in your stomach, as the buildings came into view, you suddenly felt yourself becoming very conscious of the designer items you were wearing, having become so accustomed to such things that it became the norm in hollywood, but it was most definitely not the norm in wyoming.

the sunglasses pulled over your eyes couldn’t have helped either, considering the golden versace emblem present on the side of them.

intent on at least trying to hide yourself, you pulled your hood over your head and lowered yourself in your seat slightly, keeping your eyes on the road and willing yourself to not be seen by any locals that might remember or recognise you.

this entire town was filled to the brim with people that were proud, loyal; you didn’t have any doubt in your mind that they wouldn’t have the greatest opinion of the girl who ran off to hollywood and came running back home when it chewed her up and spit her back out.

“dad. can we go straight home. please.”

your pleading seemed to have little affect on your father, who only shook his head as the truck came to a stop outside of a diner you’d remembered from your childhood, fond memories of milkshakes and club sandwiches.

“no can do ducky, you remember what the doctor said.”

he held his finger up, reciting the strict instructions he’d been given when he became your official carer for the extent of your recovery.

“food every three hours, lots of greens and lots of protein, last time you ate was at that gas station, and i’d hardly call spicy beef jerky nutritious, you need a meal.”

you’d have been lying if it hurt your heart a little bit how much care he was putting into all of this, the man you’d always known to live off of steak and cornbread had taken the time to research all of nutritional information and requirements going forward.

and you’d treated him like shit and barely spoke to him for an entire year.

in no position to say no, you only pulled your hood further over your face, exiting the pick up truck and crossing your arms in the hope that your clothes wouldn’t be the deadest giveaway in the world, much less the fact that everybody here knew your dad, and by extent, you.

hopefully, a decent meal would at least do you the service of feeling like you actually had a full stomach for the first time in at least a day.

you were thankful you’d managed to keep the meal down, yet you were no less embarrassed when the waitress in the diner looked at you like you were crazy when you asked if they had anything avacado in it, a request you didn’t think was that crazy, seemingly reflecting just how long you’d been away from home.

when you’d arrived at your childhood house on the ranch your father owned, the sounds of horses in the distant pasture welcomed you, a familiar yet at the same time almost foreign sound to you.

one familiar sound however, caught your attention almost like a reflex, your head whipping back around to your father as he gave you a knowing smile.

“there’s no way.” you spoke with shock evident in your voice, only receiving a nod from your father and a shrug of his shoulders.

“i couldn’t find the heart to sell her ducky, you should have known that.”

with that being all the confirmation you needed from your father, you turned back in the direction of the neigh’s you could heard, allowing your feet to move on their own as you walked around the back of the house and to the fenced off area where the horses were kept.

and there she stood, her head shaking as she fussed, seemingly knowing your father was finally home based on the sound of his truck.

the gypsy vanner before you stood proud, her caramel and white colours practically shining in the sun. you thought your father would have sold her, you know how much he would have been able to pick up from selling such a beautiful horse, and with you gone, there was no one around to ride her.

aurora had always had an interesting temperament similar to your own, independent and stubborn, it was no surprise you were made for each other when she first arrived on your farm when you were only seventeen.

you were almost scared to approach the fence where she stood, terrified she wasn’t going to remember you.

even if she did, she gave little response other than staring across at you as you stepped closer, reaching out your arm and running your hand across her head with a visible hesitance.

if she hadn’t recognised you, you knew she would have tried to go for your hand by now, she always did refuse to let anybody ride her except you.

had you know that a reunion with your horse of all things was going to make you this emotional, you would have better prepared yourself.

the childhood pictures lining the walls of the living room in your home told a story that brought with it memories that were both happy and sad.

from the ones of you on aurora all the way up to your high school graduation, it was a colourful group of pictures that seemed to out forward a beautiful happy family.

until you seemed to disappear from the pictures suddenly, leaving pictures of your mother and father at barbecues with extended family, your own face very clearly absent.

already you could feel yourself dreading the emotional unpacking that was going to happen during your time home.

much less the actual unpacking judged by the suitcases that had been placed in your bedroom, the one that had barely changed since you left.

as much as you knew it would have been better to rip the bandaid off and unpack everything, you were so exhausted from the long drive you could hardly bring yourself to do anything except flop on the double bed with the bright purple sheets.

when a knock sounded on the open door, you raised your head to see your father standing there, a fluffy blue towel on his arm, and your various new med’s placed in a labelled container ordered by the days of the week.

