whisperingashgarden

[whisperingashgarden]

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

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.

.

[whisperingashgarden]

I love this so far!!! Do you have a taglist? If so, could you add me?

beneath the crown masterlist 𐙚 b.b

"we shouldn't have done that, but gods help me, i don't regret it"

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you're a princess promised to a prince you don't love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you'd risk everything just to be his.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, angst, arranged marriage, forbidden romance, pining, unprotected sex, overstimulation, begging, marking, rough sex, possessiveness, jealousy

a/n: hi sweethearts, this is my very first series! i have always loved anything set in medieval times (especially knights) and i hope you will love this series as much as i do! i really hope this doesn’t flop

series playlist

thank you darlings, for dropping by ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

chapter 1 (published: 23rd may)

chapter 2 (coming 27th may)

chapter 3 (coming 1st june)

chapter 4 (coming 4th june)

chapter 5 (epilogue) (coming 7th june)

[whisperingashgarden]

I Think I Love You

pairing | fwb!bucky x new!avengers!reader

word count | 5.4k words

summary I You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.

tags | Thunderbolts Spoilers??? I guess, tower fic, 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, obsessive!bucky, fem!reader, miscommunication, dumbasses in love, platonic!bob x reader

a/n | new acc, this was to cute to write. Enjoy! REQUESTS ARE OPEN

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

It was always like this.

His body above yours, surrounding you, drowning you in heat and hunger like you were oxygen to him. Like fucking you was the only way he knew how to breathe. Like if he didn’t bury himself inside you right now, he’d come apart at the seams.

Bucky kissed you like he was starving—mouth hot and bruising, tongue claiming yours with an edge of desperation that never quite dulled. His hands were everywhere, rough and sure, sliding under your tank, gripping your waist, dragging you beneath him like he was scared you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor you down.

You didn’t fight it. You never did.

Because this was the only version of him you could have—the one that came alive behind closed doors. The one who groaned your name like a curse when you kissed down his throat, who pulled your panties down with shaking hands, who slid into you with a sound like it hurt to finally be inside you.

“Fuck, doll,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hips grinding into you deep and slow. “You always feel so fuckin’ good. You were made for me.”

God, it sounded like love. It always did.

His mouth found your neck again, biting gently, sucking bruises into your skin like a claim no one would ever see. And your hands clutched his back, nails digging in, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as you rocked your hips up to meet every thrust.

You wanted to believe this was real. That it meant something more. That the way he looked at you—eyes dark and blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged—wasn’t just lust.

But you knew better.

You’d agreed to this.

No feelings. No mess. Just heat and need and late nights tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

Still, you craved it—him—in ways you couldn’t admit. Not even to yourself.

Bucky fucked you like you were a secret he couldn’t bear to keep. His metal hand gripped your thigh, forcing it higher around his hip, while his other tangled in your hair, tugging gently to expose your throat. He licked a stripe up your neck and groaned when you whimpered.

“Don’t hold back, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wanna hear you.”

You moaned for him, because you always did.

And he gave you everything. Thrust after thrust, deep and controlled, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. Your bodies moved together like muscle memory—practiced, perfect.

You cried out when he hit that spot, again and again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your orgasm built too fast to control. He felt it—knew it—and his grip tightened, pace faltering just slightly as he pressed harder, deeper.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled. “Come on, give it to me.”

You shattered.

Your body seized around him, nails raking down his back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as pleasure tore through you in waves. And Bucky? He didn’t stop. He chased his own release through the pulsing grip of your cunt, moaning your name like a promise he’d never make aloud.

“Fuck—gonna come—shit, fuck—” he gasped, slamming into you once more before spilling inside with a groan so raw it made your chest ache.

He collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You held him, like you always did. Tangled in the afterglow, skin slick with sweat, hearts still racing. And for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

That maybe this time would be different.

That maybe he’d stay.

That maybe he'd roll off of you, cup your cheek, and tell you he couldn’t keep pretending this didn’t mean something.

But instead, he sighed. A soft, satisfied sound. Then rolled onto his back, pulling his arm behind his head.

He didn’t look at you.

He never did after.

You stared at the ceiling, heart pounding in your throat, your body warm and full and hollow all at once.

And all you could think was:

I want him to touch me like that in the daylight.

I want him to want me when we’re not naked.

But he didn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

The kitchen in the tower was quiet, save for the soft clatter of a cutting board and the low simmer of something bubbling on the stove. You stood at the counter, knife in hand, carefully dicing onions while Bob sat beside you, his own cutting board a chaotic mess of uneven pepper slices and cucumber spears.

He was squinting at the vegetables like they’d wronged him personally.

“I swear,” he said, furrowing his brow as he tried to slice a tomato without completely demolishing it, “these things are out to get me. Slippery little bastards.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You don’t have to help, you know.”

“No, I want to. It’s… nice.” He shrugged. “Domestic. Also, I read somewhere it builds team trust or something. Shared food prep.”

You snorted. “Where’d you read that?”

“A Reddit thread about Dungeons & Dragons, actually.”

You laughed for real that time. “Of course.”

The smell of garlic and rosemary floated through the air. The oven clicked softly as it preheated. Outside the window, the sky was grey and moody—classic New York—but there was something warm about the kitchen. Safe. Familiar. Even with the quiet ache in your chest that you were pretending wasn’t there.

You kept chopping. So did he. Or tried to.

“Y’know,” Bob said after a beat, holding up a mutilated chunk of bell pepper, “I don’t think I’m ever gonna be a culinary genius. Might have to accept that my gifts lie elsewhere.”

“Like sitting on the couch and watching TV?”

“And comic relief,” he added proudly. “Two very underappreciated superpowers.”

You gave him a sidelong look, smirking. “You’re not wrong.”

He grinned. Then, more softly, “I like this, though. Being part of a team. Even if it’s weird sometimes. Even if people yell. Or punch through walls. Or if Alexei keeps pitching us matching uniforms with capes.”

You snorted again, setting down your knife. “He has been obsessed with that lately.”

“Right?” Bob said, picking at a cucumber slice. “But even with all the chaos, it’s good. I never really had this before. A group. People who give a damn. Who check in. It’s like… like being part of a weird, violent little family. And I know I’m not the most… stable, but I feel like—like I’m seen. Cared for. Loved, even. Not in the romantic sense—though Walker did call me ‘acceptable’ once, which I’m counting as progress.”

You laughed softly again—but it was different this time. Quieter. Shorter.

Bob didn’t seem to notice.

He kept talking, absently stacking pepper pieces into a leaning tower. “I don’t know. It just hit me earlier when Alexei dragged me to look at fabric swatches, and he was complaining about the thread count like we were planning a wedding. I was like… this is insane. But also—this is nice. Like I matter. Like I belong.”

The sting started slow. So faint you barely noticed it at first.

A tightness behind your eyes. A pull at the corners of your mouth. Something twisting low in your stomach like a warning bell you were trying very hard to ignore.

Bob looked over at you with an easy smile, still speaking, voice gentler now. “I guess I just wanted to say… I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I get to be around people who give a damn. That’s why I love being on this team.”

And just like that—it cracked.

The sting sharpened. The pressure behind your eyes pulsed hot, and your throat closed up around the sudden, suffocating weight of it.

Because all you could think was:

God, I want that too.

To feel loved. Chosen. Not just useful when someone needed to blow off steam. Not just fucked behind closed doors and forgotten in the light of day.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to blink fast, to keep your head down, to move your hands like nothing was wrong. But the tears came anyway—silent, slow, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

You tried to wipe them away subtly, turning toward the sink, pretending to rinse your hands. But it wasn’t subtle enough.

“Whoa—oh no,” Bob said, his eyes going wide. “Did I—did I say something wrong?”

You shook your head quickly, facing away. “No. No, it’s not you. I swear.”

He stood up beside you, hovering awkwardly, clearly panicking. “Is it the peppers? I knew I was butchering them. I knew they looked sad but I didn’t think they were tear-worthy—”

A shaky laugh broke out of you, even as you tried to wipe your face. “Bob, no. Stop. It’s not your fault.”

He hesitated, frowning deeply, hands fidgeting at his sides. “Is it—do you want me to go? I didn’t mean to mess anything up—”

You turned to him, eyes red, cheeks wet, and smiled—small and painful.

“I just… needed to hear that,” you said softly. “What you said. About being seen. Cared for. Loved.”

Bob’s face softened immediately. “Oh. Oh. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said again, shaking your head, voice barely a whisper now. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He reached out, then hesitated, then finally rested a hand gently on your hand. “For what it’s worth… I think whoever’s making you feel like you’re not those things is an idiot.”

You gave him a wobbly smile, another tear slipping free. “Yeah.”

Bob didn’t ask more. He didn’t need to. And you were grateful for that.

Instead, he just stood with you in the quiet hum of the kitchen, as the smell of dinner simmered in the background and the sky outside darkened to evening.

And all you could think—over and over—was:

I can’t do this anymore.

The second the quinjet touched down, Bucky unbuckled and stood, impatient fingers already tugging off his gloves. He barely registered Yelenas's debrief, or the way Ava elbowed him and muttered something about getting sleep for once. He just nodded and walked out, barely hearing her call after him.

He didn’t want sleep.

He wanted you.

He’d been thinking about you the entire mission. About the way you always curled up on the couch when you thought no one was watching. The way you’d made blueberry muffins the morning before they left and snuck him one while everyone else was busy fighting over the coffee machine. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled—just for him.

No one had to know.

No one did know.

And that made it easier to pretend this wasn’t killing him.

That this wasn’t something he wanted every damn day.

He reached your hallway before he even realized how fast he’d been walking. It was late—11:07 by the glowing red digits on the hallway clock. Most of the tower was asleep. But your light was still on.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, nerves flaring. He always got like this before seeing you. Like some teenager with a crush instead of a 100-year-old ex-assassin who’d watched entire countries fall.

But you made him feel… different. Human.

He raised his hand and knocked, soft and firm.

And then the door opened—and there you were.

A soft lime green nightgown hugged your body in a way that made his breath catch. It clung to your curves, all sleepy and ethereal and warm, and for a second, all he could do was look at you.

His chest ached.

God, you were beautiful.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t think. He reached out, cupping your face in both hands, drawing you in like a man starved for warmth and memory. His lips found yours—soft, reverent, desperate. He kissed you like you were the last safe thing he had.

And then your hands pressed against his chest.

Not pulling him closer.

Pushing him away.

He pulled back, blinking. His brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

You looked up at him, eyes already glossy, mouth parted like the words hurt too much to say. “Bucky… we need to stop.”

His stomach dropped.

The hallway suddenly felt ice cold.

“What?” His voice cracked, quiet and rough. “What do you mean?”

You looked down, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown, and stepped back just slightly. “What we’ve been doing… this… it needs to end.”

It hit him like a punch to the ribs. All the breath knocked from his lungs.

“I—I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something? Say something? If I—”

“No,” you cut in gently, and it broke him how kind your voice still was. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why?” He was still holding your gaze, desperate. “Is it… is it someone else?”

You hesitated.

That was enough of an answer.

You nodded once. “I’ve… met someone. And this would complicate things.”

The lie hung between you like smoke. Fragile. Choking.

Bucky swallowed hard. His hands had dropped to his sides, and he clenched them into fists before forcing them open again. He was trying to stay calm. He had no right to be angry. You weren’t his.

You’d never been his.

But still, the ache that bloomed in his chest was unbearable. His heart was thundering, cracking in real time as he stared at you, unblinking.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that no one could touch you the way he could. That no one could possibly know you the way he did. He wanted to grab you, beg you not to leave him in the dark again.

But he didn’t.

Because you deserved better than that.

You always had.

He cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse and distant. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

You blinked at him, a flicker of pain crossing your face. Then you leaned in, so gently it almost made him flinch, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Final.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

You stepped back inside your room.

And the door closed.

He stood there for a long time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at the closed door like he could will it to open again. Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, this wouldn’t be real.

But it was.

And all he could think was:

You found someone else.

You—the one person who made him feel like maybe he wasn’t ruined. Who baked for the team. Who held him after nightmares without asking questions. Who looked at him like he wasn’t just the Winter Soldier, or some washed-up relic, or some broken man with too much blood on his hands.

You looked at him like he was worth something.

And now you were gone.

He backed away slowly, footsteps hollow against the corridor floor, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.

It was just supposed to be sex.

It was never supposed to hurt like this.

It started small.

You weren’t avoiding Bucky—not outright. But you were pulling away, and he felt it in every single subtle shift like a blade under the skin.

No more soft smiles in the hallway.

No more plates quietly set in front of him when you made dinner.

You still said “hey” in passing, still nodded when he entered the room, still asked if he wanted coffee when the whole team was around—but your eyes didn’t linger anymore. You didn’t touch him. You didn’t look at him the same way.

And that quiet, gentle retreat was worse than a clean break.

Because it gave him just enough to hope. And not enough to hold.

It drove him mad.

He tried to play it cool. Tried to remind himself that you’d made your choice—that you’d moved on. That there was someone else. But the words haunted him like a ghost he couldn’t punch, couldn’t outpace.

Who the fuck was he?

Where did you meet him?

Was he better than Bucky? Was that it?

Was he stable, normal, sweet? Did he hold you in the morning, trace your spine with soft fingers, kiss your forehead and mean it?

The thoughts ran wild in his mind like wildfire. And soon, it stopped being curiosity. It became need. Obsessive. All-consuming.

He started watching. Not you—he couldn’t stomach how far away you already felt. No, he watched everyone else.

Was it someone on the team?

Someone new?

Someone from missions? The tower? That goddamn bar you liked downtown?

He noticed every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. Every time you left a room too quickly. Every time your phone lit up and your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. It was driving him insane.

And it didn’t take long before he cracked.

──────────────────

“Seen her with anyone lately?”

Ava didn’t look up from the security feed she was reviewing. “What?”

He cleared his throat, leaned against the console like this wasn’t eating him alive. “Y’know. She’s been… out more. Wondered if you’d noticed her with someone.”

Ava gave him a look that said you have five seconds before I tear this conversation apart with a crowbar. “She’s not a suspect, Barnes.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just—wondered.”

She paused. “You checking up on her?”

He shrugged. “Just being observant.”

“Then observe your own damn lane,” she muttered, turning back to her screen. “She’s allowed to have a life.”

──────────────────

The next day, he tried John.

“Any idea who she’s been seeing?”

Walker blinked at him, halfway through microwaving a bowl of instant mac and cheese in the lounge. “She told you she’s seeing someone?”

“Yeah.”

John stirred his pasta slowly. “Huh.”

Bucky waited.

John shrugged. “I mean, good for her, I guess.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “That’s not helpful.”

“Neither is asking around like a jealous ex.” He looked up. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky snapped.

John gave him a long look, then went back to his mac and cheese.

──────────────────

Yelena was less gentle.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she watched him pace the kitchen while you chatted with Bob across the room.

“No.”

“Then you sound like a madman.” She sipped her tea. “You are obsessed.”

“I’m just—”

“You had her,” she interrupted, calm and sharp as a knife. “You had her when it counted. And now you’re circling like a lonely wolf because someone else has her?”

“You knew about us?“

“I am a literal spy, Bucky.”

“I just don’t know who it is.”

“You’re not entitled to know,” she said simply, and walked away.

──────────────────

Alexei was worse.

“She has mystery man, huh?” he said, delighted, cracking open a beer like they were old pals trading war stories. “Ah, young love! Reminds me of my fourth love—no, fifth. It was confusing time. She had beautiful thighs. We met during a snowstorm, and she carried me to safety like bear.”

Bucky stared at him, hollow-eyed.

Alexei clapped a massive hand on his shoulder. “You cannot compete with new love, my friend. It is fire. It is danger. But! Sometimes fire burns out. And when it does, you be there with flowers. Or your shirt off. Both work.”

Bucky did not thank him.

──────────────────

And then there was Bob.

Goddamn Bob.

Bucky cornered him while he was grabbing cookies from the kitchen. Big mistake number two. He tried to sound as casual as possible.

“So, uh. You and her hang out sometimes, right?”

Bob blinked, brow furrowing. “Uh… yeah? She’s awesome.”

“She’s been acting different. With me.”

Bob fidgeted, clutching a cookie like a shield. “I mean, she’s been normal with me. Maybe a little sad? But also like, really pretty. But she’s always pretty, so that’s—uh—not relevant.”

Bucky stepped closer. Bob stepped back, hitting the counter.

“I was joking, Bucky. Please don’t punch me.”

Bucky took a deep breath, backed off. “Sorry.”

He didn’t mean to scare him.

He just couldn’t take it anymore.

──────────────────

It didn’t help. None of it did.

Because no one knew—or if they did, they weren’t telling.

And every time he saw you, something inside him twisted.

The way you laughed with Ava over your shared playlist. The way you sat on the arm of the couch next to John during a debrief. The way you ruffled Bob’s hair like a big sister, patient and teasing.

He saw you with everyone.

And he didn’t know which of them you were fucking.

Which of them made you smile when you looked at your phone.

Which of them got to hold you the way he used to—like you were theirs.

And it was killing him.

He started losing sleep. His nights were spent pacing his room, replaying every kiss, every laugh, every small moment with you. He couldn’t go to the kitchen without thinking of you cooking in it. Couldn’t walk by your room without hearing your voice.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t stopped wanting you.

Not for a second.

But he hadn’t thought he deserved you.

He’d told himself it was better this way. That he couldn’t be what you needed. That he was too broken, too guarded, too haunted.

He didn’t want to drag you into his shadows.

But now you were in someone else’s light.

And Bucky Barnes—super soldier, ex-Winter Soldier, world-class killer—was unraveling.

One glance. One silence. One laugh that wasn’t his to earn.

At a time.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since that night at your door. Since you told him you were seeing someone. Since your lips brushed his cheek like a goodbye that had already been decided, like the end of a story he hadn’t realized was even being written.

And still—no one.

Not a name. Not a face. Not even a damn clue.

No late-night laughter through thin walls. No footsteps sneaking down hallways. No signs of you sneaking off to a date. You still had the same quiet routines. The same soft smile when Bob told one of his nervous jokes. The same stretch in the mornings when you walked into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and socks that didn’t match.

But different.

He still watched you.

Not like before—when he’d admire the slope of your shoulders, the way your nose scrunched when you were concentrating, or how your hands always smelled faintly like vanilla and cinnamon. No, now he watched you with something closer to desperation.

He was trying to catch you.

Catch you in a lie. Catch you with him. The one who apparently meant enough to end everything you and Bucky had.

But nothing ever happened.

Instead, he saw things that confused him more.

You started going out on your own more often—midday errands, little walks, solo grocery runs even though there was food delivery and team shoppers. And he followed once.

Not to spy, he told himself.

Just to know.

You walked into a bookstore first. Wandered the aisles slowly. Bought two paperbacks and left without speaking to anyone. Then you stopped by a florist—picked out a single bouquet of fresh lilies, something subtle and quiet.

He expected you to deliver it to someone.

But instead, you brought it back to the tower and placed it on the dining table. Just something to brighten the space, like you always did.

You went to the park next. Sat on a bench. Ate a pastry. Fed the ducks.

Alone.

He watched from across the street, feeling something cold settle in his chest.

When you returned, he waited a few hours before asking Yelena—casually, as he always did, which fooled absolutely no one anymore.

“You know where she went today?”

Yelena raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “She went to clear her head. Like normal people.”

“Not with anyone?”

“Do you think she is incapable of being alone? Because that says more about you, Barnes.”

He didn’t answer.

He stopped asking questions after that.

Because it was dawning on him—slowly, painfully, in pieces—that there was no “someone else.” There never had been.

You hadn’t lied to hurt him. You’d lied to protect yourself.

And he had made you feel like you had to.

The thought made him sick.

He started noticing more, then—not just your absence, but the echo of what used to be. How you still made muffins for the team on Mondays. How you always passed out Advil after training. How you left soft music playing in the kitchen while cooking like you didn’t know anyone was listening. How you still took care of everyone except yourself.

He noticed how tired you looked sometimes. How your smile faltered when no one was looking. How your laugh had a hollow note now—like it had to fight its way out.

He noticed how you stopped meeting his eyes entirely.

And he finally asked himself what he had been to you.

Not just the sex. Not just the soft groans in the dark or the way your body curved into his like you were made for him.

But the mornings.

The muffins.

The hand you placed on his back after nightmares.

The way you listened when no one else could see he was slipping.

The way you waited—patient, hopeful—for something more from him.

And he hadn’t given it.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he thought he couldn’t.

He had told himself he wasn’t ready. That he was too broken. That he would only ruin something good and pure if he touched it too deeply. But the truth was, he’d already touched it. You had given him your heart in small, quiet ways, and he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone.

And now you were hurting, silently, because of him. Because you’d fallen for someone who told you not to. And he’d let you think he didn’t feel the same.

Until now.

He couldn’t sit still.

He’d tried. For two days. Two full fucking days since the realization broke through him like a goddamn lightning strike—and he’d tried to be patient. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.

But he wasn’t thinking anymore.

He was moving.

Searching.

Every room. Every hallway. The kitchen, the gym, your room—empty. He was spinning, chest tight, mouth dry, pacing like an addict itching for a fix, until finally—

Laughter.

The living room.

His boots hit the floor fast. He rounded the corner and stopped.

You were there. On the couch.

You, Bob, and Yelena.

Golden Girls was playing—Dorothy mid-quip, the volume just low enough to keep conversation alive. You were laughing, body relaxed, tucked into the corner with a blanket over your legs and a mug in your hand.

