The theatre glowed at the end of the street, warm against the cool evening air.
Bucky slowed slightly as he approached it, eyes lifting automatically toward the marquee overhead.
Project Hail Mary.
Still playing.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
A week ago, he hadn't known her.
Now he was standing outside a theatre waiting to watch a movie with her for the second time.
After Michael, they'd ended up talking long enough for the staff to begin cleaning around them.
The conversation had drifted naturally.
And somewhere in the middle of it, Y/N had mentioned Project Hail Mary.
"I loved that movie."
The sincerity in her voice had caught his attention immediately.
"Me too."
That had made her look over.
A small smile appeared.
Most people would've left the conversation there.
Bucky hadn't.
"What did you like about it?"
Then she'd started talking about it properly.
Not just whether it was good.
Everything.
She talked about movies like she experienced them completely.
Like she stepped inside them while watching.
"I think I want to watch it again," he admitted at one point.
"Then why don't you?"
Bucky shrugged.
"I've never really done that before."
That seemed to genuinely surprise her.
"I've watched it twice already."
He remembered blinking at her.
Not because he thought it was weird.
Because he liked how comfortable she sounded saying it.
Like she loved something and saw no reason to hide it.
But underneath it, he noticed something else too.
A tiny hesitation after the words left her mouth.
Like experience had taught her that most people didn't quite get it.
Why would you watch the same movie twice?
But he didn't think it was strange at all.
The way she spoke about movies made him understand why she would.
He'd just smiled and said,
"Maybe I should too."
He still remembered the way her expression softened afterward.
Then before he could talk himself out of it—
"I know you've watched it twice already, but..."
The words seemed to come out faster after that.
"Would you want to join for a third time?"
Y/N looked at him for a second without answering.
Because truthfully—
she usually preferred watching movies alone.
Always had.
Movies were hers.
Her thing.
She liked arriving early enough to settle properly into her seat before the trailers started. Liked the quiet hum of the theatre before the lights dimmed. Liked disappearing into her own head while the world softened around the edges for a few hours.
And somehow, most people pulled her out of it.
They watched movies superficially.
Like something to consume instead of experience.
They missed details she carried around for days afterward. Talked during scenes that mattered. Missed the references she loved most. Sometimes it felt like the conversation afterward was more about having seen the movie than the movie itself.
A photo for social media.
A quick rating.
Then onto the next thing.
It always left her feeling strangely disconnected from them afterward.
Like she'd watched an entirely different movie than everyone else in the room.
So eventually, cinema had become something she kept mostly to herself.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
And people usually looked at her strangely for it.
But Bucky hadn't.
Not once.
And somehow, the idea of sitting beside him in a dark theatre didn't feel disruptive the way it usually did with other people.
It felt... easy.
Companionable.
Like he'd fit naturally into the experience instead of pulling her out of it.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Well," she said lightly, "third time's the charm, so yeah."
He'd spent the entire walk home afterwards surprised by how much he was looking forward to it.
Apparently, he still was.
A week later, he stood near the concession stand, fingers curled loosely around the folded notes in his hand.
He'd made sure to stop at an ATM beforehand.
Because while he technically had a bank card now, he still didn't entirely trust himself with it.
Or understand it.
People moved through the queue quickly around him, tapping phones and cards against machines without even looking.
Too fast.
Too automatic.
He watched the motions carefully, trying to piece together how any of it worked.
"Hey."
He glanced up immediately.
Y/N stepped beside him, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
His mouth twitched upward before he could stop it.
"Hey."
"You're early."
"So are you."
A small chuckle escaped her.
She nodded toward the menu overhead.
"Come on."
They shuffled forward with the queue.
By the time they reached the counter, she had already decided exactly what she wanted.
"Large popcorn. Cherry Coke."
The cashier nodded.
"And for you, sir?"
Bucky glanced up at the menu.
"Just the popcorn."
The cashier tapped the screen.
The total appeared.
She reached for her phone to pay for both of them.
Bucky reached for the notes in his hand.
He won.
The money landed on the counter before she could unlock her screen.
Y/N blinked.
"Bucky."
The cashier handed over the change.
He accepted it before turning back to her.
"Hm?"
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
"I could've paid."
He tucked the change into his pocket.
"I know."
Y/N tilted her head slightly.
Bucky's expression remained entirely innocent.
"Wanted to buy you popcorn."
A small smile found its way onto her face despite herself.
"Thank you."
He smiled.
"You're welcome."
The cashier set the tubs on the counter.
Fresh popcorn and melted butter filled the air.
He collected both tubs.
The cashier handed over the Cherry Coke.
Y/N took it and pushed a straw through the lid.
Posters for upcoming releases lined the walls as they made their way toward their screen.
She pulled her phone from her pocket as they reached the entrance.
A member of staff scanned the tickets on her phone before waving them through.
Bucky followed her into the auditorium.
When they reached their row, his eyebrows lifted slightly.
"These are good seats."
A corner of her mouth curved.
"I know."
Dead centre.
Far enough back to see the whole screen comfortably.
Close enough to feel immersed.
He looked around once before nodding.
"You put research into this?"
"Of course I did."
Like there could possibly be another way to choose cinema seats.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I like it."
The lights hadn't dimmed yet.
People were still filtering into the rows around them.
She sat down and slid the Cherry Coke into the cup holder beside her seat.
Bucky lowered himself into the seat next to hers, handing her one of the tubs of popcorn while balancing the other on his knee.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket.
And produced a small fold of notes.
Holding them out toward her.
Y/N stared.
"What's that?"
"Ticket money."
She blinked.
"What?"
"For the tickets."
He held the cash out.
Completely serious.
Like this had been on his mind the entire evening.
Y/N looked at the money.
Then at him.
Like the cash wasn't the strange part of this situation.
But what he was doing with it.
"Bucky."
"Yeah?"
"I was never going to charge you for the tickets."
A pause.
"Why not?"
The genuine confusion in his voice nearly made her laugh.
"Because we're watching a movie, Bucky."
"But I invited you. You came."
Y/N stared at him for a second.
"Yeah, it doesn't mean you need to pay me for it."
"Plus you got me popcorn."
He gave her a look.
"Y/N."
"It's popcorn."
She grinned.
"A large popcorn."
He shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him.
"That doesn't make it better."
Y/N tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth.
"I think you'll find it makes it significantly better."
Then she turned her attention back to the screen.
He watched her for a moment before facing forward again.
A few pieces of popcorn later—
"The first time I watched Project Hail Mary..."
Bucky glanced over.
Y/N's eyes remained fixed on the screen.
"The moment Grace looked through the Petrovascope."
"And saw the astrophage covering Adrian."
A small smile touched her mouth.
"The whole screen filled up with it."
"I remember thinking it was beautiful."
"I closed my eyes for a second."
"Then opened them again."
The smile lingered.
"And it was still there."
Y/N shrugged slightly.
"It felt like one of those moments."
"What moments?"
She tilted her head.
"The kind that feel too wonderful to be real."
The smile on her face softened.
"Like Grace said."
"Having a moment."
Bucky found himself smiling too.
The lights dimmed.
The trailers rolled.
Y/N was already completely focused.
Like the film had started twenty minutes ago.
He shook his head faintly.
He wouldn't have expected anything less.
Studio logos gave way to darkness.
Bright lights strobed across the screen.
Grace woke.
Confused.
The story moved quickly after that.
At some point, Bucky realised he was eating the popcorn more quietly than usual.
Every rustle softer.
Every bite quieter.
Not for himself.
For her.
Y/N was completely absorbed in the movie beside him.
He wasn't about to interrupt that.
Then—
The gravity shut off.
Grace let out a startled scream as he clung to the seat.
The pitch alone was enough to make Y/N laugh.
Just one genuine burst of amusement.
He glanced sideways.
The light from the screen caught her face for a second.
She was grinning.
Actually grinning.
As if she'd been waiting for that exact moment.
His mouth twitched.
The movie continued.
The Hail Mary drifted through space.
Then Rocky entered the story.
And things only got better.
Grace moved his ship.
Rocky's ship followed.
Grace moved it again.
Rocky's ship followed again.
Like two neighbours having an argument through a fence.
He laughed.
The corner of Y/N's mouth curved slightly.
A little later, Grace spent several minutes putting on the full EVA suit.
Checks.
Harnesses.
Seals.
The preparation seemed endless.
Finally—
Grace popped his head outside.
"No."
And immediately disappeared back inside.
Y/N laughed.
There it was again.
He shook his head.
Still smiling.
At one point Grace attempted to catch the blip Rocky threw.
Missed.
Tried again.
Missed again.
Finally caught it.
Victory lasted approximately half a second before he immediately lost his balance and crashed to the floor.
He laughed outright.
There it was again.
Y/N fought a smile.
Failed completely.
Then came the glass-like barrier.