“i thought you’d be pretty desperate for a shower huh? long drive.”

even with the overwhelming tension that seemed to remain permanent between you two, your fathers friendly smile and attempted crack of a joke had already started warming your heart just like it used to.

“thanks dad.”

it was all you could muster in that moment, the emotion seeming to take its hold finally as you rose from the bed to take the towel out of his hand and put the med’s on your side table.

“i’ll get started on dinner, then we’ll probably head in for the night, i got an early start tomorrow.”

even now in his older age, he worked hard as ever, with the limited hands on the farm because he was always adamant about not hiring more help than he needed, there was only so much one man could do after all.

nodding your head, you walked past him and headed in the direction of where you remembered the bathroom to be, saying nothing else and not looking behind you as you entered and shut the door.

at least the shower was a sanctuary where you could finally let the gravity of the situation finally wash over you, suddenly feeling so real that it came crashing down as soon as you stepped under the water and wet your hair.

your hand held over your mouth was seemingly enough to only let out silent cries, finally here in the cramped bathroom with the horrible water pressure, did you allow yourself to feel the emotion of everything that had led to you being here now.

putting your body through hell only to do it all over again fighting with detox and withdrawals, you could still feel how delicate of a state you were in, still finding yourself shaking on occasion or zoning out when you were trying to focus.

your war was hardly near over, that was the only thing you were absolutely certain of.

it seemed that your father had been more than happy to let you sleep in, because when you woke up and saw that the time in the clock read almost eleven in the morning, you were shocked you’d managed to get a solid nine hours of sleep.

maybe being back in a bed that was so familiar had done you a world of good already.

your meds were sat on the side table, along with the glass of water you had guessed your father left there for you, ready for you to take your first round of the day, a mix of tablets meant to stabilise both your body and your mind, a delicious cocktail of chemicals to try and make you feel even slightly normal again.

when you’d finally made your way down to the kitchen, a fresh set of lounge wear on, more designer, the fact made you cringe when you’d opened your suit case and realised that you owned nothing except designer, reminding yourself that you’d have to make time to go out to town to find some new clothes that didn’t cost a stupid amount of money.

with a kitchen that was usually left rather unsupplied, you were shocked to open the cupboard and see an array of healthy snacks and a multiple different choices of health foods, obviously your father had done enough research to stock up, even adding a few of your favourites that your certain amanda had been involved in selecting, because you knew for a fact that your father had no idea what matcha was.

only able to feel thankful for the support around you, you prepared yourself a drink for the morning as well as a small bowl of fruit and yoghurt, a nice light breakfast.

the sun practically called to you, the warmth against your skin being exactly what you needed as you placed your sunglasses on once more and sat at the outside table on the porch, beginning to slowly make progress on your breakfast.

when your father finally emerged and made his appearance from the barn across the dirt driveway, he waved at you and began to walk over, pulling off the gloves he was wearing.

finally walking up the small set of steps, he sat across from you and let out a sigh, the trucker hat on his head being enough to shelf him from the sun, as well as the cover over the porch.

“do you want me to make you a coffee?” you offered, partly out of politeness because you knew your dad always stopped drinking coffee after nine, otherwise he’d get jittery.

“i’m fine ducky, thanks though.”

the nickname was something you’d had all your life, seemingly originated from the fact that you’d always be found down at the creek as a child, trying to beat the heat by standing in ankle deep water and catching tadpoles.

nodding your head, you took another sip of your own drink, staring out into the coast field of your fathers property.

“i gotta go into town and try and get some new tools, just to the hardware supply, thought we could do a little window shoppin’?”

his offer was perfectly timed, as you’d managed to scrape down the last bite of your breakfast, nodding your head as you covered your mouth to avoid talking with your mouth full.