And he didn’t hesitate.

He walked straight in. Right past Bob’s curious look. Right past Yelena’s raised brow.

Straight to you.

You looked up immediately, your smile faltering when you saw his face. The tension in his shoulders. The storm in his eyes.

“Bucky?” you asked, sitting up. “Are you okay—?”

“I think I love you.”

It spilled out of him like it had been waiting behind his teeth for weeks.

You blinked.

Bob’s mouth dropped open mid-sip.

Yelena turned fully toward him, brows lifted to her hairline.

He didn’t care.

“No—” Bucky swallowed hard. “No, that’s not right. I know I love you.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly. Stunned.

Bucky’s heart pounded against his ribs, chest tight and burning. “I know it’s not the way I should’ve told you. And I know I don’t—fuck, I don’t deserve to say it after everything I didn’t say before. But I need you to hear me now.”

You still didn’t say anything. Just stared.

Then your hand twitched. Slid to your opposite arm.

And you started pinching your skin.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “What… what are you doing?”

Your voice was breathy, soft. “Trying to wake up.”

“What?”

“I’m pinching myself,” you said, barely louder than a whisper. “Trying to wake up. Because there’s no way this is actually happening.”

Bucky felt something in him break.

He took a shaky breath, stepping closer, dropping to his knees in front of you. His voice was rough but steady now.

“It’s real. I swear to you, it’s real.”

You stared at him like he was a ghost. Like he wasn’t allowed to be saying this.

“I’ve been losing my mind,” he continued, voice cracking slightly. “Thinking there was someone else. Trying to believe you’d moved on because it was easier than facing the truth.”

You swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

“And the truth is—I was scared.” He laughed, humorless, shaking his head. “I thought I wasn’t enough. That I’d mess it up. That I couldn’t give you what you deserve.”

He looked up at you now, eyes wide, glassy.

“But then I realized… you are what I deserve. You’re everything. You’re the reason this damn place feels like home. You cook for us even when no one thanks you. You remember everyone’s coffee orders. You make playlists for Bob and knit Ava a goddamn scarf even though she acts like she doesn’t care. You bake when you’re anxious, and I fucking love when you bake. You hum when you clean. You take care of everyone and let yourself break when no one’s looking.”

He reached up, brushing your arm where you’d been pinching.

“And I didn’t see it. Not really. Not until it was too late.”

A beat.

Then, softly—“But maybe it’s not too late.”

Yelena had stopped breathing. Bob looked like he might cry. But none of them mattered right now.

Just you.

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. But I know it now. And I’m not running from it anymore.”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Just looked down at him.

And your eyes… your eyes were full.

You couldn’t breathe.

He was on his knees in front of you, staring up with those wide, heartbreak-blue eyes, his voice still echoing in your ears like a song you hadn’t heard in years but somehow still knew all the words to.

I love you.

And now he was waiting—watching—like his whole world depended on what you were going to say next.

Your throat felt thick. Your heart was pounding so hard you were surprised no one else could hear it. You blinked fast, trying to keep your vision clear, but the tears were already threatening to fall.

You stared at him for a long moment, lips trembling, and whispered, “Promise me this isn’t a dream.”

Bucky’s breath caught. He reached up, brushing your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. “It’s not,” he said, voice wrecked. “It’s not, baby. I swear.”

And then you saw the moment he broke.

The last thread of restraint snapped, and suddenly he was rising—leaning in, closing the space between you before you could even think.

His lips met yours, soft and trembling at first—almost reverent—then deeper, hungrier, like he couldn’t bear to hold back another second. You gasped into his mouth, one hand flying to his jaw, the other looping around his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid he might vanish.

He groaned against you, like the sound of your mouth opening for him undid something inside him.

And then he climbed onto the couch, practically on top of you, bracing one knee beside your hip as he leaned down, his hands burying themselves in your hair. Your back hit the cushions, breath caught in your throat, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the feel of his body pressed into yours, the desperate, perfect weight of him finally, finally there.

His thumb stroked the line of your jaw as he kissed you again, deeper now, and you let yourself sink into it. Into him.

Until—

“…Guys?” Yelena’s voice cut in, dry and deeply unimpressed. “We are still here.”

You froze.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead to yours, his lips still hovering over yours, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. You were both breathless, giddy, flushed.

“I forgot they were here,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

“Me too,” he said, smiling against your cheek.

From the other end of the couch, Bob cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Sooo… should we leave now?”

“No,” Yelena snapped immediately. “We were here first. This was very sweet two minutes ago, and now it’s making me deeply uncomfortable.”

You laughed into Bucky’s shoulder, muffling the sound.

He just chuckled and kissed your temple before whispering, “Still not a dream, I swear.”

You smiled up at him, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

It felt real.

Because it was.

[whisperingashgarden]

Ughhhh I could not stop SMILING 😫

Friendly Fire

Bucky x reader

Summary: Sam exposes Bucky’s obvious crush on you.

Word: 1,3k

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. Which meant you were about to commit a crime.

Not a real crime, just a tiny one. A harmless, innocent late-night snack raid. You tiptoed into the kitchen, trying not to make a sound, reaching for the cupboard handle.

"Really?"

You turned around, startled, finding Bucky leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, looking very unimpressed.

"You scared the hell out of me!" You hissed, pressing a hand to your chest.

He smirked. "You’re terrible at sneaking."

"I wasn’t sneaking."

"You absolutely were." He smiled, walking closer to you.

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the cupboard. "What are you doing up, anyway?"

"Same thing as you," He admitted, stepping closer. "Figured I’d grab something before Wilson wakes up and lectures me about eating properly."

You chuckled. "Well, now that you're here, you might as well make yourself useful."

He arched a brow. "Useful how?"

You gestured at the top shelf. "Grab that."

He sighed but reached up effortlessly, grabbing cookies you couldn’t get to.

You narrowed your eyes. "Showoff."

Bucky smirked, opening the cookie package, taking one out, and he exaggeratedly slowly took a bite.

"You are the worst," You muttered, grabbing a cookie from the package.

"You love it," He teased.

You snorted, but didn’t deny it. For a moment, comfortable silence settled.

Then Bucky glanced at you with a smirk. "We’re gonna get caught, you know."

You shrugged, taking a bite. "Worth it."

"Wow. Look at this."

Both of you froze.

Slowly, you turned, finding Sam standing in the doorway, arms crossed, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Two grown adults, sneaking snacks like criminals," He said, sighing. "Barnes, you should be ashamed."

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temple. "Sam-"

"No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me." He pointed at both of you. "This is pathetic. You could’ve just eaten like normal people, but no midnight heist. What are you, spies?"

"Well...yeah," Bucky muttered.

Sam ignored that. "And you?" He turned to you, smirking. "Corrupted by Barnes already, huh?"

You sighed, pretending to be apologetic. "Guess I’ve been a bad influence on him."

Sam laughed, shaking his head. "No, no, you got it backwards, sweetheart."

Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing cookies. "We’re leaving."

"Running from justice, huh?" Sam teased.

Bucky grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the exit. "We don’t have to listen to him."

"Wait," Sam checked the shelf from which you got cookies. "Are those my cookies?" He called after you. "Thieves!"

You just laughed, following Bucky down the hallway.

---

"You’re terrible at this," Bucky muttered, watching you struggle with the dough. This time, the two of you decided to make cinnamon rolls.

You scoffed, tossing him a glare. "Excuse me?"

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You’re kneading like you’re trying to fight it. It’s dough, not an enemy."

You huffed, turning back to the sticky mess in front of you. "You said I had to be firm!"

"Not aggressive," He corrected. "You look like you’re trying to kill it."

You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Maybe if you actually helped-"

Bucky smirked. "And ruin the entertainment?"

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"I absolutely am." He chuckled, stepping closer to you.

Slowly, casually, you scooped up a bit of flour. "You know, for someone who’s supposedly a trained fighter, you’re way too close right now."

Bucky’s brow furrowed. "What?"

And before he could react, you flicked the flour straight at him. It was beautiful. A perfect explosion of white powder across his dark shirt and face. For one glorious moment, he just stood there, processing. Then his expression darkened.

"You," he muttered, wiping flour from his jaw. "Are in so much trouble."

You shrieked, immediately trying to back away, but he moved faster. In an instant, he grabbed a handful of flour and smeared it against your cheek, grinning at your stunned reaction.

"You did not just,"

"Oh, I did."

You lunged for another handful, and just like that, chaos erupted.

Flour flew everywhere onto counters, into hair, across shirts. You were laughing, dodging him, while Bucky, the incredibly skilled fighter, was apparently terrible at avoiding kitchen warfare.

By the time Sam walked in, he stared at the disaster in complete horror. "What the hell happened here?"

You and Bucky were breathless, covered in flour, smirking at each other like two kids who had just gotten caught.

Sam sighed. "I don’t even wanna know. But Barnes," He shook his head, walking out. "Just tell her, man."

"Ignore him." Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his flour-covered face.

You just laughed, but you wanted to know what he meant.

---

The compound's kitchen was quiet until Sam decided to stir up trouble.

You were sitting across from Bucky at the table, quietly sipping coffee, when Sam decided today was the day to ruin Bucky Barnes' life.

"You know, man," Sam said, leaning against the counter, smirking at Bucky, "you’re not exactly subtle."

Bucky, sitting across from you, froze mid-sip.

You raised an eyebrow. "Subtle about what?"

Sam grinned like a man who lived for chaos. "You."

Bucky’s jaw clenched warningly. "Sam."

You blinked, confused. "Me?"

Sam turned back to Bucky, absolutely enjoying himself. "Look at you, all stiff and silent, pretending you don’t have a full-blown crush sitting right there."

Bucky exhaled sharply, gripping his coffee mug so tightly that you were sure it was seconds away from cracking.

"I do not-" He muttered.

"Oh, buddy," Sam interrupted, shaking his head. "You do. The way you watch her when she walks into the room? The way you get all weirdly protective? And let’s not forget the time you lost your mind when she got hit during training."

Bucky shot up from his chair. "I was concerned!"

"You were dramatic," Sam corrected.

You stared between the two men, heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky Barnes, former assassin, impossible grump, had a crush on you?

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. "Sam, I swear, I will-"

"What?" Sam taunted. "Kill me? Finally admit you like her?"

Bucky looked half ready to commit a crime. But before he could, Sam pushed off the counter, laughing. "Relax, man. I'm just saying that maybe you should stop glaring at me and do something about it."

Then, with an obnoxious wink at you, he walked out. You sat there, awkwardly clutching your coffee cup, very aware that Bucky was still standing.

"...So," you said, glancing at him. "You have a crush on me?"

Bucky groaned. "Ignore Sam. He likes ruining my life."

You smiled. "But…was he wrong?"

Silence.

Bucky rubbed his temple, sighed, and finally looked at you. "I hate him," he muttered. "But no. He wasn’t wrong."

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, you set your coffee down. "So… what do we do about that?"

Bucky was silent for one long second. He hesitated, but only for a second. Then, he moved.

His hand reached up, fingers grazing your cheek like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. His touch was careful, uncertain, but when his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, you leaned into it. That was all he needed.

He slightly tilted his head, closed the distance, and kissed you. It started soft, hesitant, like he was afraid to break you, but the moment you melted into him, everything changed.

The tension, the months of stolen moments and unsaid words, came crashing down all at once. His lips pressed firmer against yours, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting, aching, for this.

And you kissed him back with everything you had, gripping his jacket, letting him swallow the breathless sound you made when he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. The world blurred.

It was just heat, hands, Bucky, the quiet realization that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

"FINALLY!"

You jerked away, breathless, turning toward the hallway where Sam stood, grinning like a damn idiot.

Bucky groaned, burying his face against your shoulder. "I am going to kill him."

You laughed, still catching your breath, still feeling the phantom imprint of Bucky’s lips.

"Took you long enough, Barnes." Sam just shook his head, victorious.

[whisperingashgarden]

Ahahahahhhhhh I’m living for the bob domesticity!!!!

reader taking care of bob (thunderbolts) during a depressive episode? 🥹

ty for requesting!! — you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why (friends in love, fluff, thunderbolts spoilers, cw for mentions of depression and suicidal ideation | 1.4k words)

Bob has his bad days. And he’s not just talking about that stint in New York.

Sometimes he can’t get out of bed, can’t take care of himself, can’t go outside. There are days when he can’t find a reason to be an actual functioning human being, so he takes to rotting in his room — and trying not to suffocate beneath the crushing knowledge that the rest of the world is living on just fine without him. 

He’ll hear the rest of the team laughing or otherwise arguing a floor below, while he hasn’t spoken a word all day because he can’t find the energy to. He’ll go to sleep without having left the four walls of his bedroom, or his bed for that matter, while fighting the black shroud of death that never quite seems to leave him.

It’s been that way his whole life: constant cycles of great days followed by the no-good-very-bad ones that he’s always distantly fearful might be the end of him. So Bob counts himself lucky that he’s got you for those days, and all the days in between. 

“I think the blonde’s finally washed out,” you observe gently as you brush through his freshly washed curls. You get a whiff of the strawberry-scented shampoo with every swipe of the comb from where you sit just behind him on the bed. Bob, meanwhile, slouches on the floor between your legs and fiddles nervously with one of the many skincare products you’ve stacked beside him.

This is often what your “sleepovers” look like — which is what you call the many nights where the rest of the team’s out on a mission and you’re left babysitting the leftovers. (Bob’s almost certain you only call it that so you have an excuse to take care of him.)

“Really?” Bob hums distantly, fighting back a shiver. He’d much rather blame his chills on the water droplets falling from his hair and dampening the neck of his white t-shirt than the fact that he’s just not used to being touched so gently. Not used to being touched at all. 

“Yeah,” you say with an audible smile. “I like your hair better this way.”

Bob scoffs pessimistically. “Shit brown?”

“It’s more like chocolate. Or chestnut, maybe— with little flakes of gold.”

Something in your words strikes him deep. Makes his chest go all warm and sparkly. He doesn’t know how you see such beauty in him when he can hardly look in the mirror without snarling in disgust most days. You still think he’s got so much good left in him, even after Valentina made him hurt you, even after he nearly took out a whole city without blinking. 

He doesn’t get it. 

In fact, the thought alone makes him so dizzy that his head starts to hurt. 

“I— I’m sorry about this,” Bob apologizes through a breathy, awkward laugh. “Just— By the way.”

“Sorry about what?”

“You, you know, having to take care of me and everything.”

“Don’t apologize,” you giggle and drag the brush from his temple, around the curve of his ear, and down towards his neck. “I like taking care of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Bob chuckles with a stubborn shake of his head.

“I do. Honest.” 

The mattress squeaks when you rise from it. Bob tilts his chin and peers up at you with a pair of dark, glittering eyes as you round him. “So… what?” he lilts with a shy half-smile. “You’d rather be here than off fighting crime with the New Avengers?”

“Yes,” you answer automatically, scoffing like it’s obvious, as you sit on the ground across from him. You settle between his parted legs with your own curled beneath you and twist the cap off of something that says deep hydrating face cream.

“I would much rather be here with you than god knows where with Walker trying to tell everyone what to do, and Ava and Yelena shouting at him, and Bucky trying to shout over all of them, and…”

You trail off. The lid unscrews with a quiet pop. You flash Bob a shy smile and a pair of squinted eyes. “Basically, what I’m saying is this is practically heaven compared to that.”

Bob’s face flares. He shakes his head and looks away. His eyes find a rogue piece of glitter in your carpet and lock there. “You don’t mean that…”

“Actually, I do—” You swipe two fingers through the white lotion and set it off to the side. “—Here. Look at me.”

You shift an inch towards him and lift a hand towards his face. Bob flinches on instinct despite wanting you so much closer. “Sorry,” he apologizes, ‘cause that’s his instinct, too.

Your eyes go wide and dart worriedly across his face. “Did I do something?”

“No! No, it’s not— It’s not you,” Bob stammers with his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s— It’s me. I don’t wanna…”

His voice breaks, fragile as glass, and he trails off. He doesn’t have the words for it — what he did to you, how he did it. He only knows that you saved his life, and touched his hand, and saw something that terrified you. He doesn’t know what it was, only that he won’t forget how frightened of him you looked.

You don’t look so scared of him now, though.

Instead, you look at him with your eyes wide and full of hope — like you love being this close to him, like you can’t wait to get closer. 

“You won’t. I promise.”

This time, when you reach for him, you do it slowly. You give him ample time to stop you before you cup his jaw in your hand, slightly scruffy and still flushed from a steaming shower. You cradle his face in your palms without a vision of a long-gone horror flashing across your eyelids. You just feel safe. Warm. A strange sort of happy emotion that still makes you feel like crying.

“See?” you lilt with a sunshine smile. 

Bob swallows hard as your fingertips swipe softly across his face. Your middle and ring fingers trace over the dark circles under his eyes in a feather-light touch as you rub in the moisturizer. Your fingertips follow his cheekbones as they rise to his temples before sliding down and across his stubbly jaw.

He keeps his eyes shut as he tries hopelessly to recall the last time he was ever touched this gently — if he ever has before — if he even deserves it.

“That day…” he starts suddenly, slowly. “You know, the day you guys found me…”

“Mhm?” you hum to egg him on.

“When you pulled me up out of that elevator…” Bob’s dark eyes flutter open again, swimming with honey and apprehension. “What did you see?”

He watches you falter, but only briefly. It’s a faint flicker in your eye that he wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t already notice everything about you.

Your face twitches slightly, like his question single-handedly brings back the dreaded memories you’ve been trying to shove down for years.

“Uh, Hydra,” you stammer, swallowing hard and sitting back on your haunches. You can’t find the strength to meet his gaze, so you focus on your hands as you rub the remaining moisturizer into your palms. “I came back from a mission I couldn’t finish— A children’s hospital full of ‘failed test subjects’ that wanted me to get rid of, and I couldn’t do it… And they punished me for it.”

You decide to save him the gritty, bloody details of what had happened to you that day, but Bob still flinches like he knows everything you’re not telling him. He feels like he does, in a way. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles when he can’t find the words to say.

You flash him a quiet smile and a soft look beneath your lashes. “It’s not your fault.”

Bob scoffs an emotionless laugh. “Well, I mean, it kinda is—”

You reach suddenly for his face again, and his eyes go wide. Your touch is still as gentle as ever, but stern still, as you force him to meet your gaze. “It isn’t,” you repeat with an unyielding stare. “And, you know, despite the circumstances and everything, my life’s actually gotten a whole lot better since you’ve been in it.”

Bob’s face burns at your confession, even more so at your touch. “...Really?” is all he can squeak out.

“Really,” you echo with a firm nod.

He shifts awkwardly, uncomfortable in his skin, and tilts his cheek further into your palm “Like… Even on my bad days?” he mumbles, distantly dreading the answer.

“Especially on your bad days,” you laugh. “‘Cause you’re the only one that lets me braid your hair.”

“That’s the only reason why you like me?” Bob laughs, trying to play it cool even though his hopeful eyes give everything away. “‘Cause I let you braid my hair?”

You smile at his smiling. “Mhm. The only reason,” you nod, obviously playful in a way that makes his heart skip a beat (or three). “Nothing else at all.”

[whisperingashgarden]

uhhh this was literally beautiful 😻 I think I died just as she did

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[whisperingashgarden]

Thunderbolts* Spoilers Without Context

[whisperingashgarden]

Saw Thunderbolts* for my birthday!!! It was soo goooddd

[whisperingashgarden]

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

[whisperingashgarden]

CM took a big athletic male model from the south side of Chicago and said "actually he calls his best friend sweetheart and everytime he goes home he mourns the death of a boy without a name bc he thinks someone should and he was molested as a child and now he empowers the kids in his community so it doesn't happen to them and he helps little old homeless ladies to be more comfortable and he claims to be a player but the only times we actually see him getting involved with women he falls head over heels. Oh and also he's a brilliant profiler."

CM looked at a big burly black guy with a hero complex and said "what if he cried in a church because god didn't stop the man who hurt him"

[whisperingashgarden]

Ughhh this was such a lovely and heartwarming ending to the series ❤️❤️😭

Foundations (#8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky). Smut.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.4.k.

note: And we have reached the end. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and accompanying me through the story.

Previous chapter

Her mouth went dry.

His body was a masterpiece of muscle and scar tissue, broad shoulders tapering down to a defined waist, and taut skin covering a sculpted chest. The light caught on the hard lines of his abdomen, and the faint trail of hair leading below the waistband of his sweats.

But it was the contrast that stole her breath.

The way flesh met metal at his shoulder, how his arm caught the light of the room, gleaming with every slight movement. The way his muscles flexed and tensed as he rolled his neck, adjusting to the loss of fabric. He was solid, real, and beautiful in a way that was both raw and devastating.

And he was looking at her like he could see every thought running wild through her head. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

“I take you like what you see?” he asked, a disarming half-smile tugging at his lips.

She didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to. Her parted lips, the slow, deliberate drag of her gaze over his body, he saw it all.

But inside, something in him diminished the way she was looking at him.

He wasn’t the cocky bastard who knew the effect he had on a dame, who could throw a wink and have a girl melting in his hands.

He was… this. The patchwork of scars, the jagged edges of skin fused back together, the gleaming vibranium where flesh used to be. Someone once told him he had body dysmorphia or something like that. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. As a man of his time, he only believed in what he could see, and the image the mirror returned to him every day wasn't exactly the one of a charmer.

But, right now, she was looking at him like he was something worth wanting. Patchwork or not, she had chosen him.