Grace pressed a hand against it.
Rocky moved on the other side.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Grace watched him.
Confused.
Rocky tapped again.
Grace tapped back.
Rocky repeated the motion.
Grace nodded slowly.
"You like tapping, huh?"
Another series of taps.
"Bum bum bum bum bum."
"This is fun."
The tapping intensified on both sides.
Grace frowned.
"Oh."
The realisation hit.
"You pointing."
A beat.
"You're not tapping. Sorry."
Rocky pointed.
Y/N immediately dissolved into laughter.
And so did Bucky.
It was ridiculously simple.
The movie rolled on.
Equations.
Experiments.
Bucky knew every solution before it happened.
Every joke before it landed.
It didn't matter.
He was still having fun.
The science was fascinating.
And Rocky was still Rocky.
Adrian appeared.
Green.
Endlessly swirling against the darkness.
Grace activated the Petrovascope.
Then—
Red consumed the green.
Countless points of light drifted in every direction.
The screen seemed impossibly full.
Bucky stared.
Then closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Opened them again.
And it was still there.
Vast.
Endless.
Beautiful.
Then Rocky spoke.
"What is Grace doing?"
"Question."
Grace kept his eyes closed.
A beat.
"Having a moment."
A small smile tugged at Bucky's mouth.
The movie continued.
Grace returned to the Hail Mary.
For a moment, everything seemed fine.
Then—
Alarms.
Warnings.
More alarms.
Grace hit his head.
Hard.
And didn't move.
Rocky stepped out of the sphere.
Dragged him to the medical bay.
One step at a time.
Grace woke.
Slowly.
Unsteadily.
Confused.
Black fluid streaked the floor.
A trail.
Grace followed it.
Step by step.
Through the Hail Mary.
Until it led him to the sphere.
Rocky was inside.
Grace stopped.
Rocky barely moved.
Bucky felt his heart sink.
Grace sat beside the sphere.
Time passed.
Then—
Rocky moved.
Barely.
But he moved.
Bucky hadn't realised how tense he'd become until the relief hit.
Grace wrapped his arms around the sphere.
Rocky thumped himself gently against the glass in return.
Laughter found its way back aboard the Hail Mary.
Rocky and Grace celebrated their victory together.
The scene changed.
Once again, Grace and Rocky stood separated by the glass wall of Rocky's ship.
Grace smiled.
"Well..."
He let out a small breath.
"This is goodbye."
Rocky tilted himself.
"I don't understand word."
Grace smiled sadly.
"See you later."
"But I won't see you later."
"...I know."
Grace looked at him.
"How do you say goodbye back home?"
Rocky was quiet for a moment.
"We don't."
He lifted one of his arms.
Slowly, he drew the tips of one set of claws along the length of the other.
"We do this."
Grace watched the movement.
Then copied it.
The movie continued.
Grace found a new home on Erid.
Rocky remained by his side.
Grace became a teacher once again.
A cave filled with young Eridians.
He asked,
"Who can tell me the speed of light?"
The music swelled.
The words Project Hail Mary appeared in colour.
The screen faded to black.
The credits began to roll.
Bucky turned his head towards Y/N.
She was still watching the screen.
A moment later, she turned towards him.
She smiled.
"So?"
He smiled back.
"I think I'd watch it again."
Y/N let out a soft laugh.
"Now you get it."
They stayed where they were.
Their gaze drifted back to the screen.
Around them, people slowly filtered out of the theatre.
After a while, Bucky said,
"You know what I think was one of the boldest choices they made?"
"What?"
"Grace wasn't a stereotypical hero."
Y/N nodded once.
She didn't interrupt.
"He never had a dramatic change of heart."
"No last-minute sacrifice."
"Instead, he was sent on the mission."
"He spent most of the movie wishing he wasn't there."
She thought about it.
When she spoke, her voice was soft.
"He was brave."
"Not because he wanted to be."
"But because, once he was there..."
"...he just kept going."
"Even when he didn't think he could."
A faint smile touched her face.
"He wasn't trying to be a hero."
"That's what made him one."
He was quiet for a moment.
"It made him feel real."
The credits continued to roll.
He brushed the last of the popcorn crumbs from his gloves before resting his hands in his lap.
She leaned back in her seat.
"You know another reason I love it?"
"Hmm?"
"It never tried to force a romance."
Bucky nodded.
"I liked that too."
After a moment, he added,
"Nobody was trying to kill each other every five minutes either."
"Not once."
She took the last sip of her Cherry Coke.
"The film just stood on its own."
Still sunken into his seat, he turned his head towards her.
He smiled.
"Just... Rocky. Grace. Save stars."
Y/N let out a quiet chuckle before turning her head towards him.
"Exactly."
Eventually, they stood.
The theatre was almost empty by the time they stepped out into the corridor.
Posters for upcoming releases stretched along the walls.
He wandered beside her, reading each one as they passed.
Then—
She slowed.
Her eyes lingered on one poster a little longer than the others.
Bright red and blue.
Spider-Man: Brand New Day.
He noticed the small smile that appeared on her face.
"You looking forward to that one?"
She nodded.
"Yeah."
A quiet kind of excitement settled into her voice.
"I've been waiting for it."
They continued down the corridor.
She stopped.
He turned back.
She glanced back at the poster.
Then at him.
She had never invited anyone to the cinema before.
Not because she'd had no one to ask.
Because she'd never wanted to.
Until now.
"If..."
She paused.
"If you're free..."
"Would you want to come see it?"
For a moment, Bucky looked at her.
The question caught him completely off guard.
It was such a small thing.
And yet—
No one had ever asked him to simply come along before.
Just...
Because they wanted him there.
"Yeah."
His eyes lit up.
"Of course."
"Whenever you want."
His grin was impossible to hide.
"I mean—"
"Course I do."
Y/N laughed.
"Bucky."
He stopped immediately.
His ears had started turning pink.
"...I'd really like that."
Something in her expression softened.
"Okay."
They walked a few more steps.
Then—
"I'm not exactly used to this."
Y/N glanced over at him.
"To what?"
"...People."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Going places."
Bucky waited.
For the inevitable "why?"
The question never came.
Instead, she smiled.
"You know what Rocky would say?"
He looked at her.
"What?"
"You're brave."
Bucky blinked.
"For trying."
The answer was so immediate.
So matter-of-fact.
As though she hadn't said anything unusual at all.
Beside him, she kept walking.
A small smile found its way onto his face despite himself.
Brave.
For trying.
He liked that.
They made their way down the stairs.
Then—
Something bright flickered across her face.
"I want to show you something."
She pulled her phone from her pocket.
The screen lit up.
Green.
Adrian swirled against the darkness of space.
Grace floated before it.
Bucky stared.
The smile on her face only grew.
Then she unlocked it.
The image shifted.
Red.
Bright red astrophage stretched across the screen.
The Petrovascope scene.
He looked from the phone to her and back again.
His eyes widened slightly.
"You can do that?"
Y/N nodded immediately.
"Yeah."
"You can set different ones for the lock screen and home screen."
He considered this with surprising seriousness.
"Can you... show me how to?"
The corner of her mouth twitched upwards.
"Sure."
Bucky reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
He lifted it towards his face.
The screen did not unlock.
He adjusted the angle slightly.
A moment later, the passcode keypad appeared instead.
His gloved fingers moved across the display.
Beside him, Y/N looked elsewhere.
Only once the phone unlocked did she look back.
Bucky stared down at the home screen.
His thumb hovered uncertainly over it.
Somewhere in there had to be wallpaper settings.
Probably.
Maybe.
After a moment, Y/N spoke.
"I can do it for you if you want."
He looked up.
He held the phone out towards her.
She took it carefully.
"Okay."
She held up her own phone beside it.
"First we need the pictures."
A second later, his phone buzzed.
Incoming AirDrop:
Adrian.jpg
Astrophage.jpg
She opened the settings app.
"Then this bit."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Wallpaper."
"Wallpaper," she confirmed.
A few taps later, Adrian filled his lock screen.
Green clouds swirled across the display.
Another tap.
Red astrophage flooded the home screen.
"All done."
She locked the phone.
Then held it up towards him.
The padlock opened.
Green.
Bucky swiped upwards.
Red.
His eyes brightened slightly.
Y/N handed the phone back to him.
He locked it.
Then immediately lifted it towards his face again.
Nothing.
He adjusted the angle slightly.
Green.
He swiped upwards.
Red.
Locked it again.
Unlocked it again.
Green.
Red.
"...Thank you."
Y/N smiled.
"You're welcome."
By the time they stepped outside, the evening had settled properly over the street.
They lingered near the entrance.
Y/N adjusted her grip on her bag.
He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets.
Neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave.
"I had a really nice time tonight."
Her expression softened.
"Me too."
Eventually, she glanced down the street.
"I should probably head home."