“i was gonna ask if we could go to town, that sounds perfect.”

with a satisfied smile, your father stood and told you to be readied up in about ten, giving you enough time to go back and wash your bowl in the kitchen.

town was bustling with life as it always did at this time, so many people going about their daily errands just the same as you and your dad.

while he’d taken the time to occupy himself at the hardware store, you’d excused yourself to have a look at the small boutique next door, opening the door which resulted in a soft ring of a bell.

before you’d had the chance to take a proper look at anything, you’d watched a head poke out of the back room, a smiling staff member greeting you before moving to stand behind the counter set up with a till and computer.

offering up a small smile, you kept your sunglasses on as you ran your hand over some of the pairs of jeans on the shelf in front of you, as well as some of the few leather pieces above them.

maybe they’d look nice with one of your sweaters back him in the-

your name being spoken directly behind you made you almost jump out of your skin, turning your head to see that same staff member standing behind you now, speaking your name out as if it was more of a question than anything.

as you finally turned, her mouth open led with a shocked smile as you finally got enough of a look at her face to recognise her as one of the girls you’d gone to highschool with, though you’d hardly call the pair of you friends.

“oh my god, i thought it was you!”

the southern drawl in her voice only seemed to grate across your brain as she reached forward and pulled you into a hug with no hesitation at all, your arms coming up uncomfortably as she let out a little sound of glee as she hugged you.

“i can’t believe it’s really you, big hollywood star back here! what’re you doin’ here?”

her questions were already putting you on edge, her peppy attitude and tight hug that you didn’t consent for enough to already send your anxiety going.

“i’m uh.. i’m visiting some family.”

your response only brought a look of sadness over her face, her hand flying up to your shoulder as she tried to seem comforting, only succeeding in making you more uncomfortable.

“oh i know, im so sorry to hear about your mama, when i found out i was just heart broken for ya’ sweetheart. it was such a shame to hear you couldn’t make it up for the service.”

the mention of that was enough to send you pulling back, almost bumping into the shelf behind you, your hand coming up in a stop motion which silenced her quickly.

“i’m sorry.” was all you could muster before you found yourself turning quickly, your anxiety to the point now where you can feel your head throbbing and your hands starting to shake.

your first attempt at integrating back into your home town was so far going horribly.

as you made your way to the exit and stumbled out the door, you collided with a passer by, only able to call out another apology as you kept your head low, a hand coming up to your face in some small attempt to alleviate the feeling of eyes in you that you weren’t even sure were real or just your mind tricking you.

finding your way back to your dads truck, you opened the door and practically fell onto the passenger seat, sliding down to try and hide yourself with prying eyes as you lifted your sunglasses to sit on your head, tears already beginning to flow.

you knew she hadn’t meant to upset you, that was what felt the worst about, she was just trying to comfort you and yet came on so strongly that it had sent you spiralling in a matter of seconds.

it hadn’t taken your dad long to get back to the truck opening the door and already beginning to chat to you before he saw the state of your reddened and puffy eyes.

“thought you’d have taken longer that that ducky! i wouldn’t have minded wait-“

as his eyes finally caught the sight of you crying, he quickly got into the seat and chucked the tools in the back, shutting the door as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“what happened? are you okay? did someone say something to you?”

his questions all came at once, leaving you only able to shake your head to alleviate his concerns, your hands coming up as you wiped your eyes.

“i’m okay dad, i promise, i just need to go back home.”

understanding but not pressing any further, your father responded by immediately turning the key and roaring the truck to life, pulling out of the parking space and making fast work of heading back to the house without breaking the speed limit.

It had been a good first attempt at the very least, even if it was ultimately a failure; you couldn’t blame the woman from the store, it was natural for people out this way to be overly friendly, it just seemed you’d forgotten that during your time away.

Home was a welcome sanctuary at the very least, a beacon of warmth and familiarity seeming to wash over you as you stepped back inside, wasting no time before going back up to your room and shutting the door, maybe you’d be able to just try again tomorrow, maybe it’d go smoother.

As you father spent the rest of the day tinkering away in the barn, you’d managed to keep yourself occupied with a book, reminding yourself to grab a tv next time you managed to get out into town, at the very least, with the your pride and wellbeing at a stand still you could remain thankful that you’d managed to get out of the lawsuit with your wealth and contract primarily intact.

The meds placed next to your bedside table were the first thing to catch your eye, your psychiatrists words echoing in your head like clock work, reminding you of all the little things you needed to remember, which ones you had to take with food and how many each day.

Your nighttime routine used to consist of expensive skincare, silk sheets and an hour and a half spent on going through your itinerary for the next day, all the appointments and interviews and recording sessions you’d be doing for hours at a time.

There was some part of you that almost felt as if you were in limbo, now all you had to do was take your meds and lay in bed reading, you hadn’t had this much free time in at least five years.