He crawled up her on the bed and her nightdress bunched up around her thighs as his hands roamed, rough and warm against her skin. He groaned softly, gripping the fabric, trailing upward with deliberate slowness.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been wanting this,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger.

She swallowed hard, as he pushed the nightdress higher. His fingers brushed along her sides, tracing her waist before sliding up, skimming just beneath the fabric.

He gave her a look, one last moment for her to stop him. She didn’t.

Instead, she lifted her hips, arching her back to help him pull it off completely. The gown slipped over her head and onto the floor, forgotten.

Bucky bit his lip slightly at the sight of her naked body, waiting beneath him in just a pair of panties.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, settling his hands on her thighs.

The cool air of the room pebbled her nipples, drawing his piercing gaze like a magnet. She could feel the heat of his stare, almost tangible and her thighs trembled slightly under his large, calloused hands as they kneaded the soft flesh. She parted them instinctively, inviting him closer, silently begging for more. The damp patch on her underwear darkened as the slick flooded her pussy.

He leaned down, ghosting his lips along the column of her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath his mouth. One hand slid up her side to cup her breast, thumbing the stiff peak of her nipple. “Look at you, he growled appreciatively, so fucking beautiful like this. All spread out for me.”

His other hand dipped between her thighs, grazing over the damp lace covering her sex. He could feel the heat, and smell her arousal. It made his cock throb insistently against the confines of his sweatpants.

Bucky nipped at her earlobe, fanning his hot breath across her skin as he whispered huskily, “Tell me what you want, doll.”

She could feel herself growing slicker by the second, the damp lace clinging obscenely to her folds. She finally found her voice. "Please, Bucky," she whimpered, "I want your hands on me. Y-your mouth. I want you inside me." Emboldened by desire, she reached out to palm his cock, straining against his pants. She could feel him, so big and hard already, and it made her clench with anticipation. She bit her lip and rubbed intently his neglected tent.

He hissed, and his hips jerked involuntarily into her hand. He cursed and grabbed her wrist, stopping her movements with a firm grip. “Not yet. Wanna taste you, sweetheart, I'm fucking drunk with the scent of that sweet pussy of yours” His Brooklyn accent rolled out, thick with desire. “Spend all my mission’s nights remembering it, recalling how close I was to dip my fingers inside your underwear on that fucking couch and then pull ‘em off and suck them dry.”  

She felt the heat invade her face. It was the first time she had heard him talk dirty like that… and she liked it. A lot. So she nodded, shyly.

He groaned, releasing her wrist only to grab her hips with both hands, yanking her to the edge of the bed. He kneeled between her thighs, and hooked his fingers in her soaked panties, dragging them down her legs, and carelessly tossing them aside. Then, he pushed her thighs further apart to expose her to his hungry gaze. “Spread wider for me, doll. Wanna see all of you. Wanna see what’s mine.” His accent thickened again with arousal as he spread her further.

Without more preamble he leaned in, dragging the flat of his tongue through her slick folds in one slow, savoring lick. She moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Shh don’t wanna wake up Thomas, don’t ya?” Bucky growled against her thigh before diving back in, sealing his lips around her clit and suckling hard.

She bit her hand, muffling her reaction as Bucky's tongue worked on her sensitive flesh. Her thighs quaked on either side of his head as he fucked her with his tongue to then suckle on her swollen bundle of nerves again. “Oh god, Bucky!” she gasped out in a harsh whisper, grinding herself shamelessly against his face. “Don't stop!” Her nails raked down his scalp, urging him on. She could feel herself hurtling towards the edge embarrassingly fast, a result of weeks of pent-up tension and dirty fantasies starring this very scenario.

He growled against her slick heat, and the vibrations sent shockwaves of pleasure through her pussy. He doubled his efforts, delving his tongue deep to lap at her inner walls before flicking rapidly over her clit. His hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider, holding her open for his oral assault.

“That's it darlin’, let go for me”, he urged, muffled and rough.  “Wanna taste that sweet cream.” He sealed his lips around her clit once more, sucking hard as he thrust two fingers knuckle-deep inside her. Curling them just right, he found the spot inside her that made her mewl, as he flicked his tongue rapidly over her sensitive bud.

Bucky could feel her trembling, hear the desperate little sounds she tried to stifle. He knew she was close, teetering on the brink.

Her entire body tensed, and her back arched off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her body. She had to shove a pillow over her face to muffle her cries of ecstasy, bucking her hips against Bucky's mouth as he relentlessly worked her through it. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around his plunging fingers, trying to draw him deeper and she was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched, the rasp of his stubble against her inner thighs, the firm grip of his hand on her ass, the heat of his breath on her oversensitive flesh, his fingers still inside her.

With a final kiss to her mound, he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels, drinking in the debauched sight of her sprawled out on the sheets. The evidence of her release glistened on her thighs. “You're fucking gorgeous like this,” Bucky rasped. He brought his coated fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as his heated gaze locked with hers. “Delicious too.”

She watched through hooded eyes as he cleaned her slick from his fingers, and the erotic sight sent a fresh gush of heat through her body.

When he was done, he moved to straddle her hips. The thick ridge of his erection nestled against her stomach as he loomed over her. His large hands cupped the undersides of her breasts, lifting them slightly as if presenting them to him. He swiped his thumbs over the stiff nipples, teasing them into even tighter buds. He rolled and pinched the sensitive flesh, alternating between light caresses and firmer squeezes, gauging her reactions. 

“Like this, doll?” he rumbled as he leaned down and latched his mouth on one aching nipple, alternating between deep pulls and feather-light flicks of his tongue.

Her hands fly to his hair, pulling him closer as she shamelessly rubbed herself against his throbbing cock. “So, so much. But- I want you inside, Bucky.” her whisper was breathy and desperate.

He groaned against her breast, and his hips rocked reflexively into her touch. He let go of her nipple, dragging his lips up to her jaw, then her cheek, nuzzling her as he tried to calm himself against her bare, needy pussy. The friction of her soft body against his aching cock was maddening.

“Wanna take care of you,” he murmured, nearly pleading. “It’s been so long, doll. It’s pathetic, I-” His throat closed, and shame curled in his gut.

He couldn’t look at her.

He wanted this -oh, how he wanted this- but deep down, he was worried at the thought that he was about to fall apart in her arms like some desperate, touch-starved boy. Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he? It had been so fucking long since he’d had anything close to this willingly, and he knew himself. Knew his body. He wasn’t going to last.

His fingers pressed on her breasts, and he exhaled shakily. “I know I’m not gonna last once I’m inside you.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, thick with something raw.

She cradled his stubbled face, brushing her thumbs over the tension on his cheekbones. Gently, insistently, she tilted his head up, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Look at me.”

He hesitated but obeyed.

Her expression was soft, so damn understanding it made something in his chest ache. No judgment, no pity.

“There’s nothing pathetic here,” she murmured, tracing slow, soothing circles with her thumbs. “You’ve been through so much, carried so many burdens alone, Bucky. But you don’t have to do that with me. I don’t give a damn if you come just now.”

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, pressing his forehead to hers. “You sure about this, doll?”

She smiled, tilting her hips up, teasing him with just the slightest roll against his clothed length. “What do you think?”

That was all he needed.

He pulled back, rising from the bed in one fluid motion, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, and shoving them down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and aching. He didn’t bother with theatrics, just kicked the fabric aside with one foot, letting it land somewhere near the desk. His focus was entirely on her, sprawled out before him, waiting and wanting.

For a second, he just stood there, looking at her, with his chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. Then, unable to resist any longer, he crawled back onto the bed, settling between her thighs.

She reached for him, sliding her hands over the planes of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle beneath. Her fingertips traced the lines of his scars, and when her hands reached his shoulders, she pulled him down, guiding him to hover over her. Their faces were mere inches apart, breaths mingling in the charged space between them.

"I want you," she whispered, "Don't hold back, Bucky. Please."

A ragged groan tore from his throat as he sank into her, inch by inch, the tight, wet heat of her stealing the air from his lungs. His hands gripped the sheets on either side of her head, trembling with restraint as he fought to go slow, to savor the moment.

“Jesus,” he choked out, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, ragged as he tried to calm himself. “You feel- fuck.”

Her hands were everywhere, gripping his shoulders, sliding down his back, her nails pressing into his skin as she adjusted to the stretch of his size. She tilted her hips, urging him deeper, and he felt himself unraveling, the restraint slipping like sand through his fingers.

Bucky lifted his head, finding her gaze, pupils blown wide, lips parted as she let out a soft, breathy moan. That sound alone nearly did him in.

"You okay?" he rasped, voice rough with effort.

She nodded, biting her lip, then whispered, "Move, Bucky."

His hips rolled forward, slow at first, savoring every inch of her warmth, and the way her body yielded to him so perfectly. A shudder wracked through his body as he pulled back, only to thrust in again, deeper this time.

Her breath hitched, fingers gripping his back, nails digging in just enough to make him groan. The feeling, the tight drag of her pussy around him, the way she clenched with every movement, it was too good, too much.

"Fuck, doll," he rasped. She let out a soft whimper, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

He tried to pace himself, tried to hold back, but she met him thrust for thrust, and it was intoxicating, overwhelming.

Her lips brushed against his, her breath hot as she whispered, “More.”

“Fuck, darlin’” He groaned, gripping her thighs and yanking her flush against him, and a sharp gasp left her lips as he drove into her with a force that had her back arching off the mattress. His hands dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he set a relentless pace, each thrust deep and demanding than before.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice was rough, almost ragged. "You feel too good- too fuckin’ good, doll."

Her nails raked down his back, desperate to hold onto something as he wrecked her, her body bowing under each hard snap of his hips. She gasped, trying to say his name, but the force of his movements kept stealing her breath.

"You wanted this," he growled, pressing her thighs further apart, angling deeper until she cried out behind clamped hands. "Begged for it, now take it."

Her head fell back against the pillow, and he was beyond gone. His mouth found her throat, grazing sensitive skin with his teeth before latching on, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere: gripping, kneading, holding her under her ass, tilting her hips to take him even deeper as he lost himself in her.

Her barely concealed moans were a sweet symphony. Every gasp, every shudder, every little whimper sent him spiraling further, deeper into the abyss of need he’d been drowning in for so long.

His pace stuttered for a moment, and he knew he didn’t have much time left before his touch-starved body succumbed to the pleasure.

“Sweetheart, gonna come. Can't- fuck, can't hold it.” His voice was ragged, almost desperate. He changed the angle of his thrusts, grinding against her clit with each snap of his hips, as his thumb rubbed tight circles around it while he drove into her harder, deeper. He could feel his balls tightening, and the base of his shaft starting to pulse with impending release.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, needy. “Give it to me, Bucky.”

“Please, please, please, wanna feel you squeeze my cock when I fill you up.” The filthy words fell from his lips like a prayer, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin and the creak of the bed frame.

“You don’t have to- oh! Oh fuck!” His fingers pinched her clit and combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that perfect spot inside her, he pushed her right to another orgasm.

Bucky threw his head back with a guttural moan as her spasming heat pushed him irremediably over the edge. His hips stuttered, losing rhythm as he emptied himself inside her with a few more erratic thrusts.

He stayed close, bracketing her with his arms, unwilling to lose the warmth of her body against his. His chest heaved against hers, and his heart hammered so loud he swore she could hear it.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, caught in the haze of pleasure. Then, with a soft hum, Bucky pressed a slow, tender kiss to her temple.

She was wrecked, her body felt boneless against his, and he could feel the faint tremors in her limbs as she tried to catch her breath.

Guilt curled in his chest, even as the satisfaction warmed his bones. He had been so desperate, so fucking unhinged. Carefully, he shifted onto his back, dragging her with him, tucking her against his chest. His vibranium arm slid beneath her, curling protectively around her waist, while his other hand found its way to her hair stroking it absently.

She let out a contented sigh, melting into his embrace, dragging her leg over his hip, and tracing idly patterns over the ridges of his pectorals with her fingers. "I'm sure you have listened to this a thousand times, but you are so damn handsome." she said, kissing his chest, just on a bullet scar.

"I used to hear it, yeah, a lifetime ago," he murmured, a little uncomfortable. "Now I'm- this is the first time after-"

"Oh, I have no problem reminding you every day," she interrupted softly, pressing another kiss in the scarred tissue that joined with the prosthesis, like she was trying to erase the past with tenderness alone.

Bucky let out a shaky breath. "Fuck. Don’t say those kinds of things."

"Why?" she murmured against his skin, her breath warm. "It’s the truth."

It was a truth he had spent years rejecting, drowning in guilt and self-loathing. He couldn't reconcile the idea that someone like her -bright, warm, whole- could want someone like him. Letting aside the arm, the scars, the patchwork of a body that didn’t feel like his own, there was all that neurological shit, the PTSD, the weight of a past he would never fully escape.

But��� as he’d admitted to himself days before, he was a selfish bastard.

And he was done relegating himself to the shadows.

So he did the only thing that made sense, he rolled her beneath him again, caging her in with his body, and captured her lips in a kiss that left no room for doubt.

----

Bucky was leaning against the counter, with his fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee, while she stood by the stove, mindlessly stirring a pan of eggs. He had already offered to cook, but she had swatted him away with a teasing “You did enough last night.” That had earned her a low chuckle and a smirk, but now, as he watched her move around his kitchen, it hit him just how much had changed in less than twenty-four hours.

Thomas was still asleep, blissfully unaware of that shift between them. And maybe that was for the best. They had talked about it before bed, about whether to sit him down and explain everything or let things unfold naturally. They had landed somewhere in the middle. No grand announcements, no life-altering conversations just yet. Just small changes. Small moments.

Like now.

She moved to pour herself some coffee, and when she reached for the sugar, his hand shot out, effortlessly taking the jar from the shelf above her head, leaning against her body, and passing it to her without a word. A small, natural thing. Familiar.

She looked at him for a second, a small smile playing at her lips, before murmuring, “Thanks, babe.”

His fingers twitched against his mug. That was new.

His eyes flicked to her, trying to picture if she had said it absentmindedly or if she was testing the waters. But she just went back to stirring her coffee, as if she had always called him that, as if it wasn’t unraveling something tight in his chest.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You tryna kill me first thing in the morning?”

She grinned. “Just seeing how it feels.”

It felt good. Dangerous, maybe. But good.

Before he could say anything, a sleepy shuffle sounded from the hallway, followed by a groggy voice. “Mornin’.”

Thomas padded into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes,. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up in every direction. He yawned, clambering onto a chair at the table, blinking at the plate of food already waiting for him.

Bucky reached over and ruffled his son’s hair. “You slept late, bud.”

Thomas blinked up at her. Then, as if remembering something, he perked up. “You’re stayed over again?”

She hesitated, but Bucky answered before she had to. “Yeah.”

Thomas seemed to consider that for a second before shrugging and reaching for his toast. “Cool.”

She and Bucky exchanged a glance. Small changes. Small steps.

----

There was something different about Bucky.

Steve had known him for a long time, long enough to recognize that the man wasn’t the same as he had been just a month ago. Not that Bucky had ever been miserable -okay, maybe he had-, but it was a soft kind of miserable, the kind he carried in his shoulders and the downward cast of his eyes.

That weight? It had lifted. Not entirely, but enough.

Enough that he didn’t immediately say no when Sam suggested grabbing a beer. Enough that he had started showing up to training sessions without needing to be dragged in. Enough that when Clint had shoved a dumb little bobblehead figurine in his face last week, instead of an unimpressed glare, Bucky had smirked and said, "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen."

Which, by Bucky standards, was practically a compliment.

But the real kicker?

The thing that had set off every alarm bell in Steve’s head?

Bucky had called Natasha’s keychain cute.

So, yeah. It was time for an intervention.

This was why Steve, Sam, Clint, and Natasha were currently loitering in the gym, watching Bucky put a reinforced training dummy through hell. They were subtle about it, standing just far enough apart to seem casual, arms crossed or hands on hips, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Sam was the first to break the silence. “So, Tinman. You seem... cheerful lately.”

Bucky didn’t pause his assault on the dummy, but Steve caught the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

“I seem normal,” Bucky corrected, landing a sharp jab. “Which apparently is a crime now.”

Clint snorted. “Nah, normal would be you scowling while beating the hell out of that thing. But you? You’re smiling these days, man. It’s weird. It’s unnatural.”

Bucky finally stopped, exhaling sharply as he wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood. You ever consider that?”

Steve exchanged glances with the others before looking back at Bucky. “And what, exactly, put you in such a good mood?”

Bucky almost got away with brushing them off. Almost.

But then Natasha smirked, tilting her head just so, and said, “Yeah, Barnes. What’s got you all domesticated lately?”

Bucky huffed, reaching for his water bottle and taking a long sip, dragging out the pause like it would somehow make them drop the subject. It didn’t.

Steve stood firm, with his arms crossed, wearing that all-knowing, annoying-as-hell look he always got when Bucky was trying to bullshit his way out of something. Sam had a smirk that screamed I’m about to make this worse for you, and Clint was practically vibrating with the need to say something inappropriate. Natasha, meanwhile, just looked amused.

“Come on, Buck,” Sam drawled, tilting his head. “What’s got you walking around like you just discovered life’s not a raging dumpster fire?”

“Maybe I just don’t hate people as much as I used to,” Bucky shot back, tossing his empty bottle toward the bin. It bounced off the rim. He scowled.

Clint snorted. “Yeah, no. Something’s up. Spill.”

“Nothing’s up,” Bucky said, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. “I’ve just-” He hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough.

Sam’s smirk widened. “You’ve just what, Buck?”

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m seeing someone.”

There was a brief pause. Then Clint and Sam turned to each other, grinning like idiots.

“Naughty nanny,” they said in unison.

Bucky’s expression darkened instantly. He dropped the towel and turned toward them with a sharp look. “Don’t call her that.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but there was something in the way he said it, that made both of them shut it. Even Clint, who usually had no sense of self-preservation, put his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Relax, man,” Sam said quickly, clearly realizing they’d struck a nerve.

Steve cleared his throat and stepped in, changing the subject with a smirk. “Her, huh?” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Who would have thought, right? You owe me, punk.”

Bucky groaned. “Shut it, Steve. You almost ruined everything.”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head. “There wasn’t anything to ruin before I set you two up, jerk.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Natasha, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’m gonna need some details.”

----

That so-called intervention quickly spiraled into something else entirely, and he couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment he'd walked into their damn trap. One second, he was deflecting, the next, he was somehow agreeing to a casual get-together at the Tower so they could meet her.

And vice versa.

It had to be while Thomas was at kindergarten, Clint had insisted, because, well, she was his naughty nanny.

“I told you not to call her that!” Bucky had snapped, throwing a half-hearted punch at Clint’s shoulder.

----

That afternoon, when he got home, the irritation from their relentless teasing melted away as soon as he stepped through the door.

She and Thomas were at the coffee table, surrounded by a mess of paper scraps, glue sticks, and colorful cutouts. She was laughing softly as Thomas showed off a questionable-looking collage, waving a star-shaped paper cutter in the air like it was some great artistic tool.

Bucky leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching them for a moment. He finally broke the silence, eyeing the scattered paper cutters warily. “Should I be worried about all the sharp objects?”

She arched a brow, unimpressed. “You are the least qualified person in this house to comment on sharp objects.”

Before he could fire back, Thomas shoved a moon-shaped cutter into her hands. “Sweetheart, do more of these!”

Bucky blinked, zeroing his gaze on the kid. “Where did that come from?”

She winced, giving him an apologetic grimace.

“She bought it for me,” Thomas explained, waving the cutter.

“No, kiddo… why did you call her that?” Bucky corrected, feeling a sudden need to sit down. “You can’t just-”

“But you call her that all the time,” Thomas interrupted, as if Bucky were the one saying something ridiculous.

Damn.

Bucky opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Because… it’s a name only adults use with each other.”

Thomas squinted. “You never call that to Uncle Steve or Uncle Clint.”

“Because Uncle Steve- because he-” Bucky scrambled, searching for an out.

Thomas just stared, waiting.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because he ain’t my sweetheart, that’s why.”

“Why?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, already regretting this conversation. “Because Uncle Steve and Uncle Clint are my friends.”

Thomas frowned. “But Daddy! She’s your friend too! Not just Uncle Steve and Uncle-”

“Alright, alright,” he cut in, hands raised in surrender. “She’s just... another kind of friend.”

Thomas tilted his head, considering. “Better than best friend?”

Bucky’s throat went dry. It was time to man up and find out if this was going to be fine, or if his heart was about to get wrecked.

He shifted his weight, glancing briefly at her before looking back at Thomas. “Kiddo, what would you say if I told you she’s my girlfriend?”

Thomas barely blinked before shrugging. “Oh, I know that.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He and she exchanged a look, hers somewhere between amusement and curiosity, and his caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to panic.

“How- why do you know?” Bucky finally asked, trying not to sound as floored as he felt. His brain attempted to reboot from the emotional haymaker he’d just been dealt. Beside him, she bit back a laugh, clearly failing, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide with amusement.

Thomas, completely unbothered, went on in that matter-of-fact tone only small children and truth-tellers dared to wield.

“Because you touch her,” he said, waving a glue-covered hand like it was obvious. “Like, a lot. And you don’t touch other people, Daddy.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s... fair.”

“And you smile a lot to her,” Thomas added, glancing up from the glittery moon he was carefully pasting to the paper. “And the other day, Flora told me her mommy saw you kissing in the street.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Damn Flora,” he muttered. Then, remembering himself, “-not Flora, just-” her mommy. Damn Flora’s mommy.”