He nodded once.
A beat.
"...I'll see you at Spider-Man."
She chuckled softly.
"Looking forward to it."
She lifted a hand in farewell before turning away.
"Bye, Bucky."
"Bye."
She'd only taken a few steps when—
"Y/N."
She looked back.
Bucky lifted one gloved hand.
Slowly, he drew his fingers along the length of the other.
Recognition spread immediately across her face.
A moment later, her smile appeared.
She lifted one hand and copied the gesture back.
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
With that, she turned and continued down the street.
"The subject will be left disoriented, without internal reference points for judgement or self-perception."
"Preventing reconstitution of his identity."
A final pause.
"Enabling reconstruction under our control."
Voices began overlapping around the table.
Pages turning.
Pens moving.
"Maternal death in childhood. Subject demonstrated early assumption of familial responsibility."
"Paternal military deployment resulted in prolonged absence. Documented shell shock during periods of return from active duty, during which the subject frequently assumed a stabilising role."
A brief pause.
"Paternal death confirmed. Bombing of military encampment."
"Subject subsequently functioned as sole parental figure for younger dependent sibling."
Another voice continued evenly.
"Subject demonstrated multilingual proficiency and high academic capability."
"Education discontinued to provide financial support for sibling."
Another page turned.
"Sibling location—currently unknown."
Silence.
The lead resumed.
"Familial attachments are no longer viable points of leverage."
A beat.
"The passage of time has substantially weakened prior emotional attachments."
Pages shifted.
Another voice followed.
"Subject drafted at age twenty-three."
"Rapid progression to rank of sergeant."
"Displaysaccelerated skill acquisition, high strategic aptitude, leadership stability, and strong unit loyalty."
"Of particular relevance, reports indicate subject repeatedly joined frontline engagement alongside lower-ranking soldiers rather than remaining in rear command positions."
The lead drew the conclusion without hesitation.
"Protector role appears foundational to subject identity across stages of development."
A pause.
"Extend analysis into civilian interpersonal history."
Another voice emerged across the table.
"Subject maintained social engagement when circumstances permitted."
"Multiple peer relationships documented. None initially appeared emotionally significant."
The cadence sharpened.
"However."
A page turned.
"Profile indicates one persistent interpersonal constant."
"A singular peer."
"Established in childhood."
"Maintained through adulthood."
"Consistent across all stages of development."
The final page.
"Rogers, Steven."
Silence followed.
The lead extended a hand.
The file was passed to him immediately.
He flipped it open.
His eyes moved once across the first page.
A photograph.
Steve smiling brightly in his Captain America uniform.
Bucky beside him—
head lowered, laughing at something he'd said.
Brotherly.
The lead turned through the reports in silence.
The faintest shift crossed his expression.
Then the file snapped shut.
"Bring me the newspaper archive dated March 21st, 1945."
The feed switched.
The timestamp advanced one day.
The neural chamber.
Different chair.
Different layout.
Same purpose.
Bucky sat restrained at the centre beneath the rigs.
His hair had grown longer.
Uneven at the edges.
A rough beard shadowed his jaw.
The hospital gown had been replaced.
Grey institutional garments.
Faded.
Uneven at the shoulder where the missing limb ended beneath the fabric.
The bruising beneath his collar had faded into yellowed remnants.
The newer injuries had not.
Raw indentations marked the skin where the clamps had locked into place.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Dried blood remained caught near his hairline.
Around him, the chamber moved with routine efficiency.
Chapter 17 - Who's Afraid of Little Old Me? (Part 1)
Content warning: Themes of trauma and emotional distress.
Arnim Zola.
White coat immaculate, posture rigid—he stood beside a drafting table covered in anatomical and neurological schematics.
A map of Europe loomed behind him, red pins clustered across its surface.
Zola adjusted his glasses and faced the camera.
"Winter Soldier Program."
"Phase One. Subject acquisition."
The image shifted—grainy footage now, taken from above.
A convoy in the snow.
Soldiers herded from transport trucks at gunpoint.
Familiar uniforms.
The 107th.
Zola's voice continued.
"The capture of the 107th Infantry Regiment provides a sufficient population sample for subject selection."
The footage showed them—exhausted, wounded, still standing together.
Some supported others by the arm.
One laughed at something only they could hear.
Steve's jaw tightened.
The image cut abruptly.
Zola stepped back into frame.
"Model projections indicate subjects below optimal maturity demonstrate psychological instability under conditioning, resulting in unpredictable outcomes."
A diagram replaced him—layers of the brain illuminated in white, then red, before fracture lines splintered across the structure.
"Conversely, subjects of advanced age exhibit diminished physiological adaptability to serum administration, resulting in immediate fatality."
The display shifted.
A single silhouette illuminating in red.
Over-reinforced.
Unable to accommodate the strain.
"Inappropriate subject selection yields systemic failure across conditioning and enhancement protocols."
The view shifted—iron bars cutting across the frame.
A cell.
Small.
Concrete.
A single light flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows across the walls.
A figure sat on the narrow cot.
Still.
Shoulders squared despite the space.
Zola's voice continued.
"One subject, however, demonstrated optimal compatibility."
The camera pushed in.
Bucky's face filled the screen.
Steve's breath caught.
He was younger than he remembered—face leaner, eyes sharper, still holding that unmistakable Brooklyn stubbornness.
Dirt and dried blood streaked his uniform.
His hands rested on his knees.
His eyes tracked movement just beyond the frame.
Not afraid.
Just alert.
"This subject's developmental stage falls within a narrow convergence window—where psychological stability and physiological adaptability remain in equilibrium."
The image transitioned.
Zola stepped back into view, gesturing to a new projection—two data curves converging.
For a moment, the lines held.
Perfectly aligned.
Then the footage shifted.
Bucky was being led down a corridor now—hands cuffed.
The walls were lined with iron-barred cells.
Men from his regiment crowded the bars at the sight of him.
Someone called his name.
Someone else panicked—surging forward, fingers clawing through the gaps.
A guard lifted his baton.
"Hey—no."
Bucky twisted hard against his handlers, boots skidding on concrete.
"Don't. They're scared. That's all."
The baton came down anyway.
Bucky forced himself into the line of the blow.
The baton struck him.
The feed cut to static.
Steve didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
His hand trembled where it rested against the console, fingers digging into the metal.
Y/N reached out slowly and placed her hand over his.
He didn't pull away.
The tape spun on for several seconds.
The screen flickered back to life.
Y/N felt something cold settle in her chest—not surprise, not shock.
Recognition.
Metal restraints.
Four of them.
Bucky was strapped to a table now.
Not struggling.
Not sedated.
Just watching.
His eyes tracked the ceiling.
"Subject secured."
"Vital signs stable."
"Localised blunt-force trauma to the abdomen sustained during intake. Non-critical."
A brief pause.
"Subject 002 — James Buchanan Barnes — cleared for serum administration."
A gloved hand entered the frame, syringe already filled.
Large.
Clear.
Filled with something that caught the light too sharply to be water.
Bucky froze.
Just for a second.
His gaze locked onto it.
His breath stuttered.
Then he tried to move.
The restraints rattled—metal biting into him as his shoulders strained against the table.
"No, no—wait—"
He strained again, voice rising.
"I don't know what that is! You can't—please—! Hey—HEY—"
The syringe needle disappeared into him.
Bucky jerked hard against the restraints.
A sound tore out of him.
His back arched, muscles locking.
His breath broke—sharp, uncontrolled.
Steve felt it in his own chest.
The burn.
The way the serum hit all at once, like fire spreading through bone.
He remembered a voice—
Are you all right? Do you want us to stop?
He had been asked.
"Stop—!"
Bucky cried out.
No one answered.
You don't have to do this, Erskine had said.
You can step out.
He had been given time.
A choice.
A door he could have walked away from.
Bucky had never been given the chance to stand.
No choice to step inside that lab.
He was held down.
And then—
The screams only intensified.
Until it was all Steve could hear.
Then it wasn't.
Bucky went slack against the restraints.
His chest rose and fell unevenly.
Sweat darkened the fabric at his collar.
The restraints creaked faintly with each breath, metal answering muscle.
Hands moved in and out of frame.
Sensors pressed into place. Instruments adjusted.
Numbers murmured—recorded, dismissed.
He didn't wake.
"Vital signs stabilising. Serum integration is progressing within acceptable parameters."
The faint sound of a pen moving.
"The compound is a controlled refinement of Erskine's original serum. Unlike the original, it produces no visible alteration. Enhancement is contained entirely at the cellular level."
"Subject awareness of enhanced capabilities conferred by the serum prior to neural compliance presents a containment risk."
A brief pause.
"Subject to be transferred to isolation holding with no environmental reference points to prevent orientation."
Steve's stomach dropped.
They're not letting him know.
Know how strong he is.