When your father had asked if you wanted to come out to the rodeo with him, you’d initially been hesitant, the idea of crowds only filling you with anxiety.

As much as you’d wanted argue, it was hard to deny his argument that it was a good opportunity to get out of the house, insisting he’d be by your side the entire time ready to go if it became too much.

His commitment was so strong, some part of you simply didn’t have the heart to say no, hesitantly agreeing with a smile.

A rodeo clown in his youth, your father was beloved by the community, well known on top of that, there was little doubt that you’d be stopped at least three or four times at the very least by people who knew your father, and by extension, also knew you.

With the stetson your father had managed to dig out of his wardrobe and a pair of true religion jeans, here you were, weaving through the crowd as the smell of fried food you’d never been allowed to eat by your personal trainer filled your nose, the sound of echoing rock music playing on the speakers.

Even now already, you were pushing yourself to keep your cool, letting yourself be put as ease by placing your fingers in the shallow pockets of your jeans, running them over the fabric to keep yourself grounded, occasionally bumping shoulders softly with your father.

All of this was something you’d been taught to do to manage your anxiety, even since you were only young, keeping yourself grounded by feeling and looking had always helped profoundly, especially now if ever.

Correctly predicted, it’d only taken about thirty seven minutes into arriving at the rodeo for your father to be stopped by a buddy, exchanging quick hugs and small talk, even allowing yourself to shake the mans hand and laugh at his comment about how he “hadn’t seen you since you were yeigh high!” and gesture with his hand to show how small you were.

After about an hour and checking out everything up for offer, saying hello to a few more buddies, your father led you to where you’d both be sitting in the stands, a corn dog covered in mustard sat in his hand, just as he’d always gotten from your memory.

It’d be hard to lie and say there wasn’t nostalgia to be found here, coming her with your mother and father so many times as a kid, whereas towards graduating highschool you’d attended less and less.

Your mind was interrupted by the sudden blaring of music, an announcer’s booming voice coming through the loudspeakers to hype up the crowd, eliciting cheers as a response when he’d asked the crowd if they were ready.

Unable to hide even the slightest of smiles when you watched your father cheer, you clapped your hands together in show fo excitement, even managing to let out a small cheer.

Each rider came out and received cheer’s from the crowd as their names were announced, some names sounding familiar, others not. A few people you could have sworn you remembered from highschool.

As time went on, even you started getting invested, at one point letting out a resounding ‘oooh’ with the rest of the crowd as one of the riders was thrown off his bull only moments before the buzzer signalled his eight seconds were up, laughing to yourself as he threw his hat to the ground, stomping back towards the gate.

Suddenly you were thankful for your father’s insistence, even if it had partly been due to the fact that he didn’t want to leave you at the house by yourself. For what felt like the first time in months, years even, you felt some semblance of peace, allowing yourself to enjoy something you’d stopped enjoying years ago.

One name out of all stood out to you only slightly more than others, only due to the fact that hid father had been a good friend of your own, even occasional business partner when it came to the sale and exchange of livestock, not exactly a friend as opposed to somebody you just saw a lot of when his father brought him round to your family’s ranch to give royal a hand.

You weren’t sure if Rhett had changed much since highschool, considering you hadn’t seen him since you left for Los Angeles, much less due to the fact you could hardly make out his features from where he was currently positioned behind the gate, sat atop of bull that already seemed to be sufficiently pissed off.

Personality wise, your opinion of royals youngest son had soured towards your graduation, the nickname he’d used to call you echoing in your head, the nickname that stuck so hard that almost everybody in your graduating class began to call you the very same thing.

When tweety bird first began to get thrown around, you’d only laughed awkwardly, hoping it would eventually fade, just like every other nick name did in highschool.

But even when one of Rhett’s own friends, the one you’d been crushing on hopelessly for months, had called you the nickname, hoping to be endearing, it only stung deep in your chest in a way that you couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t necessarily his spreading of the nickname that had caused you to dislike him so deeply; the nickname you could have brushed off as a teenage boy just being a bit of an asshole to make his friends laugh.

What he’d done that really twisted the knife, was tell the aformentioned friend of his, that you’d already found a date for the dance coming up later that year, only when you’d found out from a mutual friend that he’d told Rhett about his plans to ask you out, only for Rhett to shut it down immediately, for what reason, you still had no clue to this day.