She stifled a snort beside him.

Thomas wasn’t done. “Also, I saw you too.”

Bucky’s heart stopped. “W–where?” he asked, hearing his voice going thin with panic. What had he seen? God, one of those ‘quick moments’ in the kitchen when he thought Thomas was in the bathroom too long-

“At the building’s entrance,” Thomas said, not even looking up. “I always see you through the window. You kiss when she leaves.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, slumping his shoulders in relief. Thank God. He covered it with a gruff cough and tried not to look like he just dodged a missile.

“That’s... alright,” he said, eyes flicking to her with a sheepish smile.

“See?” Thomas said proudly, like he’d just solved a puzzle. “I already knew she was your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, buddy. She is,” he stated gently. “And… and what do you think about it?”

Thomas didn’t even look up from his crooked glittery sun. “It’s cool,” the boy said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I like her a lot.”

Bucky’s heart gave a relieved little thud. But then-

“And if you get married…” Thomas’s voice dropped, hesitant now, uncertain. His small eyes flicked sideways, landing shyly on her. “She’s going to be my mom.”

Silence fell for a moment, thick.

Bucky’s throat worked, but no words came out. That hit deeper than anything had in a long time.

Thomas didn’t talk much about his mom, and hadn’t asked many questions since they'd started building this life together. Bucky had told him the basics. That she was in heaven. That she’d loved him very much. What else could he have said?

But this -this little wish- was something else. It carved a sharp line through his chest. Thomas needed more than a father who kept his ghosts locked in the back of his mind. He needed comfort. Nurturing. Things Bucky gave the best he could, but… the truth was, he didn’t know if it had ever been enough. Not all the way.

And it wasn’t fair to her either. Their relationship was still new, still tender. Too early for this kind of pressure, this kind of longing to be dropped at her feet.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around the little boy, pulling him gently into her chest. She kissed the top of his head and held him there, just letting him be safe, for a moment, in the circle of her arms.

Bucky watched it happen with a tight ache in his chest. The sight of his son cradled against the woman he cared for, with her eyes closed as she held him, was almost too much.

He looked away, blinking hard. Then cleared his throat.

“You want to order pizza tonight, buddy?” he asked, his voice a little rough but stable. “We can eat, the three of us.”

Thomas looked up from her embrace, and his face lit up instantly. “Yeah!”

Then, with all the gravity of a very important host, he turned to her. “If you want to stay longer.”

She smiled, and her heart caught a little at how hopeful he sounded. “I’d love to.”

Thomas nodded like that settled the matter, then went right back to picking glitter out of his glue-covered fingers.

----

Eventually, with all the shapes cut and only the final collage touches left, Bucky slid a look her way and tilted his head toward the kitchen. She caught the silent invitation and followed, wiping her hands on a napkin.

Once they were out of earshot, he leaned close. “Hey, I- uh. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, really… but maybe I’ve been ambushed into accepting a meet-up with the guys.”

Her brow lifted. “With Steve and the others?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They kind of want to meet the person who apparently made me less-” He winced slightly, then pushed on, flicking his eyes to hers. “The person who makes me happy.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. His cheeks flushed pink under the kitchen light, and she felt her stomach flutter at how soft he looked at that moment. Tall, scarred, hardened Bucky Barnes, suddenly unsure.

Her voice was gentle. “Did they really ambush you?”

“It was brutal, they attacked me as a pack,” he said dryly.

She chuckled and touched his hand lightly. “Then I guess I better make a good impression.”

“You will,” he said, already certain.

----

So here they were, the two of them stepping into the compound on a Friday just past noon, walking straight into what had been dubbed a casual lunch.

A casual lunch with the fucking Avengers.

She tried not to fidget, though her nerves had her fingers twitching against the strap of her bag. Sure, she had met Sam and Clint briefly at the kindergarten event, and Steve when he came to pick up Thomas when Bucky couldn’t, and during that very questionable not-a-set-up hiring. But this? This was different.

These were her boyfriend’s friends. His team. People who’d gone to war together, and who’d known him through all the complicated layers he tried so hard to keep from the world. Super soldiers. Ex-spies. God-tier chaos agents.

What if they thought she was boring? What if they thought she didn’t belong? What if-

"For fuck’s sake, man, stop eating all the damn chips! I already refilled that thing twice!" someone shouted, clearly audible even from down the hallway.

"Hey! Gimme that!" came Clint’s unmistakable squawk in response.

Bucky just pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through it, like this was a common occurrence. It probably was. He kept his other hand pressed against the small of her back as they walked toward the chaos masquerading as lunch.

As they reached the sleek, modern-furnished dining area, the chatter died down, and suddenly, every set of eyes in the room was on her.

Oh, God.

She swallowed. “Um… h-hi.”

----

She had to admit… this was not how she imagined them to be.

On TV, in interviews, and even in all those articles dissecting their every move, they always appeared so composed. Imposing. Untouchable. Like living legends.

But in reality?

They were a family. A very dysfunctional, loud, and chaotic one.

Sam and Clint had somehow turned lunch into a competition over who could make the worst hamburger, with Steve acting as the referee. Natasha, who she had expected to be distant -intimidating, even- was currently stealing fries from everyone’s plates with an expression so impassive that no one dared to call her out.

And then there was Bucky. Sitting next to her, subtly keeping her close, idly tracing circles against her thigh with his fingers beneath the table. Like he could sense every flicker of tension in her muscles.

“So-” Natasha drawled, in a far too casual to be innocent tone, as she perched against the edge of the table, plucking another fry from Clint’s plate with surgical precision. “We have a very vague idea, but how exactly did you two meet?”

She tilted her head, smirking, while Clint sighed dramatically and gave up on defending his lunch.

“Well, I was… Thomas’ teacher,” she said, smiling a little as she glanced at Bucky. “So, we met at the kindergarten.”

“He asked me for a dress shirt, you know?” Steve piped up suddenly, muffled behind a huge bite of his burger. “For your first interview?” He added quickly, ducking just in time to avoid the death glare Bucky shot him.

“Aww, Buck,” Sam teased, grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat. “You got it bad from day one.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t- I thought I had to dress formally for a teacher-parent meeting. It’s not my fault things changed that much.”

“Well,” she cut in with a soft laugh, “if it makes you feel better, you looked so handsome that day. I felt completely underdressed and had to remind myself to be professional and not just… keep staring at you.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. “…R-really?”

She nodded, biting back a more obvious smile. “Yeah.”

Before anyone else could tease him into a full-on blush, Natasha steered the conversation expertly. “Anyway,” she said, casually kicking her feet against the table. “We do know that Captain Rogers here set you up for the nanny job. But when did you actually start dating? How did he propose?”

The table went silent for half a beat. Even Steve lowered his burger again, turning his curious eyes toward the couple.

Bucky exhaled and dragged a hand down his face, already bracing himself for the incoming storm of teasing. “Um… I kind of didn’t,” he admitted, flicking his eyes toward her with a helpless shrug.

She turned to the group with a small smile. “I did.”

“What?” Sam leaned forward with a loud laugh. “You asked him?”

She tilted her head, lips twitching like she was holding back laughter. “Yeah. I did,” she confirmed, stealing a sip from her drink.

Sam let out a bark of laughter, slapping the table

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “Can we not-”

“I mean, come on,” Clint cut in. “How does that even happen?”

She hummed, feigning deep thought. “Well… there was an elevator involved. Then a couch. Then the kitchen counter.”

A collective groan erupted around the table.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes,” Natasha muttered, shaking her head.

Sam clutched his chest dramatically. “Not the counter, people eat there!”

“You’ve all done worse things in here,” Bucky muttered darkly.

“Yeah, but we weren’t all repressed as hell before it happened,” Clint shot back.

Steve, watching the scene unfold with barely restrained amusement, leaned forward. “So let me get this straight,” he said, directing the question at her. “After finally getting him to make a move, you were the one who asked him out?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

Bucky just grumbled something under his breath, but his hand still found hers under the table, curling his fingers around hers.

----

They slipped out of the common room once everyone was distracted arguing over dessert. Steve insisting on pie, Clint on ice cream, and Sam advocating for both. Bucky led her down a quieter hallway, with their fingers still loosely linked. He stopped at a small balcony overlooking the city skyline. Needed a breather?” she asked, leaning on the railing.

“Yeah.” He exhaled through his nose, bracing his hands beside hers. “They’re a lot.”

“They are.” She smiled gently. “But they love you, and they are happy for you. That much is clear.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead, with his jaw tight like he was wrestling with the words.

Then, slowly, like the words weighed more than he could carry, Bucky spoke, “I never thought I’d ever have this.” He looked at her, raw and exposed. “Someone who could still want me, knowing… everything.”

His throat closed. Even now, saying it out loud felt impossible, like naming the damage might make her reconsider.

She turned toward him, reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re a good man, Bucky. Attentive. Caring. A great dad. And let’s not forget the ‘handsome as hell’ part. Who wouldn’t want you?”

He huffed a low laugh, dropping his gaze. “I still think you’re crazy for choosing me.”

“Well, I am crazy,” she replied with a teasing smile. “Crazy about you.”

Then she kissed his cheek, soft and warm and a little smug. “Look at that. You’ve got me saying cheesy stuff I’d normally cringe at if I heard it from someone else.”

That earned her one of his rare, softer grins, the kind that still felt new like he hadn’t quite gotten used to letting it happen. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, gliding his hands to her waist, pulling her close.

She curled her fingers into the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t know how I lived before you.” He murmured.

“Grumpy and brooding,” she teased gently.

“Still am,” he smirked.

She shrugged. “Yeah, but now you’re my grumpy and brooding.”

He laughed under his breath, then pulled her close, chest to chest, snugging his arms around her like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing the same air, with her hands gently rubbing up and down his back. He closed his eyes.

It crept up on him, memories he usually kept buried under steel and silence. Cold tiles beneath his spine. Straps digging into his flesh. The weight of decades that had stolen everything soft from him.

He didn’t mean to tighten his grip, but he did, holding her just a little closer, basking in the warmth of her body, and the beat of her heart. She just pressed a kiss to his jaw and wrapped her arms tighter around his shoulders.

He let out a shaky breath, brushing his lips against hers, not with hunger this time, but with reverence. A silent thank-you for everything she was giving him just by staying.

He didn’t pull back, just stayed there with their foreheads touching. The moment stretched, soft, and he wished he could press himself into it and stay there forever.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Sometimes I just get… hit with stuff.”

She didn’t ask what kind of stuff. She didn’t need to.

His fingers skimmed the curve of her back, needing to feel her warmth under his hands. He wasn’t in a lab anymore, or some holding cell with his mind half-shattered and a muzzle over his mouth. He was here. With her.

She gave a small hum, tracing lazy shapes across the back of his neck, patiently. No pressure to speak. No need to explain.

He cleared his throat softly, feeling the weight in his chest lifting enough to let a breath out. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s see if those vultures decided on dessert.”

She chuckled against his shoulder, sliding her hand into his as they turned back to go inside. Then she grinned, bumping her hip gently into his. “I don’t know… I might skip dessert.”

He raised a brow, side-eyeing her with mock suspicion. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” She tiptoed just enough to brush her lips near his ear, teasing. “I already know what I want later.”

Bucky choked on a breath, and his steps faltered just for a second. She was already walking ahead, with her hand still nestled in his. The picture of innocence.

He caught up, with a soft laugh and a look that promised payback.

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira @technicallytinyheart @put-trash-here @chinggay85-blog @dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100 @tanyaherondale @theflowerswillbloom @stars4birdie @soberbabes @greatmistakes @littlesuniee @casey1-2007 @escapefromrealitylol @thriving-n-jiving @vxllys @hi172826 @imaginexred @stormy-stardust @rattyfishrock @yes-ilovetowrite @seraphinapix @missclarissaa @exhaustedfangirl @crazyunsexycool @capswife @pandaxnienke

Dividers by: /@strangergraphics

[whisperingashgarden]

I saw the cast reveal for Avengers Doomsday and…

I can’t be the only one wondering how the hell they’re bringing Loki back?!!

[whisperingashgarden]

This was truly beautiful ❤️ I loved the magical concept and the way it was incorporated with love magic, just mwah.

Sanctuary

Summary : Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x sorceress!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Reader has Retroactive Clairvoyance (you can touch an object and see its past), cursing, mutual pining, friends to lovers, sex ritual magic (more suggestive and emotional than outright explicit), therapy, mentions of masturbation, past trauma, cursing, initial friends-with-benefits arrangement. Let me know if I miss anything!

Word count : 10k

Note : Purely self indulgent stuff lol. Hopefully this makes sense, since I’m trying a lot of new concepts in this. I have three stories coming in the next week or two, including new parts of Spoils of War, Super Soldier Support Group, and a short story of Bucky's day to day life as an amputee. Meanwhile, Enjoy!

Bucky left another therapy session feeling like a failure. Again.

He sat in that same sterile office, hands curled into fists, his lips feeling useless. He wanted to open up, but the moment he even considered talking about his past, his chest tightened, his mind locking up like a steel trap.

His third therapist in two months sat across from him.

“I’m sorry, but… if you don’t open up,” she said after another long silence, “I can’t help.”

She was giving him a lifeline, he couldn’t reach for it.

Instead, he just nodded, stood up, and walked out.

By the time he made it home, the dam inside him finally broke.

He sank to the floor of his apartment, his back pressed against the couch, his hands gripping at his face as if he could physically hold himself together. His body ached, but his mind ached more. 

For fuck’s sake! Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he just talk about his past?

Maybe he needed a telepath. Or—hell—maybe a magician.

Wait.

An idea manifested in his mind.

Doctor Strange.

That guy did weird shit all the time. Maybe he could fix this. Maybe he could make it easier.

Bucky didn’t even wait for morning. He grabbed his jacket and made a beeline for the New York Sanctum.

—

Strange opened the door in his robes, looking mildly irritated until he saw who was standing there. Bucky Barnes.

They weren’t friends, not really, but they crossed paths here and there and ran similar circles. They knew each other enough to say hi and exchanged nods at brief encounters. But Bucky knew one thing: when conventional medicine failed, Strange had turned to magic.

And that was exactly what Bucky was doing now.

Strange hesitated. “Sergeant Barnes—”

“I need you to read my mind,” Bucky interrupted desperately. His hands were shaking.

Strange blinked. “I—what?”

“You deal with this kind of thing, right?” Bucky’s breath was coming in ragged gasped, as if he had run all the way here. Perhaps he did. “I need to get it out.”

Strange did not have to ask what it was— he had enough trauma of his own to know.

“I can’t do that,” Strange frowned, still half-blocking the door. “What do you think I am, a witch?”

Bucky shook his head, frustrated. “Then erase my memories of Hydra, Just—just make them gone.”

Strange looked at him like he was going insane. “No.”

Bucky clenched his teeth. “Why not?”

“Because that’s you,” Strange said firmly. “Whether you like it or not.” His lips pressed together. “Besides, the last time I tampered with a memory spell, it had some… unintended consequences.”

Bucky tapped his foot, brainstorming for more ideas, “Then can you—”

“No.” Strange sighed, already sounding exhausted, like he could see exactly where this conversation was going. “Go to therapy, Barnes.”

“I tried.” Bucky’s voice was strained, his breath uneven. His fists clenched, metal whining under the force. “I can’t do this,” he choked. “I can’t—” His throat locked up as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to calm down .

“I can’t say it out loud.” His voice trembled. It sounded almost… broken. “Please.”

Ah, fuck.

Strange didn’t have it in him to turn Bucky away—not when the Ancient One had taken him in when he was lost. And sure, Bucky wasn’t physically impaired. He was an amputee, yes, but with a state-of-the-art prosthetic that made him stronger than most.

But his mind was a wound no technology could fix.

Then it clicked.

His arm. Not the one Shuri had made for him—the other one. That held the solution. 

“Fine,” Strange sighed, rubbing his temple. “I know someone who might be able to help.”

Bucky swallowed hard, “Who?”

Instead of answering him, Strange studied him. “Do you still have your old Hydra arm?”

Bucky’s stomach twisted, a sick feeling in his stomach. What did that have to do with anything? “…Yeah.”

“Good,” Strange nodded. “You’re going to need it.”

—

The next day, Strange led Bucky through the New York Sanctum’s entrance, stepping seamlessly from one world into another.

Bucky had seen some shit in his time, but magic still floored him. The shift between the doorways was jarring —one second, he could feel the familiar bite of the city, the next, he was enveloped in a humid, warm air that smelled like incense and aged parchment.

His fingers flexed around the strap of his duffel bag as he followed Strange through the winding halls of Kamar Taj. The students and sorcerers alike passed them, clad in robes of deep crimson and gold. 

Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d signed up to. A mind-reader? A magical therapist? Someone who could just reach in and rip the words from his skull?

“Where are we going?” Bucky broke the silence.

Strange didn’t stop. “To see one of the kindest souls I know.”

Bucky gave him a skeptical look. “That’s… vague.”

Strange didn’t elaborate.

Finally, they stopped in the historical wing, outside a quiet study. The moment Strange stepped inside, his shoulders relaxed.

“You’re back early,” you said.

Bucky turned just as you rose from where you sat cross-legged at a low wooden table, an ancient tome open before you. The navy and gold of your robes pooled slightly at your wrists as you smoothed them down. 

Without hesitation, you walked over wrapped your arms around Strange in a sisterly embrace.

Strange chuckled, patting your back once. “Miss me that much?”

“You never visit just for fun anymore,” you smile, pulling back. “It’s always something.”

Strange sighed. “Well, you’re right about that.”

Then your eyes looked over his shoulder.

To him.

Bucky felt your eyes on him, not in the way most people did. You were not wary, not cautious, not even fearful. You were assessing.

Strange cleared his throat, gesturing between you. “Sergeant Barnes.” He introduced, then turned to Bucky, “She’s a historian-sorceress. One of my oldest friends here.”

Bucky offered a small nod. “Just Bucky’s fine.”

You smiled the sweetest smile Bucky has ever seen. 

“Nice to meet you, just Bucky.” You extended a hand.

He hesitated, just for a second, before shaking it with his human one. 

“She was born with a rare gift, even among sorcerers,” Strange leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Retroactive clairvoyance. She can see the past of objects she touches.”

Bucky’s fingers thrummed against yours before he let go. You sat back down, inviting the two men to do the same across from you. 

“You can just…” he swallowed. “Touch something and see what’s happened to it?”

“More or less,” you explained. “It’s like a ripple effect. Objects, unlike people, start off as empty vessels. They absorb the energy and information around them— the people who held them, the emotions they carried. I can tap into that.”

Bucky turned to Strange, voice hoarse. “So she can see—”

“Your past?” Strange shook his head. “Not quite. It doesn’t work on living things.”

Bucky froze.

He felt it like a gut punch. The tension in his chest coiled tight enough to snap. Then why the hell am I here?

He was so close. He thought this was it. That someone could finally see the things he couldn’t say.

Strange must’ve seen it in his face because, for once, he looked sympathetic.

Strange let out a slow breath, folding his arms. The lines on his forehead were softer—more measured. More doctor than sorcerer.

“He needs help,” he said.

You glanced at Bucky. He was stiff, his fingers twitching slightly. He wasn’t meeting your eyes.

Strange continued. “He’s tried putting in the work in therapy, but… there’s a psychological barrier.” He hesitated, searching for the right wording. “Something is preventing him from verbalising what he needs to.”

Your brow furrowed. “Something?”

Strange nodded. “His autonomic nervous system is overriding his intent. A trauma response, maybe even conditioning. The moment he tries, his body shuts him down.” His eyes went to Bucky. “And he needs… an outlet.”

Your throat tightened.

Strange turned back to you. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think you could help.” 

You hesitated, then looked at Bucky again. His teeth were clenched so tight waiting for a definitive answer, it  looked painful. 

Gently, you asked, “Is that… true?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, his throat bobbed. Barely above a whisper, almost ashamed, he confirmed. “I can’t say it.”

Oh.

“I want to help,” you said gently. “But I can’t just… reach into your mind. That’s not how my magic works. You know that, Strange.”

“I do,” Strange admitted. Then, he glanced at Bucky. Then, to his bag.

Right. He still had one thing.

Without a word, he reached inside, he hesitated.

Then, he pulled it out.

The glint of metal caught the candle light as he set it down on the table between you.

Bucky forced himself to meet your eyes. His heartbeat roared in his ears. “Can you read that?”

Your lips parted slightly. Slowly, you reached out—but stopped just short of touching it.

Your fingers hovered over the metal.

“This,” you said. “I can work with.”

—

So you got to work immediately.

For the next fifteen minutes, you rolled up your sleeves and cleared a space on the low wooden table. Your fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting incense and summoning runes— not because they were necessary, but because grounding objects helped stabilise the energy.

Strange, of course, loitered like an overbearing older brother.

“Do you mind?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

“What?” He asked.

“This is private, Stephen,” you nudged him toward the door. “Go hover somewhere else. You’re throwing off my vibe.”

“I don’t hover—”

You took him by the shoulders and physically turned him toward the door.

Strange sighed dramatically but didn’t fight it. He gave one last look at Bucky before stepping out. “Barnes, if she sets you on fire, that’s on you.”

“Out, Strange.”

—

After Strange left, the air shifted.

You turned to Bucky. 

He sat by the table, stiff as stone, his arms locked at his sides like he didn’t trust them to move. His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, as if expecting something from you but not sure he could accept it.

“Let me be clear,” you started. “I’m not your therapist.”

His wrist flexed. “I know.”