Know he could fight back.
"Electroconvulsive dissociation protocols will be initiated upon awakening."
A final pause.
"To ensure compliance is established before the subject associates strength with self."
Guards moved back into the frame, armed.
The restraints were unlatched.
Bucky's body sagged as they rolled him onto a narrow transfer gurney, his head tipping loose at the neck.
Fresh restraints snapped into place—wrists, ankles, chest.
A guard nudged his jaw straight with the end of a baton.
The head restraint locked down.
He stirred weakly, a low sound slipping out of him, but no one paused.
No one looked at his face.
The feed followed as they wheeled him out through a different door.
The white, clinical walls gave way to darker steel.
Each checkpoint they passed through sealed behind them with a heavier sound than the last.
They rolled the gurney into an unmarked elevator.
Zola stepped in last.
The elevator doors remained open.
He removed two keys from separate coat pockets.
He inserted them into the control panel.
Both keys turned simultaneously.
Several locks disengaged somewhere deep within the shaft.
Two labelled buttons illuminated.
ISOLATION CHAMBER
NEURAL CHAMBER
Zola selected the first.
The doors sealed.
The elevator began to descend.
When the doors opened again, the space beyond looked different.
Wrong.
A long, narrow corridor carved from reinforced concrete and steel.
No windows.
No color.
No visible staff stations.
The sound of the gurney wheels echoed.
They came to a stop at the only door at the end of the corridor.
Solid steel.
Zola stepped forward.
Another key disappeared into the lock.
The mechanism disengaged with a heavy clunk.
The door was dragged open.
Steel groaned against steel.
Inside—
Bare.
No bed.
No furniture.
No windows.
Just concrete walls.
A grated floor drain in the centre.
A single light, dim and unblinking.
And a camera lens embedded in the ceiling corner.
They wheeled Bucky in.
Transferred him off the gurney.
Set him down on the cold floor like cargo.
A guard nudged his shoulder with a boot, rolling him onto his side.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
They backed out.
The door was pulled shut.
The angle shifted.
Overhead now.
The timestamp advanced.
Minutes into hours.
Then Bucky stirred.
At first, it was just a twitch in his fingers.
A shallow breath hitched in his chest as his brow creased faintly.
A low groan slipped past his lips.
His eyes opened slowly.
He didn't move at first.
Only his gaze did—drifting across the bare walls.
He swallowed.
Then—slowly, like his arm weighed more than it should—
he lifted one hand.
It came up.
Too fast. Too smooth.
Y/N noticed it at the same time Steve did.
The speed.
Bucky didn't react to it.
When he shifted, his shirt rode up slightly.
The bruise on his abdomen was almost gone—purple draining into yellow.
He lay there a moment longer.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright.
He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
His shoulders rose and fell unevenly.
He tried to stand.
His legs wobbled under him.
He caught himself on the wall.
It made a deeper thud than it should have.
He frowned at the sound.
Then his gaze found the sealed door across the room.
He took a few steps toward it.
The door opened before he reached it.
Light from the corridor spilled into the room.
He flinched, lifting a hand to shield his eyes.
Six guards stepped in.
Armed.
He froze, his hand still raised in front of his face.
A shock prod hit his side.
His body jolted.
He stumbled a step sideways, fighting to stay upright.
Another strike hit his shoulder.
Then his back.
None of them laid a hand on him.
Only the prod.
They kept their distance.
Y/N noticed it immediately.
They weren't afraid of him.
They were afraid he'd realise what he could do.
Zola's earlier protocol had worked.
No reference points.
No orientation.
Bucky didn't understand what was happening.
They just kept prodding him toward the open door.
He staggered with each step—flinching every time it struck.
He didn't fight back.
He just moved when they hurt him.
The angle shifted, tracking him as they led him down the corridor.
The elevator waited at the end.
Zola stood outside, hands folded behind his back, watching.
Their eyes met.
Bucky held the look a second longer than he should have.
The guards pushed him inside and closed ranks around him.
Only then did Zola move.
He stepped into the elevator last, unhurried.
The doors slid shut.
Zola turned both keys again.
The buttons illuminated.
ISOLATION HOLDING.
NEURAL CHAMBER.
This time, he selected the latter.
The elevator began to descend.
Further.
Bucky bent forward, one hand bracing weakly against his thigh.
He stayed there a moment—grip tightening—
then vomited, standing hunched over, breath tearing out of him.
The movie theatre was full—alive, loud, buzzing with anticipation.
Y/N slipped into her seat with a quiet exhale, curling into her hoodie, settling in like she had been looking forward to this all day.
Because she had.
She always did.
This was her favourite place to be.
Not the noise, not the crowd—but this. Sitting in the middle of it all, unseen, unbothered. No expectations. No conversations to carry. Just music, a screen, and a few hours where the world felt… lighter.
A moment later, someone stepped into the row.
She shifted her knees slightly to let him pass.
“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low—like it wasn’t used much.
He took the seat beside her.
That was all.
The lights dimmed fully, and the screen came alive.
Introductions flickered past—
then—
Michael.
Gold against black.
The story began.
And the room followed.
It didn’t take long before the music filled the theatre—not just heard, but felt.
Familiar, even to those who hadn’t grown up with it. The kind of sound that carried memory in its rhythm.
The first few songs passed with quiet appreciation. A few murmurs, a few smiles scattered through the audience.
Then the sharp, unmistakable opening of Beat It cut through the theatre.
Something shifted.
It wasn’t just the nostalgia. The energy lifted with it. People straightened in their seats, someone behind them let out a small, delighted laugh.
Y/N felt it before she thought about it.
Her foot began tapping lightly against the floor, keeping time without asking permission. It was absent-minded, instinctive—like her body recognised the rhythm before she did.
Beside her, Bucky noticed.
Not in an obvious way. He wasn’t watching her, not directly. But he was aware of the movement—the rhythm in it, steady, familiar in a way that made it easy to follow.
His hand rested on his knee, fingers still. For a moment, he stayed that way—quiet, contained, the way he always was.
But the beat carried on, and her foot never faltered.
And slowly, almost cautiously, his heel shifted.
Just once at first. A light tap, barely there.
Then again.
It wasn’t quite in sync, not perfectly—but close enough that, if someone had been paying attention, they might have thought they were following the same rhythm.
He didn’t look at her.
But something inside him loosened, just a little.
By the time Thriller began, the theatre had changed.
People were caught in it now—laughter slipping through the rows, a shared anticipation building as everyone knew what was coming and was ready to enjoy it anyway.
Y/N shifted in her seat, a quiet excitement lighting up in her. Her foot never stopped keeping time, and as the song picked up, that ease carried through her—the movement spreading, her shoulders shifting subtly, her head nodding along, like the rhythm had settled into her completely.
He felt it too.
Not as something he had to follow.
Just… there.
At some point, his foot had found the same steady pace, the movement easier than before, like the hesitation had slipped somewhere between one beat and the next.
It didn’t feel unfamiliar anymore.
When Billie Jean settled into the room, the energy drew in.
The bassline ran low and steady through the theatre, threading through the space until it felt less like sound and more like something you could feel under your skin.
People grew quieter—not silent, just attentive in a different way. Heads nodding, shoulders moving slightly, like everyone had found the same pulse.
Y/N’s foot never stopped, but it changed—more certain now, each tap falling in time with the beat.
Then Michael slipped into it—the moonwalk.
Beside him, a small sound escaped—a soft, surprised breath, almost a gasp of recognition. It wasn’t loud, not meant to be heard, but Bucky caught it without trying.
The theatre reacted a second later—cheers breaking out, applause rising around them.
This time, he turned his head, just slightly.
She was smiling—bright, immediate, like the moment had reached her before she could think.
He watched for a second longer than he meant to.
Then looked back at the screen.
Not because he had to.
Just because he’d seen enough to understand it.
And somehow, without quite realising when it happened, it made it easier to let himself feel it too.
Lighter.
The shift into Human Nature came gently, like the room itself was exhaling.
It found Y/N in her chest first—her heartbeat softening, her smile with it. The movement followed, a slow sway easing into her before she realised it.
It reached him more slowly—his fingers uncurling where they’d been resting.
Something in it settling into him.
A small smile finding its way.
As the chorus reached, someone started singing almost immediately, like they didn’t realise they had, the words slipping in with the music.
Another voice joined, then another, until the theatre filled with a quiet, uneven hum of voices.
Y/N felt it there, the words just behind her lips, held for a moment—
then slipping out.
Soft. Almost breath.
Bucky heard it.
Something in him stirred—warm, unfamiliar.
Gentler than he was used to.
He didn’t understand it.
Only that it was there.
Tell them that it’s human nature…
The words settled in behind it—
and it was enough.
The song kept unfolding.
Reaching out to touch a stranger…
Electric eyes are everywhere...
The awareness of her beside him drew closer.
