as someone who constantly gets stuck in ruminative cycles, figuring out a way to stop the cycle before it gets out of hand has been incredibly formative for me. if you find yourself ruminating or unable to stop the cycling, here’s a place to start.
am i learning, processing, or ruminating? it’s important to be able to distinguish between the three. learning is when you receive new information that updates your frame of understanding. processing is when you study a situation to help yourself understand it. ruminating is when you cycle over the same thought repeatedly, often causing distress. learning and processing are productive, while rumination is destructive.
which theme is this? understanding the root or the spiral has helped me to untangle why the rumination feels so intense and scary. (example: i’ve been ruminating on one specific interaction with someone where i think they might’ve misinterpreted what i meant. this is my theme of fear around being misunderstood.)
how do i respond? (example: okay, this is that theme of being misunderstood. but it is not my job to make myself perfectly understood. the people i have around me can ask clarifying questions if they’re confused, and they are willing to meet me in the middle because they want to understand.)
don’t feed the raccoons tuna. (this is an example from my therapist that i love! essentially, don’t feed the beast or it will keep coming back. distract yourself, journal, listen to music, etc.)
do it while the ground falls out from under you; do it while everything you loved goes up in smoke; do it while the dream of your future is still burning embers around you; build anew on the hot ashes of everything you worked for; keep going, keep loving, keep living, even as all you want is to turn back (there is no turning back; it is gone already); do it through grief, which feels like fear in the body
The tag I have seen most often on this post is "I needed to hear this," and I am so, so grateful to have said something that was needed. These words came out of the depths of my own grief, and I am so grateful to have made this small connection with others in the midst of it. Grief is isolating and indescribable, but none of us are alone.
That said, these tags were what I needed to hear:
we're all gonna make it
it's okay if you can't see how yet. you don't have to believe in better. for now it is enough to just keep going, and eventually the path will emerge. you are not alone. you are not lost in the woods forever. keep going. I love you.
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Pairing- Bucky x Yn | Bucky x Reader
Summary: What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly
matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
Authors note: This is the official Masterlist of the Sticky notes series. from my old acc. MyOwnCase.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing.
Requested by : anon (based on this request)
Word count : 2.3k
Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!
Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.
But he had heard of you.
A lot about you, actually.
Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.
“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”
Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”
“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”
Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.
But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.
It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.
Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you.
And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.
Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person.
And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.
“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.
Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”
Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes.
So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.
But by now, he felt like he already knew you.
And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.
—
They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.
Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”
Sam paused mid-step. What?
Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”
Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”
“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.
Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—
"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."
Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from inside the apartment.
“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.
Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?
You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.
The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.
This was you? The you?
The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?
You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”
Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”
Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”
Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.
Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.
“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.
You nodded, stepping fully into view.
And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.
Oh?
Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?
—
Dinner was homemade.
More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.
Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.
“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.
Joaquin shrugged.
“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”
Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”
You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”
The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.
Sam had to rub his damn eyes.
This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.
Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”
Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”
You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”
My love.
Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?
Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.
And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’
Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.
Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”
“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”
Joaquin groaned.
You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”
Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.
And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.
Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.
He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.
—
Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.
“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”
You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”
Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”
You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”
Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”
You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”
Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought.
“How old were they?” Sam asked.
“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”
Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”
You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”
Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”
You blinked. “Mean?”
“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”
Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”
Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”
Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”
Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”
You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”
Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”
He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.
You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”
Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”
“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”
Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”
You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.
Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”
You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”
Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”
Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.
Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.
—
By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.
Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.
And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.
“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”
Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”
“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”
Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.
Jamie?
The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.
But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.
No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.
Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.
And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.
“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.
Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”
“Just tighten it a little.”
Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.
“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”
Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”
Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”
Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”
You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”
Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”
Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”
Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.
“Yeah, you do.”
And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—
Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.
Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!
Word count : 3k
Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!
The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.
One: He was grumpy.
Two: He was a private person.
Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.
That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.
That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.
What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.
With the florist.
With you.
“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.
They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.
“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.
Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.
Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”
Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”
“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”
They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.
That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”
As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”
Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”
“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”
Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“She was literally wearing it—”
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.
Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.
Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.
What was the world coming to?
—
Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.
Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.
She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”
Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.
“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase
Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”
From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”
Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.
Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”
Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”
Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”
Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.
Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”
John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”
“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”
John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”
“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”
Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”
Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”
“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”
His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.
“You’re lying,” she snapped.
He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”
Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”
He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.
And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.
—
Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.
And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.
It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.
Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.
“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”
“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.
Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”
John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”
Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”
Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”
Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”
Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.
John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.
“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.
“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.
It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.
But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.
They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.
It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.
To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.
“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”
Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”
Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”
John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”
Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.
And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.
The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.
“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”
Yelena and John froze in their tracks.
James?
James?
No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.
Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”
Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Honey?
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”
Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.
You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”
Oh.
Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated
John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”
Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.
John let out a wheeze.
Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”
Bucky nodded. “Yup.”
“Like—actually married?”
“Mhm.”
Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”
Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”
“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.
Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”
“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”
“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”
“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”
Bucky could only nod again.
Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”
You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”
Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.
John looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”
John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.
“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”
Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”
Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.
John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.
But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”
You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.
You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.
Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.
You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.
“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”
John scoffed, “A while?”
You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped.
“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”
John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”
Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."
Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.
You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”
John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.
Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.
“How did you meet?”
“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”
“Does he ever actually smile?”
At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”
John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”
You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”
And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.
You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.
Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.
“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.
Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”
John choked.
Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”
Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.
For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.
And then, without thinking, you leaned in.
It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.
Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.
John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.
You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.
“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.
Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”
You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.
“Off,” you said simply.
Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.
Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.
John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.
You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.
“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.
Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”
And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.
The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.
A ring.
A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.
She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.
That’s why he always played with it.
Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.
Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.
-end.
Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.
izzy806
ellievsbear