“I’m not here to fix you.” Your voice softened as you explained. “I’m just here to listen. To let you show me what you can’t say. In the hopes that one day, you can say it.”

It felt embarrassing, seeking magical help just to vent, but he nodded anyway. 

Your heart broke at the sight of him, muscles wound tight, trying so hard to be unreadable, but even without magic, you could see the exhaustion carved into his bones. He’d been carrying these memories for so long he probably didn’t remember what it felt like to be without it.

You lifted a hand toward the metal, hovering just above the arm.

“You ready?” you asked.

He gave a single nod.

With your free hand, you conjured a swirl of golden light, curling like smoke between your fingers. The magic settled on your wrist. “Hold my hand,” you said. “It’ll link us. You’ll see what I see.”

Carefully, he took your hand.

His flesh palm was solid and rough with callouses. But there was pause when he touched you, like he wasn’t used to being gentle. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be.

Slowly you pressed your other palm to cold metal and truly focused. 

After a few minutes, the room dissolved, and the past bled into view.

At first, there was nothing but darkness. 

Through the arm, you saw it, tucked away in the back of a closet, hidden like a shameful part of him that didn’t really ever belong to him.

You willed your clairvoyance to go back further.

You saw the impact— Stark’s repulsor beam colliding with the hand. Then you felt the sudden absence, the severing. It was the moment Bucky had learned, all over again, that pieces of him could be taken.

You went back a bit further, to Romania.

You saw the cramped apartment. You felt the deafening silence in his days, you felt his loneliness. You saw his day to day routine of trying to stitch together a life with hands that had only ever been taught to destroy, saw him writing in a journal to remember things that never stayed in his mind. 

He avoided mirrors. He avoided people. He avoided himself.

Bucky said nothing, but you felt the tension rolling off. 

You were naturally curious, but you started slow.

“Did you ever have a moment of peace in Romania?” You asked.

He said nothing for a moment, until hoarsely, he said, “No.”

“Not once?”

There was another long pause. “Maybe.” He whispered. “But I don’t think it was real.”

Your chest tightened, but continued the session. 

More fragments revealed itself—memories bleeding into one another, looping and circling. He never stopped moving. He never stopped running. 

He hadn’t been safe. Someone, somewhere, was always hunting him.

You didn’t push. Instead, you just let him sit with it, helping him wade through the waters of  the things he had never dared to say out loud.

And he let you.

By the time the session ended, Bucky’s hands were shaking.

So were yours.

Bucky stared at the arm, amazed that this object that he had always seen as a weapon had told his story. His fingers twitch against your palm, like he was reminding himself that you were still there. 

You squeezed his hand.

He flinched, but then relaxed.

His shoulders didn’t fully let go of tension, but at least he looked more… open.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you said quietly. “Come back next week.”

—

Bucky showed up without Strange next time, though Wong let him in without a word. He looked tired but he was more relaxed than last week, his shoulders weren’t braced like he expected an attack at any moment. Perhaps he was relieved he had a person to vent to— perhaps he felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. 

You had the room set up before he arrived. The incense curled in steady ribbons toward the ceiling. The runes shimmered in a careful circle. And on the table, the old metal arm sat where it did last week. 

When the session started, you pushed further back.

Fifteen, maybe twenty five years. 

You saw Washington, D.C, the helicarrier plummeting from the sky. 

Then you saw Steve. 

Then, you pushed further back.

You saw a Hydra bunker with concrete walls. You saw a prisoner cornered by the Winter Soldier. 

“Compliance will be rewarded,” his handler said.

The soldier took a clean shot.

You pulled yourself away from the memory. Across from you, Bucky sat rigid.

Softly, you asked him, “Did you know him?”

Bucky shook his head, “No. I—” He swallowed hard, squeezing your hand. “I didn’t let myself.”

For a second, you thought he might retreat, close himself off the way he always did when the past clawed its way too close… but he didn’t.

That night, he stayed longer than necessary.

He didn’t speak much after the session ended, but he didn’t rush out the door either. 

Eventually, you made a simple offer. “Tea?”

You expected a refusal. But to your surprise, he nodded.

So you brewed a pot, and set a cup in front of him. 

The conversation drifted to nothing of importance—the weather, the strange antics of the Kamar Taj apprentices, the book you’d been reading.

—

When he came in for the next session, brought you a cup of coffee. “Figured it’s only fair,” he said sheepishly. 

This time, you reached further into the arm’s past. 

First you saw a bar— a man in an American army uniform. He ripped Bucky’s arm apart from the elbow down.

You recognised the flags on the scene—  this was the Korean war. Bucky recognised the man as Isaiah Bradley. 

Then, you pushed through.

You saw a man in a lab coat, and the Winter Soldier strapped to a table. He was fixing his metal arm.

You heard a title whispered in fear. “Zimniy Soldat.”

In this period of his life, Bucky knew no such thing as warmth. He knew no mercy. He was punished for losing. 

You gasped as you pulled your hands away. Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his forehead damp with sweat. He didn’t look at you — his gaze was locked on the table.

“I didn’t really remember that one,” he admitted. “They wiped it.”

You squeezed his hand without thinking. “I’m still here, Bucky.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly. “I know.”

—

Somewhere along the way, the conversations stretched far beyond the sessions.

Bucky stayed a little longer each time. At first, it was for the usual tea. Then, he would stay for meals. Then he’d stick around just to sit with you, watching as you worked with ancient scrolls or prepared lessons for novices.

You teased him about how the coffee he brought had become a habit. “You trying to bribe me into liking you, Barnes?”

He’d smile shyly. “Is it working?”

You wouldn’t admit it, but it was.

One day, after one of your sessions he brought something… interesting up. “Your gifts,” he whispered. “How do they… work?”

You tilted your head.

He wasn’t asking for small talk. He was asking because he trusted you. Because after all the things you saw in him, all the nightmares you witnessed in the metal limb he hated so much, you were never fazed. He wanted to know why.

So you told him how it started when you were young. How, when you were twelve, you touched an ancient dagger and saw every soul it had killed. How the visions consumed you, how you saw uncontrollable flashes of blood, of screams, of deaths.

“How did you deal with it?” he asked.

You hesitated. “For a long time, I didn’t,” you admitted, “I was scared to touch anything at all. I never knew when it would happen. It was… exhausting, seeing things I couldn’t control.”

He looked at you with recognition— he knew what it was like to be a passenger driving through horrors you never asked for.

“Then I went to Kamar Taj,” you continued. “To learn how to control it. I trained in sorcery, I put a leash on my gifts. Now… I only see the past when I focus. It’s easier this way.”

Bucky considered his response for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever wish you couldn’t see it at all?”

You swallowed. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “There were things… I wish I could unsee.”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I get that.”

And you knew he did.

After that, he started worrying. You noticed it in the way he hesitated before speaking, the way he looked guilty everytime you walked through the door.

One evening, after a particularly heavy session, he ran his vibranium hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t keep doing this.”

You frowned. “Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Dumping all this shit on you. You’ve got enough to deal with, and I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not fair to you.”

Your brows furrowed together. “Bucky—”

“I mean it.” His voice was quieter now, but no less serious. “I’ve seen what you do. How much it takes out of you. And I keep coming back, expecting you to just… listen. Like you don’t already have enough on your shoulders.”

You stepped closer, fingers gliding softly along his human arm, tracing his bare skin. The touch was intimate enough to make his breath hitch.

“I can handle it,” you insisted, “I want to handle it.”

He didn’t answer. He studied your face, searching for some sign that you were lying, or that you were just saying what you thought he wanted to hear.

But there was no pity in your eyes, just resolution.

Strange had told him once that you were one of the kindest souls he’d ever met. Bucky hadn’t believed it at first. After all, he didn’t believe in kindness without an agenda.

But now, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

Soon, the stolen glances stretched longer. The not-so-casual touches lingered just a little too long. He held your hand longer than necessary during sessions. The hugs before he left grew tighter, sometimes you weren't sure he even wanted to let go.

You both knew you were falling for each other—but neither of you said a word.

Bucky wouldn’t say it. Vulnerability had never come easy to him; it was the very reason he was here in the first place.

And you cherished this—whatever this was— too much. You weren’t willing to risk scaring him away.

—

The memories from this particular session hit harder. You were reaching sixty, seventy years back.

You saw another Hydra facility. Another mission. 

This one was early—one of the first ones he went though. His handler’s voice echoed in his mind. The soldier had done what they ordered him to, he had eliminated the target. But then you saw a child.

She was a witness.

The Soldier turned, his gun raised—

Bucky’s hands trembled before the vision even ended. You barely had time to react before he wrenched his hand from your grip and shoved back from the table, stumbling to his feet.

“I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t do this.”

“Bucky—”

“I killed her.” His blue eyes were wild, frantic. “I don’t even know her name, and I killed her.”

Tears welled in your eyes. It had been a long time since a vision had made you cry. “It wasn’t you.”

“Don’t.” He shook his head violently. “Don’t tell me that. I was there. I pulled the trigger.”

“You were a prisoner.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.”

“No.” You insisted, standing up and wiping at your face “But it changes why.”

He didn’t argue.

Breaking down, desperate sobs ripping through him like hands clawing out of his chest. His knees buckled, and before he could collapse, you caught him.

Ever so gently, you lowered him to the floor, holding him as he fell apart.

“Bucky,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. He clutched at you like a lifeline, his face buried in your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t believe it, but he held on anyway.

That night, Bucky stayed. Not only because he wanted to, but because he needed to.

You didn’t say much— you didn’t have to. Instead, you quietly laid out pillows and blankets on the couch in your quarters at Kamar Taj. “You can sleep here,” you told him.

And he did.

The next morning, you stirred first as sunlight filtered through the door. Shifting beneath your blankets, you turned your head toward the couch.

He was still there.

His body curled slightly, breaths slow and steady—the most peaceful you’d ever seen him.

You weren’t sure how long you watched him, memorising the rare ease in his face, the way the tension had melted from his shoulders. 

Later, before he left, he hugged you.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You held on a little longer than usual, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket, unwilling to let go just yet. Surprisingly, he let himself lean into it, let himself accept it.

Because the truth was, last night had been a catharsis he hadn’t even realised he needed. So when he finally stepped back, there was something different in his expression. The haunted look that had always lingered in his eyes had eased, if only slightly.

For the first time, Bucky didn’t look like a man drowning.

He looked like a man who might finally learn how to breathe.

—

You thought today would be the last session.

The Hydra arm rested on the table one final time, but it felt different now. Lighter, maybe. The memories were still there—they always would be—but they no longer clawed at Bucky’s chest like an open wound. He had vented them out to you, piece by piece, and you had listened.

Someone finally listened.

When the visions faded, you found him already watching you. His blue eyes, so often cloudy, were clearer than you’d ever seen them before. “That’s it,” you said, hands hovering over the arm as the last wisps of the protection runes dispersed into the ether. “There’s nothing more to read from it.”

Bucky exhaled a long breath that felt like a closing door— or maybe the opening of a new one. You waited for him to stand, to leave. 

But… he didn’t. Instead, his hand moved to the front pocket of his jacket.

“I, uh—” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I have one more thing.”

You blinked as he pulled out a silver chain, dog tags dangling from his fingers, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

This felt more… intimate.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He turned the tags over in his palm, running his thumb over the worn engraving. “You know the Winter Soldier,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know…the soldier.”

Bucky met your eyes, searching for something—hesitation, uncertainty, a reason to stop. But you didn’t look away.

“You’re sure?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “I am.” His fingers tightened around the tags before extending them toward you.

Without another word, he placed the tags into your hands.

Without a word, you re-summoned the runes and you reached for his other hand, his human hand.

The hum of magic stirred once again. 

You saw him falling.

The wind roared in your ears as Bucky plummeted from the train in the Alps. His arm—his real arm—torn from him.

You went further back.

You saw The Howling Commandos sitting around a firelit camp. Bucky grinned, a boyish, carefree thing, clinking his canteen against Dum Dum Dugan’s. They were celebrating a successful raid. 

The dog tags were clearly connected to Bucky in a way the Hydra arm never was. It was demanding you further back.

Then you saw Zola in a Hydra lab Steve rescued him from. Metal restraints bit into his wrists. Bucky was unconscious, but the dog tags remembered a needle pressed into his arm, the unactivated serum flooding his veins. 

No. No. The object was telling you to back.

You saw gun fire and mud– this was the trenches.

Bucky had a rifle in his hands, the deafening blast of artillery shaking the earth beneath him. Bucky was there, a young man, charging forward. 

No. No. No. You needed to go back.

You were almost there.

The visions slowed. 

Yes.

This was it. The dog tags wanted you to see… this.

You first heard the crackle of a radio.

You found yourself in a modest Brooklyn apartment.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, hair neatly combed, his Army uniform crisp in the dim light. In the other room, his sisters chattered excitedly.

His mother stood before him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You look so handsome, James.”

Bucky ducked his head, the tips of his ears burning. “Ma, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Good.” She cupped his face, thumb brushing against his cheek. “You be careful out there, sweetheart.”

“I will.”

When you returned from the vision, you were trembling. The dog tags were still clutched tightly in your hands. This… contained the unbreakable threads of the young man he had once been.

“I’m not him anymore,” Bucky said quietly. “But I’m not the Winter Soldier, either. I don’t know who the hell I am.”

“You’re both,” you whispered, rubbing a finger on his knuckles. “And neither.”

He looked at you like you were the first person to ever say those words, the first person to see him.

Your hand still still curled around the dog tags, the metal pressing into your palm like an anchor. “Bucky, I—”

“I just—” He cut you off, his voice dipping to something barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m glad I do now.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Your hand stayed in his, even though you didn’t need to hold it anymore, even though you probably shouldn’t.

You stood, clearing your throat, and pressed his dog tags back into his palm. He followed.

“I…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “As much as I like having you around, I have a class to teach soon.”

“Right.” His voice was rough, if not a bit disappointed. But he didn’t step back.

Instead, he stepped closer.

He was so close now, you could see the flecks of silver in his stormy blue eyes, the way the lines around them relaxed when he looked at you. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. He parted his lips slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

His eye flicked to your lips—just for a second. And godammit, you wanted him to close the distance. To kiss you. To let go of whatever invisible tether was holding him back. To let himself have this— have you.

But he didn’t.

And neither did you.

Instead, his forehead dropped to yours. His metal hand hovered just above your waist, wanting, but never quite making contact.

Neither of you moved.

The moment stretched, until finally, he stepped back.

“I should go,” he said more to himself than to you. But his eyes told another story.

You nodded, even though every part of you wanted to reach for him. To tell him to stay.

“Okay.”

Bucky turned toward the door. His fingers hovered over the handle. 

“Bucky,” you called out. 

He stopped.

You swallowed hard. “I’ll see you next week?” You asked

There was no reason for him to come back. You had read his old arm. You had read his dog tags. There was nothing left to read.

But somehow, he knew he would find another excuse.

“Yeah.”

—

Later that night, the courtyard was quiet, the last of your students leaving after training. The lanterns lining the stone pathways flickered gently as you stretched out your arms, feeling the satisfying ache of exertion settle into your muscles.

You barely had a moment to enjoy the silence before you felt a powerful presence behind you.

“Strange,” you said without turning around.

He let out a low chuckle. “Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes before finally facing him. Stephen stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his cloak shifting slightly with the evening breeze. He looked entirely too smug for your liking.

“What do you want?” you asked, already suspicious.

He tilted his head. “Oh, nothing really. Just noting how distracted you were today.”

Your head tilted inconfusion. “Distracted?”

He took a step forward with his eyebrows lifting in an I-know-more-than-you way. “Your spellcasting was slightly off. Not by much, of course.” His smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a distraction in the shape of a certain super soldier, would it?”

Your stomach dropped. “I—”

“No, no, don’t even try to deny it.” Strange waved a hand, “I see the way you look at him.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut in, as if he was having fun watching you squirm.

You tried to keep your expression neutral. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, please.” He dismissed, “You might as well have a neon sign pointing at you that says I am in love with James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your face burned. “I—I am not—”

“You are,” came another voice.

You turned around to find Wong strolling into the courtyard.

“Not you too,” you groaned.

He stopped beside Strange, regarding you with both amusement and respect. “I thought we were waiting to see who’d break first.”

Strange shrugged. “I got impatient.”

You turned to Wong, desperate for someone to be reasonable. For fuck’s sake, isn’t the sorcerer supreme supposed to be reasonable? “You don’t actually believe this, do you?”

Wong sighed. “You train all day, wield magic beyond comprehension… and yet, you remain utterly clueless.”

“I am not clueless!” you protested.

Strange snorted. “Oh, you are.”

You huffed. “Even if—and that’s a big if—I had feelings for Bucky, it wouldn’t matter. Because he doesn’t feel the same.”

Strange and Wong exchanged a look.

Then, Strange let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s just tragic.”

You glared at them. “It’s true.”

Wong crossed his arms. “And what, exactly, makes you think that?”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous. “Because… he just doesn’t, okay?”

“Ah, yes,” Strange blinked. “Flawless reasoning.”

You shook your head with a sad smile. “I know he doesn’t.”

Because why would he? Bucky Barnes, who had seen the worst of the world, who had lived through unimaginable horrors— and still came out a good man, what would he want with you?

You refuse to dignify them with a response. Instead, you turned on your heel and marched toward the temple doors.

You didn’t look back.

—

The week after, Bucky arrived with a worn canvas bag in his hands.

“Things from before,” he clarified. “Before the war.”

The bag was filled with small trinkets. A dog-eared playing card. A tarnished pocket knife. A button from an old jacket. Every piece had a story, and with each memory you glimpsed, Bucky unraveled a little more.

From the card, you saw him running through the streets of Brooklyn, Steve’s laughter echoing behind him. You saw late-night card games in cramped apartments. You felt the satisfaction when he won and the frustration when he lost.

The knife had been a gift from his father. The button was from a coat he’d shared with one of his sisters one particularly brutal winter. Nothing fancy — just pieces of a life lived.

When the visions stopped, he could almost believe he might be happy again.

After the session, Bucky’s vibranium fingers traced absent circles on the armrest of his chair. “What are you up to after this?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Trying to avoid some novice sorcerer who asked me to try a sex magic ritual.”

Bucky choked on air. “Sex magic is a thing?”

You chuckled, holding back a smile. “Yep. Sometimes it’s used for healing. Sometimes for severing bonds. You can even curse people with it, but cursing people through means of intimacy is technically forbidden magic.” You shrugged. “But this guy? He just wants to sleep with every sorceress in Kamar Taj.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s… I—” He shook his head like he couldn’t quite process it. “And people fall for it?”

“Not really.” You laughed softly. “He can’t even open a portal yet. So no, no one’s really falling for it.”

Bucky tried to force out a laugh but couldn't— he was trying to find humour in it but failing. 

Because he was now thinking about it. He was already seeking alternative ways to let his thoughts out— this was just another step further. 

Then, after a moment, his voice dropped. “Would it…” he considered his wording, “Could it help me?”

The question caught you completely off guard. You stilled, your fingers curling slightly against your robes. “Sex magic?”

“You said it could be used for healing.” He nodded once. “Can it heal… my mind?”

“It could. But it’s… more of a painkiller than a real fix,” You swallowed. “It would only work if you want it to work.

“I do.” His words were quiet, but firm. “I want to.”

You coughed, perhaps a tiny bit of jealousy kindling in your gut. You shook it off, though. “I can refer you to a specialist,” you offered, “They do this for a living, so you’d be in good hands. And you can have gender preferences if that makes you more comfortable.”

“What if I’m only comfortable with you?” Bucky said without thinking. 

You froze, looking like you’ve just seen a ghost. 

Fuck, Bucky thought, I screwed it up, did I?

Your lips parted. “I—I mean—” You were tripping over your words, looking for something, anything to say. “I can do it. I’ve trained in it, but…”

Bucky frowned slightly. “Is it something that requires a fee?”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “No, not for me, anyway. I could do… it as a favor to you.” A favour? you thought to yourself. What were you saying? You were just spitting shit out now. “But like I said, I don’t specialise in it. I’ve only done it with trained sorcerers.” You explained hastily. 

And you certainly haven’t done it with anyone you cared about. 

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver, though. “Then only if you’re comfortable.”

His voice was steady— the same way he’d spoken when he handed you his items. 

“I…” You swallowed. “I’ll think about it.”

—

After Bucky left, you spent the rest of the evening pacing your study, rearranging the same three books on your shelf, and trying — failing — to think about anything else. Bucky’s words kept echoing in your mind.

You hated how much your heart fluttered at the thought of him. You hated how part of you was already thinking about what it would be like. Not just the ritual, but also Bucky, trusting you like that.

Perhaps, to him, you were more than someone who could listen. Perhaps, you had become his sanctuary.

By morning, your resolve crumbled.

Which was how you ended up in the library with Wong, nursing a cup of tea and fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves. The Sorcerer Supreme sat across from you, already halfway through his own cup.

“I need your advice,” you said finally.

“Of course.” Wong nodded, watching you carefully. “What about?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then groaned. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Highly likely.” He took a sip of his tea. “Go on.”

You let out a deep breath. “Bucky asked me if I’d consider doing a sex magic ritual with him.”

Wong blinked. Then, without missing a beat, calmly set his cup down. “I see.”

“Not like that,” you rushed to explain, heat creeping up your neck. “He’s not trying to seduce me or anything. He’s just—he’s struggling. He wants to heal. And I know the ritual can work without being necessarily romantic.”

“And yet you’re clearly thinking about it more than you’d like to.”

You winced. “Yeah.”