See that girl, she knows I’m watching…
He turned before he thought about it.
She didn’t notice at first.
Just kept singing, soft, unthinking.
Then—
something shifted.
Her voice caught just slightly as she glanced toward him.
A small smile followed—quick, a little shy—before her gaze slipped back to the screen.
He followed a beat later.
And then—
he realised.
Her voice had slipped into quiet.
the smile still lingering—
a faint flush at her cheeks.
A flicker crossed his face—
almost a mirror of it.
This time, when the next line came—
his voice followed.
Low at first, just a part of it.
A beat later—
hers joined again.
Soft, blending into his.
Like it had always been there.
She slowed, just slightly—
a small turn of her head,
almost shy—
toward him.
He felt it before he saw it—
and followed,
just as quietly.
Why? (Why?) Why? (Why?) Does he do me that way?
Her smile deepened—
her gaze dropping briefly to her hands in her lap—
just for a moment—
then she turned the rest of the way.
He was already looking.
Smiling.
The song carried on around them—
and when the next line came,
their voices slipped in together this time,
not louder,
not different—
just… shared.
I like livin’ this way…
By the time the final sequence began, the theatre felt different again.
Looser. Louder. Livelier.
The opening beats of Bad were met with immediate recognition—cheers, laughter, people clapping before the rhythm had even fully settled.
Y/N laughed softly, the sound almost lost in the noise, and brought her hands together in a tentative clap, finding the beat as it built.
Bucky watched her for a second.
Then he followed.
His claps were quieter at first, slightly out of step, but they found their place quickly enough.
Around them, the theatre grew louder—people singing without restraint now, some standing, some dancing in their rows.
Y/N sat with her leg bouncing faster now,
like the rhythm had settled too deep to stay still.
He caught the way she pressed her lips together briefly—
like she was physically holding herself back from moving more.
She looked seconds away from getting to her feet entirely.
He found himself quietly hoping she would.
The chorus approached, the music building in that unmistakable way that had the theatre erupting before it even hit.
Y/N glanced sideways.
He met her gaze immediately this time, like he had been expecting it.
There was a question there.
Not spoken. Not even formed yet.
Just—
are we doing this?
Her smile answered first.
And then they were both standing.
When the chorus hit, they joined in—voices not the loudest, movements a little uncertain at first.
But freer.
With each beat, it became easier.
Their dancing never became good.
Just louder.
At some point, Y/N bumped into him during an overenthusiastic turn and nearly apologised—
only to stop when she saw him laughing.
She giggled under her breath when Bucky missed the timing to a line,
only for him to get the next one louder out of spite.
She nearly missed hers laughing back.
Somewhere in the middle of it—
they stopped paying attention to who might be watching.
When the song ended, the energy didn’t drop all at once.
Laughter still lingered through the theatre as people settled back into their seats, talking over each other, still caught somewhere in the excitement of it.
Y/N sat first, still slightly breathless, pushing a loose strand of hair back from her face.
The kitchen smelled like... burning plastic and something vaguely floral.
Which was strange, because no one was cooking.
Bucky hunched over the counter, eyebrows knitted together in intense concentration. A silicone mould sat in front of him, filled with a half-set layer of clear resin. His right hand was holding a tweezer—very, very delicately—while his vibranium fingers hovered near a small glass jar of pressed hydrangea petals.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath. "Gotta set it right. Not lopsided. She'll think I rushed it if it's lopsided—"
He paused, eyes narrowing as a petal drifted off-center in the resin.
"Traitor."
He poked it back with the tweezer. It wobbled slightly, then settled.
The kitchen door opened behind him, and Steve walked in first with Sam right behind — both stopping mid-step.
"What... the hell?" Sam said, squinting like he was seeing a wild animal doing taxes.
Steve blinked slowly. "Buck, are you... making jewellery?"
He tensed, like a kid caught with glitter glue. He didn't turn around. "No."
Sam took two steps closer. "Are those... flower petals?"
"Still no," Bucky said flatly.
Steve peered over his shoulder. "Is that resin?"
Bucky sighed. "Okay—yes—but shut up. It's a surprise."
Sam leaned in, smirking. "Is this for Y/N?"
His ears went pink. He glanced down and nodded, a small, guilty smile flickering.
"Oh my God," Sam whispered, delighted. "You're making her a flower pendant like a lovesick raccoon with a craft kit."
Bucky shot him a look. "It's a keychain."
Steve raised a brow, fighting a smile. "Buck, where'd you even learn how to do this—the internet?"
"Shuri," he said, a little sheepish. "She gave me a crash course and a warning not to mess it up or I'd glue my fingers together. Again."
Sam chuckled, clearly entertained. "Please tell me there's glitter involved."
Bucky squinted at him. "I will launch you into traffic."
Steve leaned down, the smile in his voice clear. "It's really nice, Buck. Seriously."
Sam nodded, grinning. "Yeah. She's gonna love it, man."
"I pressed the hydrangea petals myself."
His smile twitched, almost shy.
"I'm gonna ask her to move in with me."
The teasing stopped for a second. Sam and Steve exchanged a glance—equal parts surprised and touched.
Steve's smile deepened. "She's gonna say yes, Buck. You know that, right?"
He nodded, gaze soft — like he could already picture her holding it.
Sam tilted his head, leaning an elbow on the counter. "So, who's moving into whose place, huh?"
Bucky shrugged, eyes still on the mould. "If she wants my place, it's hers. If she wants me in hers, I'll pack tomorrow."
"Wherever she feels more at home. I just want her comfortable."
Sam cleared his throat. "Okay, I take it back. That's disgustingly sweet."
Then, with zero remorse, he added, "But I'm still telling her you used tweezers like a grandma scrapbooking."
"Out," Bucky said, pointing at the door with the tweezers still in hand.
"We're going." Steve raised his hands in surrender. "Just remember to ventilate next time, or Tony's gonna think someone melted the floor."
As they left, Sam called over his shoulder, "Hey, Cap—what do you think the odds are that he added their initials?"
Steve didn't miss a beat. "Fifty-fifty. But I'll bet you five bucks he asks her over a candlelit dinner."
Behind them, Bucky groaned and muttered, "It's a surprise, damn it."
The kitchen went quiet once the door shut.
For a second, he just stood there, staring down at the resin mould like it might move again out of spite.
The petals had finally settled.
Right in the center.
Suspended soft and purple in the clear resin like they'd been caught mid-fall.
Perfect.
His shoulders loosened.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay. That's good."
Carefully, he lifted the mould and headed down the hall toward his room, keeping it level like it might spill.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder and set it on the windowsill where the light was better.
Adjusting it a fraction of an inch.
Then another.
Then nodding to himself like that half-millimetre mattered.
It did.
It was hers.
He lingered a second longer than he needed to.
Then he headed back to the kitchen, cleaning up as he went — rinsed the cup, wiped the counter, lined the tools back where they belonged.
By the time he was done, the place looked untouched.
He grabbed the dish towel, dried his hands, and leaned back against the counter for a second, mentally ticking through the rest of the day.
Next up.
Yori.
The old man's wallet had slipped into his bag when they'd met yesterday — must've fallen out when he paid.
He had spotted it this morning while emptying everything out.
Recognised it immediately — Yori's.
He'd checked inside for a number to call.
No ID either. No address to drop it off.
Just cash and a couple old receipts.
So he planned to go find Yori in Brooklyn.
Stop at that little restaurant the old man liked — the one he'd taken them to.
Place smelled like soy sauce and fried garlic.
Yori had said he ate there most days.
If he made it by noon, he'd probably find him tucked in his usual booth.
Drop it off. Say hi. Make sure he was doing okay.
Have lunch with him again — if he was up for company.
Treat him this time.
He reached for the jacket draped over the chair.
Something dusted onto his fingers.
Crumbs.
Buttery. Cinnamon. Apple.
The bakery.
They'd gone before sunrise — standing in line outside their usual little place, for the first apple pies to come out of the oven.Breath fogging in the cold.
She'd started shivering beside him, hoodie zipped up to her chin.
His jacket was already sliding off his shoulders, thumbs smoothing the collar — and warmth settled around him instead.
Smaller. Softer.
Her hoodie.
He blinked at her, "Was gonna put mine over yours, doll."
"Then you'll be cold," she'd said, already tugging it tighter around him like that settled the matter.
He huffed a quiet laugh and slipped his jacket over her shoulders anyway, then just pulled her in — arms around her, chin tucked over her head — letting her steal the heat straight from him.
She'd hummed like that solved everything.
It had.
They'd walked back slow after, the sky barely awake — pale gold creeping between the buildings, the street still quiet except for the occasional delivery truck rattling past.
Her hand stayed tucked into his, fingers laced through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Cinnamon and butter still lingered faintly on their breath.
Somewhere halfway down the block, he'd nudged her shoulder.