It didn’t matter what the reason was, the damage had already been done; by the time you’d found out, the dance had already been and gone, a boring and melancholy event that had essentially been ruined for you by Rhett Abbot for absolutely no discernable reason.

You’d tried to reason with yourself and think of anything you could have done to Rhett in order for him to have some sort of vendetta for you, but there was nothing you could conjure up in your mind that could possibly be the reason why.

Whatever ill will he had towards you certainly hadn’t been helped when you’d spotted him in the hall with his friends, stormed over and told him to eat shit completely unprompted.

The last interaction you’d had with him before you took the final step and got on a bus to Los Angeles only a few days later.

There was a rational part of you reminding yourself that you were an adult now, that there was no reason to still be upset over something that happened when you were both teenagers, but to have had something that important ruined for you for no actual reason other then him just seemingly going out of his way to be an ass.

Well it was hard to call that water under the bridge.

The eighteen year old heartbroken girl in you had to pretend she wasn’t even the slightest bit satisfied when the cream coloured bull finally whipped him off rather unceremoniously onto the dirt ground, the buzzer ringing out only a second later, signalling that he’d failed.

At the same time, the adult that you were told yourself that it was unfair to celebrate the failures and possible physical injuries of a person you hadn’t spoken to in years.

“You remember Royal’s youngest, right Ducky?”

Your father had pulled you out of your own daydreaming with a hand on your shoulder, his other arm pointing to Rhett out on the small arena as he rose from where he landed, only able to quickly jog back towards the gate as the handler’s came in to herd the kicking bull back to its pen.

Nodding with slightly cringed smile, you watched him until he hopped the iron gate, disappearing from sight just as quickly as he’d been thrown out into the ring.

“We should go say hi after! I’m sure Royal’d love to see you!”

As much as you’d wanted to refuse, as much as you might have still had it out for his son, you couldn’t deny that Royal and his wife had ever been anything but sweet to you, inviting you around for lunches with your father a lot when you’d still lived in Wyoming, even Cecilia going as far as to add you on facebook when she’d seen you on tv for the first time, wishing you luck in your new career.

Even you couldn’t deny how good it would feel to give her a big hug for the first time in years.

It’d been a good amount of fun to watch the rest of the riders, to feel a kin ship with the rest of the crowd in the joy you all expressed when a rider successfully stayed on for the required eight seconds; how much you’d felt your heart soar when your father grabbed your shoulder excitedly, raising his arm and cheering with you.

When it finally finished up and everyone began to peel off of the stands, you gripped your father’s arm, letting him guide you out of the small arena.

As the pair of you made a turn towards the rider’s area, a gate marked with a rather large privacy sign that held remnants of familiarity for when you’d been backstage before a show, swearing for a second you felt yourself preparing to be bombarded by a makeup and wardrobe team just as you always had used to.

A tip of the hat to the guy at the gate had seemingly been all your father needed to be let through with you, his close relationships with most of the riders as well as probably their father’s as well carrying weight.

It had taken a bit of walking past lots of trailers and drifting past the chatter of lots of voices, some pleased with their wins, others audibly upset that they’d failed.

One voice that you instantly recognised as Cecilia made your heart jump a little bit, catching her in your vision just as you rounded the corner, standing with her arm’s crossed talking to somebody who you recognised after a few moments when you got closer to be Perry, the eldest of the siblings.

Your father’s voice called out to Cecilia, her head turning and her face forming into a gleeful smile as she waved the two of you over, your face slightly hidden under the stetson, your head downturned as you got closer.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she called out as she finally met halfway with your father, taking him in for a hug and patting him on the back endearingly, your arms crossing sheepishly as you stood slightly to the side.

“Thought you might wanna see who’s back in town!”

As your father, spoke, he turned and held his arm out to you, outstretched hand practically announcing you as you rose your head, only able to smile softly and wave with a hesitant hand, Cecilia’s face twisting for a moment before her eye’s widened and an opened mouth smile came over her features. “Oh my goodness!” she practically squealed out, her hands coming to her face before she stepped forward, opening her arms to place a hand on your arm softly, not quite pulling you in for a hug just for the moment which you silently were thankful for.

Reaching your own arm forward, you placed a hand on her shoulder, the soft fabric of her flannelete shirt being a great bit of texture for you to run your finger tips against for an extra little bit of grounding.

You could hear your father’s happy and satisfied chuckle, seemingly knowing how much it would mean to Cecilia that you came to say hello, considering how much she’d doted over you in your younger years.