Wong didn’t respond immediately. You were glad you found him here without Strange— Stephen would never get through this conversation without making an inappropriate joke

Wong studied you. 

For a while, you braced yourself for a lecture. Maybe a reminder of the ethical considerations. The emotional risks. 

Instead, he said, “You should do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Wong continued, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re exhausted. Mentally and physically. Even the sunshine of Kamar Taj needs restoration.”

“I’m fine,” you argued, though the slight tremor in your voice didn’t help your case.

Wong raised a brow. “Are you?”

You scowled. “Okay, maybe I’m a little stressed.”

“You’ve been more than a little stressed,” he corrected. “And while I’m not suggesting you treat this as a casual fling, engaging in a ritual with someone you trust can be beneficial. For both of you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but… he wasn’t wrong. The ritual wasn’t just for the participant seeking healing. The practitioner often experienced a sense of renewal too. It was a mutual exchange of energy. 

And you did trust him.

But…

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” you pointed out. “Especially considering—”

“Your feelings for him?” Wong interrupted, a rare smile on his lips.

You stared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Wong—”

“Please.”

You buried your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“It’s not,” Wong said. “It’s simply… life. And if you do decide to go through with the ritual, I suggest you stop pretending your feelings don’t exist. They’ll only complicate things further if you ignore them.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “So, what? You think I should sleep with him and see what happens?”

“If that’s what you want.” Wong shrugged. “You groaned again, sinking further into your chair. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this.”

Wong looked a bit too proud of himself. “I’m an excellent confidant.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He stood, gathering the empty cups. “And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

“…Unless Strange bribes me.”

“Wong.”

“Or if he’s really annoying. Then I might have to tell him just to see the look on his face.”

“WONG!”

—

You stared at your phone for a long time. Wong’s words still echoed in your mind— you needed to be honest.

Right. Honesty. Simple.

You took a breath, then hit the call button before you could overthink it.

It barely rang twice before Bucky answered.

“Hey.” His voice was lower than usual, like he hadn’t expected you to call but wasn’t exactly surprised either.

“Hey,” you echoed, gripping the edge of your desk. “I… I’ve been thinking about what you asked.”

There was a pause before he answered, “Yeah?”

“I...” You exhaled slowly. “I want to help you.”

You could hear the way Bucky was processing your words, turning them over in his mind.

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Bucky let out a vulnerable breath. “When?”

You swallowed. “Would this Friday work?”

There was a shift in his tone— was he... excited? “Yeah. That works.”

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll take care of everything. Just… bring yourself.”

“I can do that.” His voice was so gentle now’s “And, uh… thanks.”

You closed your eyes. “Always.”

—

When the day came, you had chosen one of the private sanctuaries deep within Kamar Taj— it was quiet, undisturbed, and you had protected the room with advanced wards before he even got here. The torches flickered steadily along the walls.

Bucky stood a few paces away, clad in the same deep red Kamar Taj robes as you. They had been enchanted to help regulate emotions, to keep things from spiraling too fast. It was a precaution, one suggested by the specialists you had consulted.

And yet, despite the calming influence, you could feel your heartbeat rush. 

Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides.  He wasn’t nervous—at least, not in the way most people would be. He just.. didn’t not know what to expect. 

You took a breath, centering yourself. “Alright,” you started, your voice even. “Let’s set some ground rules.”

Bucky gave a single nod. “Shoot.”

You shuffled in your spot, “This is no strings attached,” you reminded him, even as something in your chest ached at the words. “Just… what you asked for. A way to work through it. That’s all.”

Another nod. “Understood.”

You exhaled slowly, pushing forward. “The specialists advised some precautions.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Precautions?”

You ignored the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “No kissing,” you said, “Not on the lips.”

That made him pause. His head tilted slightly, “Why?”

“It… it’s too intimate,” you admitted, clearing your throat. “Or so I’ve been told.”

His eyes remained unreadable, but you kept going. “It could complicate things. Distract me from the spells I’ll be casting.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to your hands as you lifted them, fingers curling, magic beginning to weave between them. Gold and amber light swirled, delicate but potent, a shifting balance of power between your palms.

“This is a give-and-take,” you said, more to yourself than him as you worked the spell into being. “Healing magic in sex is… an exchange of energy. It takes pain and converts it into pleasure. Shifts the weight of it.”

Bucky’s eyes followed the movement of your hands, the glow illuminating his beautiful features.

“And you can do that?” He asked. 

Your fingers traced symbols in the air, sealing the magic between you both. “I can handle it,” you said simply.

You took a deep breath as you cast another rune. “You ready?” you asked 

“I…” he said, “yes.”

And then he took a step forward.

Oh. This is really happening. 

You reached for the belt of your robes first, fingers steady as you untied the knot and let the fabric slip from your shoulders. The red fabric pooled at your feet, and beneath it—nothing. You were bare under his eyes, under the flickering torchlight.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath. His gaze studied you. And fuck— his pupils dilated, his lips parted just slightly—

"You're beautiful,” he said without thinking. 

“Thank you,” You swallowed, heat curling at the base of your spine, but you kept your hands steady as you reached for his robe next. “May I?”

Bucky nodded.

Your fingers brushed against his waist as you untied the fabric, and his breath hitched. The robe slid from his broad shoulders, revealing inch by inch of muscle, of scars that told a story only he truly knew. And fuck—  he was gorgeous.

Your mouth felt dry.

The flickering torchlight caught the planes of his chest, the deep ridges of his abdomen, the lines of his collarbone. His vibranium metal arm gleamed under the glow, its intricate gold inlays reflecting the fire. He was all rough edges, but still so devastatingly gorgeous. “Wow,” you said under your breath, barely realising you spoke it aloud.

You didn’t think Bucky would hear you, but he did. He chuckled, leaving heat creeping up your neck.

“Nervous?” He teased. 

“Hm,” you didn’t even try to deny it. You wet your lips, “maybe a little.”

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing as you raised your hands to your chest.

With deliberate precision, you traced the first rune over your sternum, whispering the incantation under your breath. The air around you shimmered, golden threads of magic unfurling from the sigils and sinking beneath your skin. The protective spells settled over your ribs, anchoring the energy exchange, ensuring neither of you took more than the other could bear.

You reached for his hand and guided him toward the bed.

A flick of your fingers sent a soft, golden light washing over the sheets. Protective runes wove themselves into the fabric, ensuring the bed would hold the weight of the magic about to pass between you. They pulsed once, then dimmed, leaving only the lingering warmth of your spell in the air.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. He was waiting.

You straddled his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. His hands came to rest on your waist, fingers splaying over your bare flesh. You could feel the restraint in them, the way he held himself still, waiting for your lead.

Your breath fanned against his neck as you pressed your lips to his pulse point, magic curling from your touch, sinking into him like sunlight through water.

His breath stuttered.

You traced a slow path downward, pressing lingering kisses along his throat, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. His fingers flexed against your hips, not in a demand, but in quiet, aching need.

You could feel it—the coil of tension beneath his skin, the way his breath deepened as your mouth brushed lower. The way his muscles tensed under your touch.

But this was more than desire. This was magic.

You pulled back just slightly, summoning the power to your fingertips.

Golden light flickered to life along your hands as you traced intricate runes across his skin. Each stroke of your magic marked him, not just with symbols, but with intent—with protection, grounding, balance. They pulsed softly as they sank into his flesh, wrapping around his ribs, down his back, anchoring him to you.

Bucky let out a slow breath, his head tipping back slightly as the magic settled into him. His eyes, when they found yours again, were heavy-lidded, dark with something deeper than want.

When you moved back up, he met you halfway.

His lips found the curve of your throat, pressing slow, reverent kisses into your skin. You sighed into his touch, the runes on your body flaring in response, golden light illuminating the space between you.

Bucky’s hands skimmed up your spine, pulling you closer, his mouth tracing a path along the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You gasped, pressing against him as the energy between you shifted, crackling like lightning, settling into something slow and molten.

The ritual had begun.

The magic thrummed between you, a living thing that pulsed in time with your racing hearts. The golden runes etched into your skin glowed softly, responding to the ebb and flow of power, to the exchange of energy passing between you and Bucky.

His hands moved slowly. You realised, he was mapping you out. He was trying to learn your body. The heat of his touch left trails of warmth along your spine, across your ribs, down the curve of your back. You shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of it. 

This felt… sacred. More than it has ever before. 

You guided him as much as he guided you, breathing heavily as his lips found the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Magic rippled at the contact, light flaring and then settling into a rhythmic pulse.

It built between you, curling and twining like the roots of an ancient tree. His name fell from your lips in a whispered sigh as he pressed closer, his breath warm against your ear.

His forehead pressed against yours for a moment, his fingers tightening at your waist as the runes burned brighter. The connection between you was solid, magic weaving around your souls, tethering and healing.

And as you moved together, the world beyond the walls of your sanctuary ceased to exist. There was only this—only him, only you, only the inexorable pull of magic in whatever little space there was between your bodies.

A high tide of energy curled through your veins, vibrating beneath your skin. The golden runes flared between you, pulsing in rhythm with your shared breath, your racing hearts. Each touch sent another wave of heat rolling through you both, coiling tight like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your waist as though anchoring himself, His breath was ragged against your ear, almost wrecked. “You feel that?”

You did. Fuck, you did. It was like the entire universe had narrowed down to this. To him.

The runes along your skin burned white-hot for a suspended moment—And then… 

As you both came undone in each other’s arms. A final pulse of energy crashed over you, through you.

Fuck, did it feel so good. 

It was all-consuming. 

The magic burst outward in a golden flare, illuminating the room, The torches flickered wildly.

Bucky shuddered beneath you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You held him close, your fingers buried in his hair, your own body trembling from the aftershocks of power.

You stayed still for a long moment, letting the last remnants of magic fade from your skin, the runes cooling to faint, dormant sigils. 

The ritual had worked.

The energy was balanced, pain had been siphoned, the tension had drained.

The world beyond these walls felt unimportant. There was only this peace that settled deep in your bones, as if the ritual had stripped away every last thread of stress you built that week.

Bucky laid on his back, one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. His vibranium fingers traced absent patterns against your bare shoulder. “For the first time…” His voice was hoarse. “My mind feels… quiet.”

You closed your eyes. God, he hadn’t known peace for years. Maybe decades. And knowing that now, even if only for a fleeting moment, the ghosts that haunted him were silent, made you feel… good. You had played your part in that.

You let your fingers drift up, brushing over his shoulder. “It will return,” you murmured. “This is… a temporary fix. It will last for a week, give or take. Could be shorter, could be longer. Magic’s funny like that.”

Bucky hummed, considering your words. Then he said—

“I guess I’ll see you next week.”

Your lips parted. He was serious. You could hear it in the rasp of his voice, in the way his fingers trailed against your skin.

You should have reminded him this was supposed to be a one time thing, that this wasn’t something to rely on. 

But you didn’t.

Instead, you swallowed, let the warmth of his body seep into yours, and whispered,

“Yes.”

—

And that was how it started.

Every week. Same chamber. Same time.

Bucky returned to you without fail, stepping into the ritual space stripping off his robes without a word, letting you paint the runes over his body like a prayer.

For him, it was a reprieve—a chance to quiet the endless noise. For you, it was an escape, a way to bleed out the exhaustion of your work at Kamar Taj, to lose yourself in the rhythm of magic.

It was supposed to be a ritual. A transaction.

But it never felt that simple.

“You’ve been handling high-stress situations remarkably well.” Strange once asked, not looking up from the book in his hands, but you felt his attention nonetheless. “Unusual, given how you used to— well, react to pressure.”

You kept your expression carefully neutral, turning a page in your own book as if you hadn’t heard him.

But Doctor Strange never let things go so easily. “And then there’s the chamber you keep booking.”

You froze.

That was all he needed.

He looked up, narrowing his eyes. “It’s Barnes, isn’t it?”

Your fingers curled against the parchment, but you didn’t speak. 

Strange sighed, closing his book with a thud. “Let me guess,” he said, “You keep telling yourself it’s just the magic.”

“It is just the magic,” you said.

He gave you an unimpressed look. “Magic has a way of ruining things when you refuse to acknowledge the other half of the equation.”

“There is no other half.” The words came out too rushed.

Strange tilted his head, almost amused. “So you’re saying there’s absolutely nothing else going on here? No… affection? No feelings?”

You let out a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s a means to an end. He needs the pain gone. I need—” You stopped yourself before you said too much.

But Strange caught it anyway.

“Mm.” He hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. “Well. I’m sure that logic will hold up forever.”

Strange was right, and you knew it.

Love was an ancient, primal force — was never something to take lightly. It wasn’t just a word or a feeling; it was a power. A force that could shift the very fabric of existence. And in magic, it was one of the most unpredictable powers. Love was strong enough to bind 

And yet, you refused to acknowledge it. 

So you had drawn extra runes for protection. Carefully layered wards against emotional entanglement, even though each time Bucky touched you, they frayed a little more. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That the tenderness in his touch was just the magic. That the way he took care of you afterwards was just a side effect of the ritual.

Bucky didn’t feel the same. He couldn’t. Right?

But love demanded to be acknowledged, and Bucky didn’t know this— but the last couple of sessions in the chambers, the magic had taken from you more that you could give, simply because the primal force love was angry that it wasn’t taken seriously. It had drained you, but Bucky still left you satisfied. And besides, he still reaped the rewards. 

So you would stay quiet, sacrifice a part of your energy as long as he stayed happy with this arrangement

Because if you did say what you felt out loud… and he did not reciprocate his feelings… well. You just couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Losing this, whatever this was. 

—

Over the past few weeks, your retroactive clairvoyance has begun to spiral out of control. And you… weren’t sure why.

You had spent years mastering it, learning how to pull at the past with  intent, how to channel the energy with purpose.  

But now, you felt like you were a kid again.

Now, the visions struck without warning. at times when you least expected them.

Worse, when you did try to summon memories, to command your gift, sometimes... nothing happened.

It had started subtly, with a missed glimpse here, a half-formed vision there. Then, two days ago, you had tried to trace the origins of a simple feathered pen, only to feel nothing. It was as if the object had never been touched by time at all.

And yet, later, when your fingers had accidentally brushed against a spear in the armoury, you had collapsed.

Your breath had ripped from your lungs, your mind had been yanked under the surface of the earth.. You had seen everything— the battles fought with that weapon, the blood spilled in its name, the hands that had held it, those that died clutching it. 

Your gift was becoming volatile. Unpredictable. 

Something must be interfering. Something must be disrupting the balance.

Or maybe… something was feeding on it.

Deepin the marrow of your bones, you felt a presence. A whisper. A demand.

Let us out, it said. Acknowledge us.

And then, an unwelcome thought crept into your mind 

You could not be sure, but perhaps,  the ancient powers of love were trying to get your attention.

—

And then, at the next ritual session, you felt it.

The magic was different. It felt… wild.

Bucky had been inside you, his body wrapped around yours, hands tracing over your skin as the spell reached its peak. But then — it happened.

White-hot, searing energy shot through your chest. Your gift took over, and the moment your fingers brushed over the metal of his vibranium arm, the past came flooding in.

You had accidentally gotten a vision from it.

You saw Bucky, in his dimly lit bedroom.

The sheets were messy, his hair tousled. He was splayed out, chest heaving, lips parted.

Oh.

His hand was wrapped around himself, needy and desperate. And his eyes were shut, his brow furrowed in pleasure.

“Fuck,” he’d groaned.

Then, he said your name.

Your name slipped from his lips, the most sinful sound you’d ever heard.

The vision shattered.

You jolted back to the present, feeling Bucky’s release as he sent you over the edge, too. 

Still tangled together and catching his breath, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours as the magic ebbed. 

But before you could make sense of it, he cupped your cheek with his vibranium arm. 

That touch sent another vision through you.

This time, you were in a diner.

Bucky and Sam sat across from each other in a worn-out booth. Bucky stirred his mug absently, eyes fixed on the dark liquid as if it held the answers to all his problems. Sam, on the other hand, lounged back against the vinyl seat, a grin tugging at his lips.

“So, are you ever gonna tell her?” Sam’s tone was teasing, but the question was genuine.

To be fair, he hadn’t met you in person, but he’d heard plenty about you over the past few months. Bucky couldn’t stop talking about you.

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the mug. “What if she doesn’t feel the same?” He said, barely above a whisper. “What if I lose her?”

Sam scoffed. “You’re not gonna lose her, man. You two are practically—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Well, based on what I’ve heard…”

Bucky shook his head. “We’re just… each other’s release.” The words felt forced, like he didn’t believe them. “We don’t even kiss.”

Sam snorted. “But you love her.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I do.”

Oh.

You were suddenly back in your body, Bucky’s arm still around you as he came down from the high, the ritual concluding.

He loved you.

Bucky Barnes loved you.

The reason your magic had been so unstable, the reason your gift had slipped beyond your control, was finally clear.

Strange was right. It was love.

Love had been drawn to the ritual like a moth to a flame. It had sensed what you refused to acknowledge, had pressed against the wards you put up, demanding to be seen, demanding to be felt.

And you had denied it.

You had locked it out, convinced yourself that what you and Bucky had was nothing more than a necessary exchange of energy, that it was about balance, about relief.

But required love, especially when amplified by magic, was not something you could simply ignore without consequence.

What… what were you supposed to do with this information?

Bucky’s grip on you loosened, but he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone.

“I—” Bucky started, but stopped, swallowing hard. His throat bobbed against your skin, hands flexing on your waist. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

You weren’t sure you did, either.

Bucky finally lifted his head, just enough to meet your eyes. His eyes were dark, his pupils still blown. Hesitantly, as if he could sense that you were deep in though, he whispered, “Are you okay?”

You managed a nod. “Yeah,” you said, though your voice was quieter than you intended. “You?”

Fingers grabbed the dip of your hip. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think—” His lips parted, then pressed together again. “I think I still need you.”

Not the magic. Not the ritual. You.

When Bucky lifted his head, when his hands skimmed over your sides you leaned in.

Because you wanted him, too.

Instead, you chose to surrender, and you kissed him.

The moment your lips met his, everything clicked into place.

The magic that had been unstable and unpredictable, suddenly calmed. No more volatile surges, no more restlessness. You hadn’t realised how hard you’d been fighting it, how you’d buried it beneath duty, beneath ritual, beneath rules meant to keep you at a distance.

But there was no distance now.

Bucky let out a shaky breath and groaned against your lips, his fingers cradling your face like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. 

His lips moved against yours, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. And maybe he had. Maybe you’d both been waiting too long, afraid of what love might do to you.

But love was never the thing that made your magic unstable. Denying it was.

Your powers had always been an extension of you, and now, as Bucky kissed you—truly kissed you—they settled. They recognised what you had refused to admit.

That you loved him.

You had loved him before the rituals. And now that you’d acknowledged it, now that you’d let it in, everything made sense.

Bucky pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven, warm against your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, as if he were afraid to let go. His voice, when he finally spoke, was small.

“…That was against the rules.”

You let out an adorable laugh, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging just enough to make him sigh. “So was falling in love, Bucky,” you sighed, “But you had no problem admitting that to Sam Wilson.”

Bucky froze, his entire body going rigid beneath. His face went red. “How—” he stammered, swallowing hard. “How did you know that?”

You smiled, tracing the part where vibranium met flesh on his shoulders. “A certain arm told me,” you said sheepishly.

“I—” His mouth opened, then shut. His grip on you tightened, bracing to hear a rejection.

But you didn’t let him spiral.

“Bucky.” Your voice was soft, you let your fingers trail down his cheek, over the rough stubble along his chin. “It’s okay.”

He swallowed hard.

“I do, too,” you said.

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. 

“Y-you do?” His voice cracked on the words, barely above a whisper. He looked so… relieved.

You smiled against his mouth, letting your teeth graze his lower lip ever so slightly before whispering, “I love you.”

The runes around you responded. It pulsed in golden waves. 

Bucky’s hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You… were something he couldn’t believe he had.

“You mean it?” His voice was hoarse.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tracing gentle circles against his skin.“Of course I do.”

Oh. 

“I love you, too,” he said. 

The words barely left his lips before the runes exploded. It looked like the magic was… celebrating.

Gold lines started to burst outward, flooding the chamber in waves of light, wrapping around you both like a living thing. It pulsed, an ancient force swimming in the air, satisfied at last.

Love had been acknowledged.

And now, the ritual was finally whole.

-end.

extra note: I've been getting a lot of explicit smut requests lately, and as mentioned in my bio, I really enjoy writing steamy and suggestive scenes. I'm more than happy to write emotionally charged moments like the ones in this story, I won’t write overly explicit or vulgar content because it’s just not my strength! There are so many talented writers out there who would write them better than me <3

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings

[whisperingashgarden]

iron tide

masterlist

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. references to drowning

the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from.

or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him

part 1 part 2 part 3

or [read on ao3]

extras

moodboard

this was supposed to be a one shot, but as per i got carried away and now its a 3-parter. don't hate me

[whisperingashgarden]

The Lady, or The Tiger?

Summary : Bucky is in love with you, but he doesn't even know what you really look like. What happens when he finds out?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Implied Thunderbolt!bucky and reader, body dysmorphia, insecurity, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, scarring, canon-typical violence, cursing, just very sweet Bucky overall!!

Word count : 6.5k

Note : This is inspired by the short story of the same title by Frank R. Stockton. this is purely self-indulgent, and I hope it makes sense lol. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes had had crushes before.

He’d had shallow crushes in a time less complicated than this one. He had surface-level attraction in a time before war, before Hydra. 