"Found Yori's wallet in my bag this morning," he'd said. "Must've slipped in when he paid yesterday."
She'd looked up at him immediately — soft, concerned, the way she always did.
"He's probably worried."
"Yeah."
He'd squeezed her hand. "Figured I'd head to Brooklyn around noon. Catch him at that restaurant he likes. Give it back."
She studied his face for a second. "You okay going back by yourself?"
Then, as if rearranging her day for him wasn't a big deal —
"You want me to take an early leave?" she added, like she didn't quite trust the city not to swallow him whole.
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm good, doll. Promise. Just lunch with an old man."
She squeezed his hand once, then gave him a small smile.
"Tell Yori I said hi."
She leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Have a good day, okay?"
His mouth twitched, soft.
"Always do," he murmured.
The compound doors sighed open as they stepped inside. Their conversation never quite stopped — just softened into low murmurs.
The kitchen was empty — everyone else already scattered into their own mornings.
She slid his jacket off and draped it over the chair. The cold lasted barely a second before he tucked her hoodie back around her shoulders, the fabric still warm from him.
He eased her hands into the sleeves like it was second nature, then leaned in from behind and pressed a quiet kiss to her cheek.
"What time you off today?" he murmured.
"Around six," she smiled. "Unless Tony blows something up."
He huffed a laugh against her temple.
"I'll cook tonight."
She tipped her head back to look at him.
"You sure you're not gonna be tired after?"
He shrugged, easy.
"I like cooking for you. Means you get to come home and just... be."
She rested her head lightly against him.
"Okay," she murmured.
"But," she added, poking his chest lightly, "I'm doing the dishes."
"Doll."
"Buck."
He held out for all of three seconds before sighing dramatically.
"Fine. You can do the dishes."
They both knew he was lying.
She smiled anyway.
For a second he just stood, the jacket still in his hand.
Then the day caught up with him.
He shrugged the jacket back on and pushed off the counter, crossing to the drawer by the stove, pulling it open. Pens, rubber bands, old takeout menus.
He found the small notepad buried underneath everything and clicked a pen until it worked.
Leaning back against the counter, he started writing.
He tapped the pen once against the paper, thinking through the recipe the way he always did — steps lining up neat in his head.
Chocolate. Butter. Eggs. Flour.
If he timed it right, dessert would still be warm when she got back.
He read the list over once more.
Shampoo.
He'd noticed hers running low last time he stayed over.
He added it without thinking — the honeycomb one she liked.
Conditioner too. Just in case.
Shelf space.
Their bottles lined up together.
Two mugs on the bedside table instead of one.
Her books slowly taking over every flat surface.
That henley she kept stealing.
Her socks somehow mixed in with his laundry, like they'd just decided to live there.
His mouth twitched, soft and helpless.
Yeah.
He could get used to that.
He folded the paper once, slid it into his pocket, and grabbed his keys and backpack on the way out.
The door shut quietly behind him.
Gravel crunched under their shoes as they rounded the bend of the trail, morning air sharp in their lungs.
"—I'm serious, man," Sam said between breaths, shaking his head. "I'll never get used to seeing him do arts and crafts. Next thing you know, he's gonna be running a Pinterest board."
Steve huffed out a laugh. "Wouldn't put it past him."
They jogged past the tree line, the path widening into open ground and climbing gradually. Far off through the branches, the compound came into view ahead.
Their pace eased into a walk.
Sam glanced over.
"Man... he looks different, huh?"
Steve hummed.
"Yeah."
He could still picture it —
Bucky hunched over the counter, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Careful. Gentle. Handling flower petals like they were glass.
Domestic.
Soft.
Safe.
Not scanning exits.
Not braced for a fight.
Not waiting for orders.
Just... living.
Steve's smile softened without him meaning to.
"Looks right on him." he murmured.
Sam bumped his shoulder lightly against Steve's.
They walked a few more paces, watching the compound in the distance, sunlight catching the windows.
Sam lingered a second, then nodded his chin down a path.
"Found this trail a few days ago — goes way past the ridge. Been meaning to try it. You coming?"
Steve hesitated.
The smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time.
"Next time," he said. "Got some paperwork to finish up."
Sam held his gaze a moment longer.
"Man, you and that paperwork. One day you're gonna file yourself into retirement."
The corner of Steve's mouth twitched. "Yeah. Maybe."
Sam clapped his shoulder once, then jogged off down the trail.
He stayed where he was, listening until the sound of Sam's footsteps faded.
The quiet that followed felt heavier than it should've.
He exhaled slowly and turned toward the compound, bright steel catching the sunlight through the trees ahead.
As he approached, the front doors sighed open.
Inside, the halls were mostly empty, everyone already settled into their routines.
He passed the kitchen — empty and spotless — and continued down the hall, rounding a corner and then another before the stairwell door appeared in shadow.
He pushed it open.
Cooler air met him immediately. He drew the door shut behind him, steadying it with his palm until the latch caught.
He descended one flight after another until the stairwell opened into the basement corridor.
He stood there a moment before crossing to the archive door. His steps carried softly in the enclosed space. He took hold of the handle and pressed it down.
The door eased inward.
Shelves lined the room, stacked with boxes and old files. The air carried the dry scent of paper. At the back, concealed well enough to escape notice, sat the red box he'd buried there himself.
For a long second, he just stood there.
Then he crossed the room.
He pulled the box free and lowered himself to the floor, back against the shelves, out of sight from the doorway. The box rested against his knees.
His hands weren't steady.
Upstairs, the lab glowed with half-finished projects and Tony's fourth cup of coffee.
"Okay," Tony said, squinting at the screen like the fate of the world depended on it. "You've got one that's perfect — Practical Engineering Fundamentals. Evening class, no prerequisites, minimal risk of explosions. It's like shop class, but with fewer sparks and better supervision."
Y/N didn’t look up from the laptop she’d commandeered. “He likes fixing things. I thought… maybe he could start with something he’d actually enjoy. This would be fun.”
Tony snorted. "Fun? You're enrolling a century-old super soldier for community college."
Y/N hid a smile. "He's good with his hands."
Tony raised a brow, half a grin tugging at his mouth. "Oh, I bet he is—"
"Tony."
"Right, right. Strictly academic." He leaned over her shoulder, reading the page. "So what name did you go with — an alias, or the real thing?"
She looked up, warmth flickering in her eyes. "James Buchanan Barnes."
Tony nodded, a hint of respectsoftening his grin.
Then he squinted at the screen.
"You haven't confirmed the enrolment."
Her fingers rested lightly against the desk.
“No.”
He glanced at her. "Why?"
She looked back at the course page.
"I want to ask him first."
Tony's expression shifted — not teasing now, just curious.
"If he wants it, I'll confirm it. If he doesn't, that's fine too."
A small breath left her.
"It's his choice."
Something flickered in Tony's eyes at that — recognition.
He leaned back against the counter.
"Okay," he said after a beat. "Walk me through what you've locked in."
Y/N didn't miss a step.
"Materials confirmed. Flexible start window. Small class size. Coursework-based grading. Extensions if he needs them. Optional one-to-one support. No automatic charge until final authorisation."
Tony's brow lifted slightly.
"You're alarmingly efficient when you're being sentimental."
She huffed a small laugh.
"Just planning ahead."
Tony's gaze flicked back to the laptop.
The final review page sat complete — every field filled, the Confirm Enrolment button waiting.
A corner of his mouth tipped upward
"You know, it's a good move." He nudged her shoulder lightly. "Guy deserves to learn for himself this time."
She nodded.
"Yeah."
Tony watched her for a moment, then straightened, that familiar spark returning to his eyes.
"Speaking of academics... there's something I want to show you."
Y/N glanced up, puzzled.
He just smirked and flicked his chin toward the back of the lab.
"C'mon, Doc."
They passed a stretch of cluttered benches and holographic screens before stopping at a white wall lined with framed certificates and awards — every plaque stamped Stark or Banner.
But one section had been cleared — a precise gap in an otherwise perfect grid.
Y/N tilted her head.
"That wasn't empty before."
Tony stuffed his hands into his pockets, aiming for nonchalance.
"That space is for you."
Her brows lifted. "For me?"
He nodded toward the wall.
"Well, it's not exactly fair, is it? We've got our overachievers display up here, and yours are boxed in storage."
He shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal.
"Was restoring the Hydra playback system we recovered. Needed some extra material to run diagnostics. It's operational now."
A beat.
"Found your paperwork while I was at it. They're in absurdly good condition. Figured they deserve better lighting."
Y/N let out a quiet breath.
"You're really going to hang my hundred-year-old paperwork up here?"
"Damn right," Tony said. "And your graduation photo. I'm framing that one personally."
He pointed to the top corner of the wall — a framed photo of him at MIT, twenty-something and smug, next to Bruce's more modest graduation portrait.