“How the hell have you been, babygirl!”

Her voice was layered with a slight hint of emotion, a hand coming up to crush a strand of hair away from her face as she took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

You could only smile and nod, mustering up as generic of a response as you could.

“Takin’ it easy.”

Understatement of the century.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew what had been happening with you, every tabloid in america had seemingly relished in sending your story across the country, all the details of your legal case and rehab.

Her face seemed to soften, her brows upturning as she nodded.

“Thats the way.” she spoke a bit softer, “You look beautiful, honey.”

Her kind words still hit just the way they always had, warming your heart to the core with her motherly nature.

Cecilia gestured to Perry, checking to see if he remembered you which Perry answered with a nod and polite hello, which you returned with a nod of your head.

Taking your arm in her head, it was as if you’d never been gone, Cecilia immediately going back to her old ways as she showed you around the rider’s area, making comments about how the two of had to go horseback riding together soon.

As the unavoidable finally made it’s way known, you felt Cecilia tap your arm, pointing in the direction of a trailer that must have been theirs, the door open and the light on, a figure stepping out with a fresh shirt and slightly damp hair. “There he is, Rhett! Get yer’ ass over here!”

When Cecilia’s youngest son turned his head to the two of you, he seemed indifferent, tired even, not surprising considering what he’d been through less than an hour ago, yet he still slowly began to walk towards his mother, running his fingers through his damp hair.

“You remember your father’s friend with the ranch down the road right?”

From where you stood, you could see Rhett nod, a polite smile coming to his face as he hadn’t seen your face yet, expecting his mother to introduce him to a stranger.

“Look who’s come back down for a visit!”

When you lifted your head, it seemed to take a few moments for him to recognise you, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at you, your own face twisting into an awkward smile as you raised your eyebrows.

“How’ve you been Rhett.”

Your tone was formal, nowhere near similar to greeting an old friend, which of course you weren’t, seemingly putting off just enough stand offish energy for Cecilia not to pick up on it.

Clearing his throat as he wiped a hand across his face, evidently trying to catch himself and pretend like it hadn’t taken him a moment or two to recognise you, nodding his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Been good.”

It was clear that the both of you felt the awkward energy, not entirely sure where you stood with each other considering the last words you’d spoken to him years ago, clearly he wasn’t sure if you still hated him or not.

Nodding your own head back, part of you wondered if he’d seen the articles about you, seen the reports from TMZ; some anxiety settling in the back of your mind, if he still held a dislike towards, it definitely wasn’t helped by the paparazzi photos he’d seen of you drunkenly getting into limo’s, or the pictures of you leaving court.

“I watched you ride before.” it was all that you could muster out, your brain panicking when you realised it’d taken you a few seconds of silence to respond to him.

Pursing his lips slightly, he managed a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked over at his mother briefly.

“That bad, huh?” he joked with a chuckle, your brows furrowing slightly as he seemed to take it as snide remark straight away, your head tilting.

“I never said that.” your tone couldn’t be held back, unable to not feel just the slightest bit stand offish as he furrowed his own brows, visibly taken aback slightly by your response.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something in response, his facial expression tellin you it was probably something just as equally snarky as your own, only to be cut off by the sound of your own father’s voice calling you over, Cecilia’s arm twisting out of your own.

It seemed Rhett hadn’t changed much, still holding some sort of idea about you that made it seem like you were a bitch, at least that’s what he’d muttered when you’d walked away from him in the hall that day in school.

“Have a good night Cecilia, drive safe for me okay?” you spoke quickly, wanting to avoid any confrontation that could potentially be rearing its ugly head, turning on foot before she could respond and walking back over to your father who was waving you over.

“Ready to go home, Ducky?”

Your fathers arm curled in yours, a knowing smirk seemingly being exchanged with Cecilia before he turned to walk with you.

“Absolutely.” you responded, a satisfied nod on your head.

Continuing on through the crowd that was growing thinner and thinner as you approached the exit, you finally made it back into your fathers truck, opening your door and buckling yourself in as he got into the driver’s seat.

“I spoke with Royal while you were with Cecilia by the way.” he began, turning the key as the truck roared to life.

“We’ve been invited out to dinner with them tomorrow night.”

178 notes · View notes

valhallavalkyrie9 · 4 days ago

Text

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

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