But this—whatever this was—was different.

Because he didn’t even know what you really looked like.

—

It started on a mission. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, fighting an enemy like you always did. The team were outnumbered, outgunned, and, in your case, out of patience.

Bucky had seen you fight before. He had seen you shapeshift before, but not like this. Not to this extent.

He knew you were powerful, but watching you now, he realised he had underestimated you.

First, you became a wolf, tearing through enemy lines with fangs bared and claws ripping through Kevlar like paper. One second, you were on one side of the battlefield, the next, he heard a strangled scream cut through the air as you took down another enemy.

Then, before he could blink, you changed again. Where the wolf had been, a tiny canary now darted through the chaos. You weaved between bullets, slipping through spaces too small for a person, too quick to be caught.

Someone swung at you, thinking they could hit you out of the air. They were fools.

Mid-air, you shifted again, bones stretching, limbs lengthening into wings. You were a vulture now, with a wingspan wide enough to darken the floor underneath your next victim. You dove, talons slashing deep, raking across an unsuspecting throat before pulling away just as fast.

Bucky watched the soldier drop to the ground, hands clutching his neck. He was not dead, but perhaps he wished he were.

You hit the ground running, becoming human again. You stole the face of the very man you had just incapacitated. 

With your new form, you walked straight into the enemy’s ranks.

Bucky wanted to call out for you, wanted to tell you to be careful. But he had learned to trust you.

The fools let you pass.

You slipped between them, and when they turned their backs—you struck.

Bucky heard the thud of bodies hitting the ground before he even saw you move.

Then… you were Yelena.

You stood side by side with actual Yelena, sowing just enough confusion for the real Yelena to place a bullet into an enemy’s shoulder.

Yelena turned to give you a half-impressed, half-annoyed look, “Show-off,” she teased.

Laughing, you shifted into your favourite form— a tiger.

Bucky had seen it before, but that didn’t make it any less mesmerising.

There was something different about you when you became the beast. It wasn’t just power. It was confidence and grace—like you belonged in this form more than you did as a human.

A soldier aimed at you.

Before he could fire, you lunged.

You closed the distance in a heartbeat. One powerful swipe of your claws sent the man flying, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.

Bucky barely registered the rest of the fight. All he saw was you, moving like a predator among prey.

And when it was over, you changed once more.

When you turned back, you were someone new. Not yourself. Never yourself, and not even the last human form you had taken. This time, you wore the face of a female soldier who had fled earlier. 

A fitting end.

But even though Bucky knew it wasn’t what you really looked like— nobody did— he could help but feel his heartbeat speed up.

—

Here’s the thing.

You changed constantly.

Sometimes it was subtle. A shift in the arch of your brow, a slight change in the curve of your cheekbones. Other times, it was drastic—different hair, different undertones in your skin, different eyes. 

Sometimes, you were a whole new person.

The first time Alexei saw a complete stranger in the kitchen at 7 a.m., he nearly threw a chair.

Yelena had to physically hold him back while Ava sighed. "It’s her."

Alexei squinted. "No, it is not."

Yelena rolled her eyes. "It is, you idiot. She just looks like someone else today."

Alexei hesitated, staring at the unfamiliar woman—short black hair, light brown eyes. Then, slowly, he lowered the chair. "Oh." 

He said. "I hate when she does this."

You—looking nothing like the person you were yesterday—smiled while sipping your coffee. "Good morning to you too, Alexei."

The team was used to it by now. Sort of. 

They still did a double take every time a stranger was suddenly walking through the compound, but after months of working with you, the confusion would last a minute or two before they remembered.

Bucky, though? It didn’t matter who you were or what you looked like, he always knew.

It didn’t matter if your hair was brown one week and blonde the next. If your skin was warmer or cooler. If your eyes were blue or green or as black as the void.

He always knew.

Because he knew you.

He could tell from the way you tilted your head when you were amused. He could tell from the way your fingers drummed against the counter when you were thinking. He could tell from the way your weight shifted onto one leg when you were trying to focus.

You could change faces a thousand times, but Bucky could still pick you out of a lineup.

Once, Bucky walked into the common room and immediately sighed.

John Walker—or at least, someone who looked like John Walker—was rummaging through the fridge.

"You know I know it’s you, right?" Bucky called you out.

‘John’—you—paused your raid, looking over your shoulder with mock offense. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Bucky crossed his arms with a chuckle. "Cut it out."

You rolled your eyes—John’s eyes—before grabbing a Snickers bar before shutting the fridge and walking off toward your room.

Bucky could only chuckle to himself.

And later, when the real John stomped into the room demanding, "Who the hell stole my Snickers?"

Bucky just shook his head and kept his mouth shut.

See, some people thought your powers were unsettling.

The way you could become anyone, wear any face, slip into any crowd without a second glance.

But not Bucky.

Bucky thought your powers were incredible— how you wielded yourself like art.

He always found it so curious, those weeks where you had soft freckles across your nose, only for them to vanish the next time he saw you. He was curious when your cheekbones sat lower, your jawline changed, your hands grew slender or strong depending on the day.

It fascinated him. And maybe that was why he watched you so much.

But no matter what face you wore, no matter what shape you took, he never noticed what you were doing.

How you changed—little by little, feature by feature—to match the women who flirted with him. The ones who made him smile, the ones who made him chuckle. 

God, did you want his attention the way they had it.

Because he never looked at you the way he looked at those girls.

The ones who were sweet.

The ones who weren’t killers.

You remembered every single one of them.

You remembered the waitress at that restaurant— she had soft freckles across her cheeks. She flirted as she refilled his drink, twirling her hair. 

You remembered the CIA agent the team met with after a debrief— she had playful green eyes, and she asked Bucky out for coffee. He said he would have loved to, but had prior commitments.

You remembered the cashier at the grocery store— she had delicate cheekbones, a laugh so sweet that Bucky had given her a sweet smile.

So you took their features, one by one, as if testing them out. As if trying to see which one would make him look at you the way you wanted him to.

But Bucky never noticed.

He never said anything when, one week, your freckles were just a little darker. When your irises became green. When your cheekbones became finer.

And fuck, did it frustrate you when it didn’t work. 

Because no matter what you changed, no matter how much you molded yourself into what you thought he wanted, Bucky never looked at you the way he looked at them.

Or so you thought.

—

The TV flickered in the dim light of the common room, casting colourful shadows against the walls. You were curled up on one side of the couch, Bucky on the other, both half-watching the show— some crime drama. The kind you liked because it was predictable. The kind Bucky liked because it gave him something to focus on besides his own mind.

And then, without thinking too much of it, you changed.

One moment, you were you—whoever you were today. The next, you were her, the actress on the screen.

Your hair became her wavy hair, same cheekbones, same eyes that feigned concern in whatever high-stakes scene played out. You… well, she was gorgeous. Perhaps she would catch Bucky’s attention.

Bucky blinked. Still, he didn’t look at you any differently. “So… we doing this look this week?”

“Maybe,” You shrugged, hiding your disappointment. “Maybe I’ll just take the hair.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

The two of you went back to watching, but you could feel his eyes on you. No matter how much you shifted, how much you changed, Bucky always looked at you like he saw straight through all of it.

A few moments passed in silence before he spoke up again. “Can I ask…” he started, “Why the tiger?”

You hesitated, still staring at the screen without really taking any information in. “I—”

Bucky adjusted in his seat beside you. “You don’t have to say,” he quickly amended, “if you don’t want to.”

“No, I…” You let out a deep breath, rubbing your thumb against your palm in an attempt to soothe yourself.

Well, Bucky didn’t know much about your past. Only that you had been forced to fight in cages for other people’s entertainment.

But you remembered one particular day perfectly. 

This was a time where you had still worn your true form. 

That day, the cage felt smaller than usual.

You noticed it the second you stepped inside, the scent of blood thick in the air. Something— someone had died here before you.

The roar of the crowd came in from all sides, but you tuned them out— you had learned to.

This was just another fight, right? Another opponent. Another night of surviving.

Then the gates opened.

And instead of a man, like you were used to, they sent in a tiger.

Her muscles bulged unnaturally, veins pulsing beneath striped skin.

Fuck.

They had drugged her. Pumped her full of steroids and made her very angry in the process.

And now they wanted you to kill her. Or her to kill you. It really didn’t make a difference— as long as it was entertaining.

The moment its paws hit the ground, it charged.

You barely dodged in time, twisting out of the way as her claws ripped across the metal floor.

Your heart pounded.

You shifted into one of the men you fought before— he was bigger, stronger. Perhaps he stood a chance. But the tiger just clawed at you, teeth raking on your thighs as you lost focus— forcing you to shift back to your true form. 

This wasn’t a fight—this was a slaughter.

You were fast, but the beast was faster.

The next hit of her claws landed.

You felt white-hot pain on your face as she slashed just shy of your eyes. You slammed into the cage wall, breath ripping from your lungs.

The crowd roared.

You could taste blood.

The tiger circled back, readying for the kill.

And then, something in you snapped.

You had spent your whole life wearing masks, shifting your face, your body, your form to survive. But you have never shifted to anything other than human.

Never an animal.

But this time, you didn’t just change.

You became.

Your bones crackle, muscles twisting out of and into place. You barely realised what you were doing until you were on all fours, claws digging into the bloodstained metal.

The tiger saw herself staring back at her.

And cats were intelligent— even the beast needed time to process the change.

She hesitated for a second. Just long enough for you to lunge.

The fight was a blur of fur and teeth, two beasts, two creatures built to kill, fighting in a cage that neither of you had chosen to fight in. 

After you struck the final blow, the tiger collapsed beneath you, blood pooling beneath her body, breath shuddering out in uneven gasps.

You should have finished her off, should've ended her suffering.

But you couldn’t. So you waited. 

The moment you saw the light leaving its eyes, you knew that the beast had never been the real enemy.

You had both been forced to fight. Forced to survive.

And from that day forward, you never let yourself forget that the tiger had died in that cage, but it had lived on in you.

Every time you shifted into her in battle, the form wasn’t just a weapon, it was a tribute to the tiger.

To all the lives you had been forced to take in that ring.

To the animal you had once been forced to become was the one you chose to embrace.

To this day, you weren’t sure if it had been you or the tiger who truly escaped the ring.

“I just… I don’t want to feel like prey,” you finally said, pulling yourself from the memory.

“I know how that feels,” he replied.

You looked over at him.

His teeth were clenched tight, his blue eyes a shade darker than you’re used to.

Much like you didn’t talk much about your past, neither did he. But he knew enough to understand that you had spent your life fighting where weakness wasn’t an option.

He was watching you again when the corner of his mouth twitched into a teasing smile. “Y’know, the tiger does suit you.”

“Hm?” You arched an eyebrow.

He nodded, grinning. “Dramatic. And a bit scary.”

You stretched to his side to smack his arm. “I am not dramatic.”

“You just shapeshifted into her,” he pointed at the screen, “mid-episode.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. For a moment, you just sat there, watching each other.

“Can I…”, after a pause, he started again, “Can I see?”

You blinked. “See what?”

He hesitated. “What you really look like.”

Your eyes softened. You looked to the screen to see another actress in a new scene. She was beautiful, too. You playfully shifted into her. “Who’s to say this isn’t my true form?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Funny.”

You let out a jagged laugh. “Nice try, Barnes. But no.”

Bucky put his hands up in surrender, and let it go. He figured you would tell him when you were ready. 

Because, see— Bucky never found any particular form you took to be prettier than the others.

He found you beautiful.

Not your stolen faces. Not your stolen body. Not the countless disguises you wore.

Just you.

If only you knew.

—

The week after that, you were in the middle of a mission that had gone south.

You weren’t sure when exactly things had gone wrong for you. One moment, everything was controlled, the next, there was a knife slicing into your side.

You’d barely registered it at first, too busy shifting into different forms and fighting for your life. 

By the time the jet landed back at HQ, you were barely holding on. Your vision blurred, shouting into different forms uncontrollably.

You weren’t going to last much longer.

"Hey, easy," Yelena reached for you as you stepped off. "Let’s get you patched up—"

You were losing control— no no no no no! 

You forced yourself into focus once again.

Fuck, you were losing blood, you were losing control of what you looked like— Concentrate, dammit!

Finally, you shifted. 

It started with fur. 

Then claws. 

Then teeth. 

The wounded tiger—you—snarled, baring your teeth at your teammates.

Yelena froze. Ava stiffened. The entire room went silent

Then, in a blur of motion, you growled and bolted, claws scraping against the floor, muscles coiling in desperation. Even as the beast, blood streaked your fur, dripping from the deep gash in your side to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” Alexei said, just above a whisper.

“She…” Yelena’s voice trailed off as she stared at the empty hallway. “I—” She let out a deep breath, running a hand through her hair. She felt betrayed by your lack of trust— the entire team did. “After all this time, she’s still scared.”

No one said what you were afraid of, and they didn’t have to.

They all knew how fiercely you kept your true form a secret, but no one knew why.

Still, Yelena knew better than to go after you.

But Bucky…

He just stood there, fists clenched.

He had seen you wear a thousand faces, slip in and out of bodies as if shapeshifting was as natural as breathing. But tonight, you would rather bleed out than let them see you as you are.

—

Bucky hesitated outside your door, his metal hand clenched at his side. He had been standing there for fifteen minutes now.

It was quiet. A bit too quiet.

Then, he heard a small sound, a muffled grunt. You sounded shaky… and in a lot of pain.

His fists curled into itself. He knew you wouldn’t ask for help, knew you’d rather grit your teeth and bleed out that show your face, but he couldn’t let you hurt yourself to preserve whatever secrets you may keep. He simply could not lose you.

So he made the choice for you.

He pushed your door open.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. To be honest, he expected the tiger more than anything. Or, at the very least, another borrowed face.

But instead, it was… you.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. It was the first time your spinal muscles were not taut in concentration. 

This must be you.

Not shifted. Just you, hunched over the bed, struggling to stitch a deep gash in your side. He couldn't really see your face since your back was facing the door, but it was you nonetheless. Your fingers trembled, slick with blood. The sheets beneath you were stained red.

Oh.

You.

His train of thought tripped over itself, trying to catch up. He’d fought beside you, bled beside you, but he’d never seen this.

And then you heard the door.

Your breath hitched, panic crashing in your chest. In an instant, you forced yourself into focus again and used whatever energy you had left to shift into the tiger with a snarl. You bared your teeth, your golden eyes locking onto his.

But Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t even move.

He just… looked at you.

He held his hands up as if to say, I’m not here to hurt you.

Even as a tiger, your wound was still open, blood dripping onto the floor. Losing more blood than you could afford, you swayed on your paws.

"You’re going to bleed out,” Bucky said, almost gently.

The beast– you– panted, trying to suppress a whimper.

"You need help stitching that,” he pointed out.

Your heart pounded. No. No, you couldn’t— you wouldn’t show him—

You shifted again. This time into him.

Your breaths became shallow as you stared at him through his own eyes, hoping that it would make him uncomfortable enough to push him away.

Bucky only blinked.

He was used to this. In his nightmares, at least, he would see another version of himself. So he barely reacted, except for the little wince he had when his— your— side was still gaping open.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, speaking with his voice.

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No, you’re not.”

"I can handle—"

“You’re going to bleed out.”

"I said—" Then, suddenly, your body failed you.

Maybe it was the pain. Maybe the blood loss. Maybe you were just too damn tired to maintain the shift.

Your form flickered, wavered, and then your appearance shattered.

No no no no no no—

You…

You looked like you again. 

Fuck.

Immediately, Bucky’s eyes darted over your face, like he was memorising it, like he was starving for it.

The scar must’ve been the first thing he saw. It was a brutal, jagged thing that carved down your cheek, over your jaw— the one the tiger had given you. 

It was ugly. 

It was permanent.

You flinched, trying to gather your focus, to shift again, but—

"Don’t." he said, his voice was soft. It wasn’t an order– it was a plea.

He reached for you, but you jerked away, eyes glued to the floor. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t stand to see the revulsion, the horror, the disgusts that must be in his eyes.

But when you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes none of that was there.

He looked like he was… relieved. Like he had been waiting so long to see you.

Slowly, Bucky reached out, fingers brushing over yours. "Let me help.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know why, but… you let him.

You let Bucky sit you down on the bed.

You were still bleeding. The wound was sluggish but persistent, seeping through the fabric of your torn clothes.

He ripped a strip from his already-ruined shirt. It was clear he had done this too many times before.

Fuck, you wanted to ask him, what do you think of me?

Now that he had finally seen you, no shifts, no disguises—just you, scarred and imperfect. Would he look at you differently? Would he turn away after this is over? Did he regret ever stepping inside this room?

"Hold still," he said, pressing the torn fabric against your wound.

The sting was sharp enough to make your fingers dig into the mattress, a hiss slipping past your teeth. Bucky kept working, stitching you up with patience, with care.

You still can't believe it.

He was finally looking at you.

Not at the faces you’d stolen, not at the masks you wore— but you. Scar and all.

And you still didn’t know what he thought of it.

His eyes flickered up to meet yours. You flinched as he pushed the needle through your skin again.

"You okay?" he asked.

You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

That was a lie.

But Bucky didn’t call you out on it, though. He just nodded, going back to not letting you die.

Then, with a certainty you rarely ever heard from him, he said, "You know this is my favourite, right?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"This," he gestured at you— your true face, your real body— all the parts you always kept hidden. "It’s my favourite."

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff and shook your head. "Please. I’ve seen myself in the mirror, Bucky. Don’t lie to my face."

His lips pressed into a firm line. "I’m not lying." His voice was so sure of himself, there was no room for argument. "You’re gorgeous," he continued. "Why don’t you show this more?"

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t, because you didn't believe him. 

Because even if you did, if you let him see how much you wanted to believe him, you knew you’d shatter inside and out.

Bucky’s fingers brushed against your side, pressing another strip of fabric into the wound to soak up some of the blood. You hissed, but he continued, finishing the last of the stitches.

"There,” he sterilised the cut, “That should hold."

You sat there in silence as he cleaned up your blood.

You should’ve said something— anything, really. But all you could do was stare at the floor.

“The scar…” you started, “It makes me look weak.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re full of shit."

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"I know it’s not that," he said, nodding toward your cheek. “You’ve fought beside us long enough to know you’re not weak. So what is it?”

He reached to your face, his human fingers carefully ghosting over the scar.

You flinched.

He didn’t pull away.

His touch was so gentle, almost like he admired it. Like he found you—scar and all—fascinating. "Why do you do this to yourself?" he asked.

What?

How dare he?

How dare he demand an answer from you, when all you had ever fucking tried to do was be perfect for him?

To look good for him? To try to be everything that he could ever wan?

How dare he demand a reason for your imperfection like you hadn’t spent years hiding it from the world and months changing for him.

"Get out." you finally said.

His brows furrowed, confused. "What?"

"I said get out!" You almost shouted.

Your body betrayed you then. Uncontrollably, erratically, your form shifted.

First, you became the waitress with the freckles. Then the agent with the green eyes. Then the cashier with the sharp cheekbones. Faces you had practiced in the mirror, over and over again.

Bucky knew those faces.

They were the same women Alexei had always tried to convince him to ask out.

The ones he never truly wanted.

What…

Why were you them?

Why were you drifting, becoming people he had never looked twice at?

"Get out," you repeated desperately.

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t want to leave. But… perhaps you needed time. Perhaps you needed space.

So he stood up and walked to the doorway.

"Please," he said softly, "don’t shut yourself out."

And then, he walked away.

—

Later, he found you in the kitchen.

You sat quietly at the table, sipping tea as if nothing had happened. 

But you didn't look like you.

You had shapeshifted again. This time, you were Ava.

Ava had mentioned something about going to see Hope van Dyne, so naturally, you took her place at HQ. It was easier this way— disappearing into someone else’s skin, and if your teammates were to see you, they would just assume Ava was back in the compound and wouldn’t have to answer any questions. 

You used to think that shifting was a good way to hide, but maybe if you had Ava’s ability instead, if you could turn invisible, it would be better. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to be anything at all.

You looked up when Bucky entered, and for just a moment, you looked like you were bracing yourself. 

“I know it’s you,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around the mug before you set it down, hands trembling just a little.

"You don’t have to hide," Bucky said as he took the bar stool beside you. "It’s just you and me."

You exhaled, and your exhaustion gave way.

With a blink, you let yourself shift back, skin and bone realigning into the version of yourself you hated most. The most imperfect version of you.

Godammit. You would never admit it, but it was easier to exist when you weren’t constantly holding onto the shapeshift, keeping yourself together 24/7.

“Sorry,” you sighed, voice barely above a whisper. “For snapping.” You hesitated, looking away. Even now you couldn't bear to let him really see you.“And… thank you. For the stitching.”

Bucky nodded. “Of course.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Bucky rubbed a hand over his stubble before he finally gave in.

“I just—” He swallowed. His throat was dry. “I can’t—fuck—I have to ask. I—”

“Bucky,” you warned.

“But—”

“Bucky, stop.”

He let out a deep breath, shaking his head. “Right. Sorry.”

You looked down, your eyes fixed on your very real, calloused hands. “Besides,” you continued. “You probably already know why.”

Of course he did— he had time to think. He had put two and two together.

“I want to hear it from you.” He said softly.

You stared into your tea, watching your own reflection ripple on the surface.

“I wasn’t lying,” you admitted. “It did start because I hated showing weakness. But then I got close to you…”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“And then I saw the women who flirted with you,” you said, voice even quieter now. “The ones you seemed to like. The ones you spent time with.” You let out a small, joyless laugh. “And I—I don’t know if I’ll ever measure up. So I started using different features from the women you seemed interested in. Hoping that maybe… just maybe… I could get your attention.”