Y/N blinked, a little caught off guard.
"I don't have one."
Tony frowned. "What do you mean, you don't have one? There's got to be one in a box somewhere. The archive’s basically a time capsule."
"Never took one," she said quietly.
His expression shifted. "Why not?"
She held his gaze for a second, then looked back at the wall.
"I didn't go to graduation," she admitted. "It didn't feel like it was for me. I picked up my degree after it was over."
Tony was quiet for a second.
"You should've had more than that."
A small shake of his head.
"We'll fix it."
She blinked. "Fix it?"
He was already crossing to the setup at the bench.
"You're getting one," he said. "White coat. We'll allow a small smirk. Banner and I can photobomb, if it helps the aesthetic."
He glanced at her.
"Doesn't matter when you earned it. It still counts."
A beat.
"You don't get to disappear on your own milestone."
She looked at him like she wasn't entirely sure what to do with that.
"You're impossible."
Tony grinned. "And you're getting a wall, Doc. Non-negotiable."
He glanced back at her over his shoulder while fiddling with the settings.
"Although, if you're camera shy, Barnes has an entire folder of your pictures on his phone. Not one damn selfie of himself, but about a hundred of you. We can pull one from there — add the regalia."
Y/N blinked, laughing. "How do you even know that?"
Tony grinned, utterly unbothered. "Please. His password's your name."
She bit back a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He'd told her once, shyly. Hearing it still made her blush.
Tony raised a brow, smirk twitching. "At least it's better than Rogers' password."
She blinked. "Which is?"
Tony smirked. "Password."
Y/N laughed, shaking her head. "You're making that up."
"Am I?" he said, grinning like a man who absolutely wasn't.
She was still smiling when he turned back to the workbench and reached for a slim case tucked neatly beside the console
"There we go."
He held up a small photo, its surface glinting faintly under the light.
"Did a little restoration magic. Nano-preservation film — self-healing, UV-shielded, oxygen-sealed. That picture's not aging another day."
Y/N blinked, caught between disbelief and laughter.
"Is that—"
"Yup," Tony said as he walked over. "The picture that turned the team into a daycare committee and Barnes into sentimental soup."
Y/N's smile lingered a second longer — then softened.
She reached for it, the sight of the familiar creased edges pulling a quiet breath from her.
"The one we found in the archive room," she said. "You saved it."
"Couldn't have it falling apart on my watch, now could I?"
He said it like it was nothing — like saving century-old memories was just another Tuesday.
Her fingers brushed over the surface, smooth now where it had once been cracked and yellowed. The little girl in the photograph stared out, solemn-eyed and small — caught in a moment that had never been kind to her.
Her chest tightened.
She thought of the Polaroid from last night — laughter, arms thrown over shoulders, Bucky's smile easy beside hers. The contrast almost hurt. One frozen in loneliness; the other alive in light. A future the quiet child in her hands could never have guessed was waiting.
"Hey." Tony's voice was softer than usual. "You okay?"
She nodded.
"... I spent so long trying to be smaller."
Her gaze softened on the image in her hand.
"I wish I could tell her she didn't have to do that. It gets better."
Silence settled between them.
Tony didn't answer right away.
He looked at the photo in her hands — then at her.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
He stepped back, arms folding, his gaze going distant in that familiar way it did when the gears started turning.
"Huh," he murmured. "Not impossible."
Y/N looked up at him. "What?"
"Well, we can't exactly build a time machine for inner-child therapy—though we could probably come close."
Her brows furrowed.
"Think about it," he said, and she heard the shift. "You've been mapping trauma responses for years. We could use that — build a neural sandbox — something immersive — where the user steps into the memory itself."
"Cognitive immersion," she said. "Your mind becomes the terrain."
He nodded. "Exactly. You walk through it — and your memories build the rooms around you."
Something in her expression shifted. "A virtual Shame Room."
Tony's grin flickered. "That's the pitch deck, right there. You just saved me a PowerPoint."
She let out a quiet laugh.
Tony nudged her lightly with his elbow. "L/N-Stark prototype. Patent pending."
The moment barely lasted.
Then — ping.
Another.
By the fifth, he sighed and fished out his phone. "Oh, perfect. One hundred and one messages. Popularity's exhausting."
He squinted at the screen. "Huh. Turns out I'm supposed to give a talk with Banner. In five minutes. Oops."
"Go."
"But—"
"Tony."
"Fine." He sighed, grabbing his coat and sliding his Stark glasses into place.
He pointed at her with a grin as he headed for the door. "How come you never get roped into these things?"
She gave a small shrug. "Public speaking isn't really my thing."
He scoffed. "And it's mine?"
"Please. You love the applause."
"You make a disturbingly fair point." He gave her a two-fingered salute before stepping out.
Y/N rolled her eyes, watching him go.
Once the door hissed shut behind him, the lab felt quieter — the air settling where his energy had been.
She stood there for a moment before returning to her seat.
The photo went beside her laptop.
She took a slow sip of coffee, gaze sharpening as the concept arranged itself in her head.
The cup clicked softly against the bench.
Then she rose and headed for the stairs.
The air grew cooler as she descended.
The archive room stretched out in rows of shelves and stacked boxes.
She slipped between them, her footsteps soft against the concrete.
"Certificates..." she murmured under her breath.
She pulled a box forward and worked through it, then another, fingers moving faster with each pass.
"Come on..."
She crouched to check beneath the low shelf, reaching further back where things tended to slip out of sight.
Her hand paused on a heavier folder tucked beneath the shelf.
She tugged it free, dust puffing lightly into the air.
"Aha. Got you."
She flipped the folder open and checked the first page.
Satisfied, she straightened — and something pale caught her eye between the shelves.
The scuffed edge of a Converse sneaker.
Steve's.
She frowned faintly and moved down the aisle, confusion settling in.
When she reached the end, he was sitting on the floor with his back to her, a red box in his hands.
He didn't seem to hear her. Didn't turn. Didn't blink.
Didn't even seem to breathe.
Just stared at the box — eyes distant, like he was trapped somewhere only he could see.
"Steve?"
He blinked, like he'd just remembered where he was.
"Are you okay?"
He inhaled sharply, pushing to his feet. "Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," he said, the words coming too fast, too practiced.
When he saw who it was — and where her eyes had gone — his hand twitched around the box.
Her brows furrowed. "What's that?
Steve froze. "It's—"
Then, with all the subtlety of a man caught off guard, he moved it behind his back.
His jaw flexed. "It's nothing."
Y/N raised a brow. "You realise saying 'it's nothing' makes it sound exactly like something, right?"
That pulled a reluctant smile from him. "Old habits."
"You want to try again?" she said, tilting her head slightly.
He sighed through his nose, eyes dropping. "Just—something I was meant to deal with."
Then quieter, "It is not your burden."
She held his gaze. He lasted a moment before exhaling.
The box came forward, his fingers trembling faintly.
Her eyes dropped to the label.
L/N, Y/N
THE BEGINNING AFTER THE END
BARNES, JAMES B.
A quiet breath left her.
When she looked back up, the air between them felt heavier.
"It's not yours either."
He shifted, thumb rubbing the edge of the box. "I wasn't— I didn't mean to keep it from anyone," he said quietly. "I just figured... maybe if I dealt with what was inside... it was safer. For you. For him. For everyone."
Her brow furrowed.
"When did you find it, Steve?"
"The day everyone gathered down here," he said after a pause. "Found it buried near the back."
"Did you open it?"
He drew in a slow breath. "No." A beat. "I've reached for it more times than I should've." He shook his head once. "Guess part of me doesn't want to know what's waiting in there."
He glanced down at the box again, thumb tracing the seam. "But with Hydra... their secrets only get worse the longer they stay buried."
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Y/N reached out, steady now, her thumbs pressing against the names — hers and Bucky's — cut into the metal with the same cold exactness Hydra used on everything they owned.
"I'm afraid of what's inside too," she said softly. "But the past only keeps its power when you let it."
A faint crease formed between his brows, but he didn't pull away.
"And someone once told me you shouldn't carry it alone anymore."
"So how about we don't?"
For a heartbeat, he searched her face.
Then he drew in a slow breath and nodded. "Alright," he said quietly. "We open it together."
Her fingers lingered on the cold metal a moment longer before she let go.
He cleared a space on the shelf and set the box down.
For a second, neither of them moved.
His fingers rested on the latch.
A breath.
Then he lifted it.
The hinge gave a quiet, resistant groan as the lid opened.
Inside, black satin lined the box — immaculate. Clinical. Too precise to be comforting.
Two circular hollows were cut into the padding.
One held a metal film reel, edges clean, the label still sharp despite the years.
Stamped across the center:
BARNES, JAMES B. — THE WINTER SOLDIER.
The other space was empty — a pale ring in the satin where its twin once rested.