Bucky clenched his fists at his sides, heart pounding against his ribs. For the first time in a very long time, he felt sick to his stomach. You had altered yourself— changed—because of him? How could you think you owed any man anything?

“You’re—” He whispered, shaking his head. “You’re beautiful,” he said, almost desperately. “Just as you are.”

What?

What?

How could he—? How could he look at you, at this, and say that? How could he see all your scars, all your flaws, and think you were beautiful?

You had spent so much time in this charade, in this act, so many years pretending, that the idea of being wanted as you were felt… impossible.

“Don’t lie to me,” you whispered.

“I’m not—”

"Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up every goddamn day and hate the face staring back at you in the mirror?" Your voice cracked open. "I’ve spent my whole life shifting, hiding, changing—to survive, and then—" You inhaled sharply, nails digging into your palms. “And then I wanted to change because maybe—maybe—if I was different, if I looked like them, you’d—”

You choked, unable to bring yourself to finish.

“But I do,” he admitted. “I know because… I have to look in the mirror knowing what I did. What he—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “What the Winter Soldier did to my body. With my body. And unlike you, I can’t change my face as I wish.”

Oh.

“I am this.” He met your eyes. And I… I want you to be you around me, too.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his frustration bleeding into the realm of desperation. "I have been in love with you—in every form you’ve ever taken." He turned to you even when you wouldn't even look at him. "Every single one."

Your stomach twisted. Your heart felt like it had stopped entirely.

"But you—" You shook your head. “You never—”

“I don’t give a damn about anyone else,” Bucky said. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if you’d let him.

He let out an unsteady breath. “I just... You’re a shapeshifter. You could look like anyone. I didn’t think appearance would even matter to you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips. “Of course it matters,” you whispered. “I wanted to be… more.”

Bucky could’ve sworn his heart broke in a million little pieces. 

His human fingers brushed against your chin and gently nudged you to look at him. This time, you didn't even bother resisting. Slowly, he cradled your face and held you like you were real as you were, like you weren’t just clay, made to be changed and reshaped.

“Nothing could possibly be more than this,” he said.

What?

His eyes softened, the blue looking so unbearably honest. "You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You’ve always been beautiful."

His metal hand reached for you, too, so carefully, as if he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers if he wasn’t gentle enough. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. 

But you shook your head, pulling away—not far, just enough to make his chest ache.

“No, I….” you started. 

His brows pulled together,  “What?”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked. “If you’re telling the truth… if you really mean this—” You took a deep breath, shaking your head again, tears brimming at the edges of your eyes. “Bucky, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

You were breaking, right in front of him. Perhaps you were too deep in your own lie that you couldn’t bear to hear the truth.

He had seen you wear a thousand faces, slip into a hundred different lives, but this was the real you. And the fact that you looked so lost in it made his heart hurt.

“You think I’m lying about loving you?” His voice was hoarse.

He had kept it to himself for so long— locked it away, buried it deep, convinced himself it wasn’t worth the risk. And yet now, for one reason or another, saying it out loud felt so easy.

Loving you was easy.

“Bucky,” you said, tears now streaming down your face. “I barely even know who I am.”

“I do,” he smiled softly. “You’re kind, and stubborn, and a little too fucking reckless for your own good and….  I-I don’t care how long it takes for you to see that, I just… I just want you.” His throat bobbed. “Not the faces you think I want. Not the versions of yourself you think you have to be. You.”

You let out a strangled sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and wiped your face with trembling hands.

And then—slowly, carefully—you let yourself lean forward.

Not shifting. Not changing.

You were content just being close to him when he asked—

“Can I kiss you?”

It came out barely above a whisper, like he was afraid you’d say no.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands pressing against his chest without thinking. 

And… you knew.

You had always been his. In any shape, in any form.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and you pulled him in, crashing your lips into his.

His hands slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, pulling you closer.

You melted against him. Fuck, you can’t even remember the last time you kissed someone without being someone you weren’t. As just… you.

He kissed you deeper, his hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go. He kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been waiting forever, the way his lips moved against yours. It was heated and so wonderfully desperate. 

His human hand curled at the nape of your neck, his metal one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You weren’t used to being touched like this. Not as yourself.

You had spent years perfecting faces that weren’t yours, slipping into bodies that fit the moment, creating versions of yourself that were easier to accept. Easier to see.

You broke away first, gasping softly, your forehead resting against his. Your heart was hammering, your body still buzzing from the way he kissed you like he needed you to breathe.

His fingers found your chin. He traced the shape of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Then, slowly, he leaned in again—not to kiss your lips, but to press his mouth against the scar that ran along your cheek.

His lips trailed down the raised skin, like he loved it as much as he loved you.

You had spent so long erasing your imperfections. Every time you shifted, you smoothed out the flaws, reshaped the angles, softened the lines. The scar had always been the first thing to go, but Bucky wasn’t afraid of it.

He was embracing it.

His metal hand—once a weapon—cradled your face.

You felt the brim of tears before they fell.

Bucky must have noticed, because he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, thumb brushing away the tears.

“You okay?” he murmured.

For the first time, you were looking at yourself through his eyes. And in them, there was no disgust, no disappointment. No expectation for you to be anything other than who you were.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah.”

He smiled.

And then the door swung open.

“Hey, Bucky, have you seen—” John Walker stopped mid-sentence.

Bucky froze, his head snapping toward the door, and you barely had time to react before John was staring directly at you.

“Whoa,” John said, eyebrows shooting up. He looked between the two of you, amused. “Who’s the girl, Barnes?”

Bucky’s grip on you tightened. “It’s her,” he said.

John blinked. Then he squinted.

“Oh,” he said, his eyes studying over your face with… recognition.

“It is you,” he said finally.

Your stomach twisted.

His head tilted slightly, looking at the features you didn’t pick, the ones that weren’t polished or curated or designed to be pleasing. His eyes landed on the scar across your cheek.

Your fingers twitched, a familiar shame creeping in as you waited for the disgust.

But instead, he said, “Nice scar.” He nodded approvingly. “Very badass.”

You blinked. “What?” you said before you could stop yourself.

John shrugged. “It is. Makes you look cool.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then it opened again. You didn’t know what to say.

John picked up something from the couch, then shook his head. “Well. Good for you two. Seriously.”

He turned, making his way back toward the door before pausing.

“Oh, and for the love of god,” he said joking, “use protection.”

You let out an embarrassed, choked sound, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder as John continued, “And don’t be too loud.”

Bucky groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Leave, Walker.”

John chuckled, before finally disappearing down the hall.

You huffed, your face still buried against Bucky’s chest. “I hate him,” you joked.

“You and me both,” Bucky laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

You sighed.

You could still feel the ghost of Bucky’s lips on your scar, the warmth lingering like an imprint on your skin. His hands hadn’t moved from you—one still resting on your waist, the other curled at your jaw, his thumb absently stroking over your cheekbone as if he couldn’t stop himself.

He let his fingers trail from your jaw to the line of your throat. He traced the dip of your collarbone, the shape of your shoulder. He followed the ridge of the scar on your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

A sigh clawed its way up your throat as you buried yourself against him. 

Bucky’s lips found your hair, the corner of your forehead, and then the place where your pulse fluttered at your throat. 

The question of Bucky’s decision to love you as you were was one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it.

And so I leave it with all of you:

Which survived the cage fighting ring—the lady, or the tiger?

Perhaps, both lived in you. 

Perhaps, Bucky chose to love both. 

-end.

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@imjusthere1161

[whisperingashgarden]

I love him sm

[whisperingashgarden]

I think I NEED a part 2!!!

Eyes, They Never Lie

Summary: Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

Pairings: Bucky x Former!Avenger!Reader

“They want me to assemble a group,” Sam takes a long sip of his beer, thinking that it’ll do something to ease his mind. “The New Avengers.”

Bucky lets out a low whistle.

“I know.” Sam mutters. So far, it’s Captain America and the Falcon, but other than that, he’s completely lost. “Back when Steve was here, there was a place for us to go. We could aspire to one day go into the compound and train, but now, anyone who is willing to be part of the team is scattered all around the world.”

Bucky hasn’t said anything, not because he doesn’t know how to help his friend but because he’s so lost in his own journey. Running for congress sounded like a good idea, until he started dealing with the political world. So much bureaucracy, so many people wanting to fatten their wallets. And not enough actual helping.

“You got any ideas?” Sam asks, bringing him out of his mind.

But Bucky just hums, because the idea he does have is crazy.

“C’mon I know that being a silent watcher is your whole deal but I need some help over here. How the hell am I going to build a team from zero?”

Bucky finishes his drink, as if that’s going to help jumpstart his confidence. “Are you looking for fresh meat? Or do you got space for an old timer?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “I thought all your fighting days were behind you.”

“I want out,” Bucky loosens the tie on his neck. “I want to go out on the field again. Really help.”

Sam runs a hand down his face, there’s hesitation in the way he looks at Bucky. 

“Unless…” Bucky gulps. “Unless I’m not what you’re looking for.”

“No, no.” Sam places a hand on his shoulder. “I just need to tell you something before you say yes to this-“

“What is it?”

“I was-uh-“ Sam looks up at the screen above them, not wanting to look at his friend in the eye when he says it. “I was gonna ask her to join, too.”

“Oh,” Bucky can’t help but think back to when you were his, at least for a moment. Every time he thinks about being happy, you’re right there next to him. 

You were the first woman he was actually interested in. He spent years wasting time with thousands of women, letting them in his apartment but never into his heart. But your eyes reeled him in from the moment you started as an agent. Steve would always tease Bucky, saying he’d have to see you fall in love with someone else if he didn’t ask you out. 

Those were the best years of his life. No doubt.

Until you left. You retired, and wanted nothing to do with him. And all the love you had seemed to evaporate from one day to the next.

But Bucky? He was still waiting for you to come back. 

“I-I thought she disappeared, retired.” Bucky stutters at your memory. 

“I found out where she lives now. And I planned on talking her into the group.” Sam looks down at the beer in his hand.

“I’m in.” Bucky says, but he’ll never be sure if he accepted because he wanted out of the political world or if he wanted another glimpse of you. 

-------

“The house is supposed to be up the road.” Sam mutters, trying to find cel reception. But the two of them were so deep into the woods, it was almost impossible. 

Bucky had always imagined you’d end up like this. Off the grid, living off your land. But in the dream, the two of you would be together. He’d spend the day cutting wood and harvesting whatever you’d grown, and you’d be deep into a hobby, spending your nights recounting your wild life. 

They see an opening up the road, but as they come closer, their eyebrows knit together.

“This can’t be it.” Sam says under his breath.

A huge cabin, surrounded by pine trees, is the only thing around. There’s a big tree at the front of the cabin, with a tree house on one of its branches. A glittery pink bike on the lawn along with a replica of Mjolnir next to it.

Sam parks his truck and they both step out cautiously. Bucky looks around, wondering how the woman who used to scream at the sight of a spider could live here, all alone.

As they come closer to the front door, they hear rustling from the tree house.

Bucky nudges his friend’s shoulder. “There’s someone over here.” 

Sam’s head whips just enough to see a pair of binoculars looking at them from the wooden window. 

“Hello?” He calls out but there’s no answer.

“Do you live here?” Bucky asks, only to be slapped on the chest by his friend.

“You can’t ask that! It’s creepy!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to get an answer if I don’t ask a question?” 

But there's no response from the person inside the tree house. Instead, there's clanking and banging and before they even realize it, there's a little girl pointing a bow and arrow directly at them.

"State your name! Now!" She tries to look menacing but her outfit is too much for the two men to handle. Sky blue rain boots with a purple tutu, a Def Leppard t-shirt and heart shaped sunglasses.

"Oh my god." Sam immediately melts. "Aren't you the cutest little thing I've ever seen."

But the little girl doesn't fall for the Captain's words, she points the arrow directly at Sam. "Don't make me repeat my question, I know how to use this."

"Do you live with an adult? Your aunt, maybe?" Bucky's throat dries up as he asks the question. He knew you had siblings before you went into the crazy line of work that were the Avengers, and he begged that the little girl before him was theirs.

Bucky spent hours thinking about you on the way here. He'd been dreaming of seeing you again, thinking of what must have changed and what stayed the same. But he never thought there was a possibility you had moved on.

"Is your-" Bucky clears his throat. "Is your dad home?"

Sam eyes his partner. "Smooth."

The little girl walks backwards until her back bumps into the cabin's front door. "I'll call my daddy."

Bucky's heart stops. After years, he was still thinking of you whenever his eyes closed, and you, you were completely over him. Started a family with someone else.

"I'm sorry, Buck." Sam pats his back, immediately noticing the shift in his friend's eyes.

"S'okay." Bucky mutters, grinding his combat boot into the ground. "I'm not here for her, I'm here to assemble the team."

"I know, but-"

"I said I'm fine." Bucky snaps, running a hand through his shorter hair.

You'd begged him, for years, to cut his hair.

"I love your long hair," you'd once murmured against his lips. "But I also love how you looked during the Howling Commandos era."

"Era? You're making me sound more old than I am." Bucky smiled against your lips.

"I'm just saying, you could shorten it." Whenever you looked into his eyes, it made him feel like he was the only thing in the world.

"I thought you liked pulling my hair." Bucky flipped you on the bed, taking in your bubbling laughter.

The creaking sound of the cabin door brought him back to now. Bucky sucks in air, preparing to meet the man who is apparently so incredible that you decided to drop everything to be with him.

He has to be at last six feet. Well I'm 6 foot 1, on a good day. Bucky responds to his own thoughts. And he must be jacked. Not as jacked as me, I'm the fucking Winter Soldier for fucks sake! He must love her. Well I, I've loved her every day since I met her.

It feels like it takes hours for this mystery man to come out. The door opens slowly, only to reveal... You.

Bucky's knees buckle as your eyes meet his. You hadn't changed a lick, and if he didn't know better, he'd think that you were still his. Bucky's hands ball into fists at his side, needing a physical reminder to not reach out and hold you. Beg for your kisses. Tell you he doesn't care that you left, just as long as you take him back.

"Sam? Bucky?" Your voice trembles. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

The little girl pokes her head from behind your legs. "Mommy!"

"Mommy?" Sam and Bucky shriek at the same time.

"Attack them! Take them down!" Your daughter laughs.

"Young lady!" You scold.

But the little girl interrupts you, raising a chubby hand to stop your words. "I've already told you my name is Tashi Romanoff."

"Tashi, please, go upstairs and play. I need to talk to them for a moment. In private." You enunciate your last two words, knowing they were her least favorite words in the world.

"Fine," she huffs, turning on her heels. But not before taking off her rain boots and heart shaped sunglasses to reveal a pair of striking eyes. Clear blue with a steel ring surrounding her iris. Bucky's brows furrow as he catches a glimpse of Tashi's eyes, almost the same exact shade as the one he sports.

"W-wai-She's-" Bucky stutters out, not being able to comprehend what just happened.

"Tashi, huh?" Sam raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, she’s going through a phase where she refuses to be called by her name," you close the door behind you. "Auntie Nat came to visit us during the blip and she just latched on to her."

"W-was her dad blipped?" Bucky tries to act normal but his heart is beating out of his chest.

"Her dad isn't in the picture." You cross your arms. "She was a surprise."

"So-uh-so that means." Bucky points between him and the house. Not being able to get the words out. "There's no way that."

"She's not yours, Barnes." You roll your eyes at your ex boyfriend.

"But she-her eyes." He blinks.

"There are a lot of guys with blue eyes out there." You let out a light laugh. It was strangely easy for you to slip into how things were, teasing and sharing laughs was the base of your relationship with Bucky. But now, so much time has passed, and you're definitely not the same person you were back then.

"What are you guys doing here?" You look down at the floor as you ask the question.

"Someone out there has created a mind controlling substance that puts everyone in danger. And we need to stop him. We found his lab and we got some of the vials but we need your help taking him down." Sam says but you're shaking your head before he even has time to finish. "I want to form a group. The world needs us again."

"Look, Sam, I appreciate you going through all the trouble to find me but, as you can see, I have other priorities now." You look back into the house through the window to find your four year old daughter peeking through the window.

"But-" Bucky speaks up but you stop him.

"You guys can stay the night if you'd like," you say, looking at the darkening sky. "But I'm not going back. There's a reason I left that life."

Bucky bites his tongue to stop himself from asking you what that reason was.

"Thanks for letting us stay." Sam smiles as he passes the threshold of your home.

You never thought this day would come. Seeing your daughter run around your back yard with one of your best friends.

“She’s beautiful.” Bucky comes to stand next to you, but you only hum in agreement. Words seemingly disappeared from your mind the second his scent wafted closer to you. Sandalwood and fire, clean linens with a dash of something else. So masculine, so protective. So incredibly, Bucky. 

“How old is she?” He asks.

“Don’t do this to yourself.” You take a deep breath in, letting him coat your lungs. 

“I just want to know.” Bucky tries to act innocently. He dissects every trait he can tell comes from you, but the rest, they look awfully similar to him. Tashi’s nose has the same bump as his and her eyes crinkle just like Bucky’s when she smiles. 

“Faking was never your forte.” You smile. “She’s not your daughter Bucky.”

“Bucky.” He repeats his name like it hurts him to say. “You never used to call me that.” 

“Well, I used to call you baby but I wouldn’t want Tashi to start asking questions about who my other baby is.” 

Bucky lets out a laugh, it’s a low grumble that shakes his ribs. It’s been so long since he felt this peace. “I missed this,” he lets the words slip out.

“I missed this too.” You say, barely above a whisper, stopping yourself before you say that you missed him. But you did.

Every day since you left, you thought of Bucky. Of the way he used to hold you so tenderly and the kisses he gave you at night. Of how he said I love you and made it sound like the only words that existed.

But all those memories were of the past, your life before Tashi came in. And you should keep them like that.

-----

The moonlight is the only thing that illuminates Bucky as he wanders around the cabin. He didn't mean to lurk but he'd woken up from a nightmare.

Your home was different than he imagined. A lot more stuffed animals and toys and less trinkets from your past life. There were a couple of pictures here and there but they were mostly of Tashi and you.

"What are you doing up?" Bucky jumps up at the sound of her squeaky voice.

Tashi looks up at him with those goddamned eyes. They looked so much like his, it was concerning.

"I-I couldn't sleep." Bucky rubs the back of his neck.

"Do you have nightmares?" She asks so innocently. If only she knew the things he dreamed of. "I have them too."

"You do?" Bucky whispers, making her nod her little head.

"Mommy usually helps be back to sleep but I don't want to wake her up." Tashi brings a finger to her mouth, motioning for the Sergeant to keep quiet. "Don't tell her I woke up, promise?"

"Promise." Bucky brings out his pinky, wrapping it around her little finger. "I'll let you in on a little secret of mine."

Tashi's blue eyes widen, urging him to go on.

"You may not know about me but, there was a time your Mommy helped me with my nightmares." Bucky smiles at the memory.

"I know about you, silly goose." Tashi covers her giggles with her hand.

"You do?"

She nods, holding her hand out and taking him to her playroom. Sitting Bucky in an incredibly small chair. "You're the boy from my book!"

Tashi places in his hands a hand sewn felt book. The characters were a bit wonky but Bucky could immediately spot himself in the fabric.

"You're the boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel." She says, proudly pointing to the book.

"The boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel would save anyone, especially the people he loved," Bucky read his description on the book. "People around the world misjudged him, but that didn't stop him from being good. He proved them all wrong."

"You're my favorite character," Tashi smiles wide. "Don't tell Uncle Sam."

"Your secret is safe with me." Bucky lets out a watery smile, setting the book down on the floor. "How about you go up to your room and I can tell you a story about your mom."

"Really?" Tashi jumps up.

"Only if you promise to try and go to sleep again." Bucky raises his eyebrow, trying to appear strong but the little girl already had him wrapped around her finger.

"Under one condition," Tashi crosses her arms. "I can go outside and get my Natasha figurine."

Bucky bites down on his lip. "It's quite late to go outside."

"Please?" She pouts. "It'll only take a second."

God she looks so much like you.

"Fine." Bucky gives in. "But I'll be watching by the door, can't let you go outside all alone."

The super soldier walks behind the little girl, watching as she runs outside and sifts through the grass.

Bucky should have known something was wrong, he should have heard them lurking in the bushes. But he was too distracted by her, too distracted by the idea that this could have been his life. That in some multiverse, Tashi was his daughter and he could've retired next to the love of his life.

But he didn't. And it was too late once he realized what was happening.

Tens of agents dressed in black closed in on the cabin, running onto the property. Tashi was the first thing they grabbed.

He heard her yell out his name, but it happened in slow motion.

"No!" Bucky screamed, running towards the man who kidnapped her. "Let her go!"

Tashi's red splotched eyes was the last thing Bucky saw before they crammed her into a black van and left down the only road. His feet burned as he ran behind them, but not even Bucky was able to catch up to them.

Once he came back to the cabin, Sam and you were running around trying to understand what happened.

"I'm sorry." Bucky lets the tears run down his face. "I couldn't stop them."

You dropped to the floor with a sob.

Bucky's knees finally gave out. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry- We're going to get her back, I promise that I'll get her back."

Authors note: hi hiiii omg I went a little bit overboard with this one. It's been a looooong time since I wrote something this long. I hope y'all like it! Xx

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @whoreforbarnes @ironwinnerwonderland @oikarma @ellabellabunny123