Steve said nothing.
Y/N reached out, tracing the perfect circle of the hollow.
"This shape," she whispered. "The tape from the Hydra vault. The one with my name. It fits."
Her hand drifted to the other reel — the one stamped with Bucky's name. The metal was cold beneath her fingertips.
"Then this one..." she said quietly. "This is his."
Silence.
Steve drew in a slow breath.
Something hollow had settled behind his eyes. His fingers flexed once at his side.
When he spoke, it was barely above a breath.
"I need to see it."
This time, it wasn't Captain America speaking. It was a man who'd already lost too much.
"Steve..."
He looked at her — grief tightening behind his eyes, old and unspent.
"I have to see it for myself," he said. "What they did to him."
Even after the words faded, she could still see it.
The years pressed behind his eyes, the loyalty that never learned how to stop. It wasn't curiosity driving him — it was love, guilt, and something she recognised too well: the need to know the shape of the wound.
She didn't look away.
"Tony's been repairing the Hydra playback system," she said. "The one that had my tape. It's functional now. We can use it. It's upstairs — in the diagnostics lab."
Steve didn't speak at first — just pressed his palm against the lid of the box, steadying himself.
When he looked up again, something resolute had settled behind his eyes.
"Where is everyone right now?"
Y/N glanced at her watch.
"It's past noon. Bucky had to drop something back to a friend — so he should be in Brooklyn now."
"Tony left a few minutes ago — he's meeting Bruce at a science convention."
Steve nodded once.
"Sam headed out for a long run — he won't be back anytime soon. And Clint and Nat are still away."
Her eyes met his again, steady despite everything.
"It's just us, Steve."
Steve nodded once. Then he reached for the box.
They left the archive room without another word.
The door creaked shut behind them, the sound carrying too far in the hollow corridor as they climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing through the upper levels of the compound.
Y/N paused at the lab entrance, glancing both ways to be sure. Steve mirrored the motion beside her.
Then she stepped closer to the panel mounted beside the door. The scanner flickered to life, pale blue light washing over her features as the facial recognition matched.
The lock disengaged with a soft hiss and they stepped inside.
The lab lights were dim, cold white washing over steel and glass.
FRIDAY lowered the brightness automatically, sensing the shift in their vitals.
The equipment they salvaged from the Hydra vault lay arranged on a central table, stripped of rust and rewired with Stark tech.
Old metal. New power.
Y/N approached the console first. Her fingers hovered briefly before she pressed the power switch.
The machine hummed, the sound too familiar: low, rising, metallic.
Steve stepped beside her, close enough that she could feel the tension in his posture.
He opened the box without setting it down.
Y/N lifted the reel carefully — Bucky's name stamped into the cold metal — and set it into the cradle. Her hands were steady, though her pulse wasn't.
"It'll start as soon as it stabilises," she murmured.
Steve nodded, eyes locked on the screen.
"Alright," he said softly.
The console beeped once — sharp, clinical.
The tape began to spin.
The screen flickered.
HYDRA INTERNAL RECORDING SESSION
DATE: 1943
THE WINTER SOLDIER PROGRAM
INITIATION LOG: PHASE I
SUBJECT: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES
Static streaked across the screen once, then settled into a black-and-white image.
A few weeks had passed since Y/N's world had gone dim—and bit by bit, the light had started to slip back in.
But right now, the air in the briefing room carried the kind of gravity usually reserved for global crises, as Tony, Sam, Bruce, Natasha, and Clint sat braced for Steve's word.
Steve lowered his eyes to the notepad, jaw tight, posture soldier-straight.
When he looked up, his voice carried the weight of a mission order.
"Balloons?"
"Check," Tony said without missing a beat.
"Cake?"
"Extra frosting," Sam grinned. "Check."
"Gifts?"
"Hidden and stacked," Natasha said, a faint glint in her eyes. "Check."
"Music?"
Clint pointed at himself. "Already queued. Check."
"Candles?"
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Check. And before anyone asks—no, not the kind that shoot sparks."
Steve gave a firm nod, tapping his pen against the page like he was logging mission notes.
"Dinner's my assignment," he said, far too earnest for party planning.
Then a small, fond smile broke through.
"We're officially greenlit for Bucky's birthday."
A soft hum of approval circled the table — then Tony leaned back with a raised brow. "And what about our planner-in-chief?"
Steve's smile tugged faintly wider.
"Y/N's got point. She'll keep him clear of the compound until go-time."
Sam leaned back in his chair.
"You sure Barnes won't get suspicious with the whole team being 'busy' on his birthday — even if he doesn't make a big deal out of it?"
Steve's mouth twitched, but his voice stayed steady.
"He won't. I told him the press locked us into a full-day interview, gave him the choice to skip, and he took it — gladly."
Tony let out a low whistle.
"Good call. Nothing says 'happy birthday' like eight hours of canned questions and bad lighting."
Steve only shook his head, already sliding back into planning mode.
"We just need to stay completely off his radar until he's off the grounds," he said, steady as ever.
Bruce adjusted his glasses.
"How long until that happens?"
"Thirty minutes," Steve replied, closing his notepad with the kind of quiet finality that usually came before an op. "Then we get to work."
The team nodded in unison.
For once, their orders weren't for battle — they were for their friend.
Bucky blinked awake to pale light seeping in through the blinds. His arm stretched across the sheets, expecting warmth — but instead his fingers brushed soft cotton. Wolfie sat tucked neatly in her place, swallowed up in Y/N's hoodie, the hood pulled up like a makeshift disguise.
His brow furrowed, then softened. A quiet huff of laughter slipped out — trust her to think of something like that.
Then came the sound. A little giggle. Low. Stifled. From behind him.
He turned, slow, cautious until he found her — perched on the other side of the bed, cross-legged, one hand tucked behind her back. A smile pulled at her lips, all sunlight and secrets.
"Happy birthday, Buck," she said softly.
For a second, he just stared — like his mind couldn't quite catch up to the fact it was for him.
Warmth curled through his ribs before he could stop it, startling in its gentleness, until all he could do was let gravity pull him toward her.
He settled his head in her lap with a breath that came out softer than he meant.
Her hand moved without thinking, fingers slipping into his hair, slow and careful, like she was reminding him he deserved to be held gently.
His breathing slowed to match the softness of her hand.
She felt him settle against her, the calm of it softening her smile as she leaned down, brushing a kiss to his cheek.
“Don’t you want to see your gift?” she whispered, her voice a murmur against his skin.
A faint smile curved against her tummy as he shifted, arms slipping around her waist. He nuzzled into her like he meant to stay there forever.
"I love it, doll," he murmured, the words rumbling low with sleep.
Her laugh came out small, catching on her breath as her cheeks warmed. "Buck... I didn't mean me," she said, voice dipping somewhere between shy and teasing.
His eyes blinked open, sleep-soft blue finding her already watching him.
She dipped down and kissed him — soft, shy, a brush of lips that tasted like a smile.
He blinked slowly, like he was still choosing between holding her or breathing.
Her hand slipped from behind her back, revealing the gift.
His gaze caught on it, wonder threading through the sleep-haze.
The paper was soft blue, ribbon darker — the bow slightly crooked where her hands must've fussed over it, careful in that way only she ever was.
He blinked, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory, then slowly pushed himself upright. He settled cross-legged across from her, their knees brushing gently, the sheets bunched between them.
His metal thumb brushed along the ribbon once, and it gave way beneath his touch. The paper crinkled softly as he peeled it back. He caught a glimpse of fabric — pale blue, patterned with tiny bunnies — and for a second his hands stilled.
The breath left him slow. The world seemed to narrow to the print in front of him, the memory it tugged loose.
Nights from another life, when his ma tucked him in with a kiss to his hair and the scent of laundry soap still clung to the fabric.
He could almost hear Becca's giggle, see her tugging at the ears on his sleeve, saying he looked ridiculous.
Back then, ridiculous had felt safe.
He swallowed, rough in his throat, and drew the pyjamas out with careful fingers, as if they might vanish if he wasn't gentle enough. The softness of the cotton against his fingers was almost too much, like holding a piece of childhood he'd long thought gone.
His fingers tightened faintly on the fabric, as though he needed to be sure it was real.
A shaky breath slipped out of him.
"My ma made me bunny PJs like this when I was..." His voice trailed, rough and thin.
"Eight," Y/N finished softly.
His gaze lifted to her, soft and shining, like she'd just reached straight into the memory with him.
He still had the pyjamas gripped in one hand when he pulled her in, arms folding tight around her like he'd forgotten how to let go. She landed in his lap, the soft bundle pinned between them as his face pressed into her neck.
"Doll..." His voice caught, soft and certain."I love it."
Her arms came around him, holding him just as tightly. She pressed a kiss into his hair, her voice soft with a smile."I'm glad."
He stayed quiet for a long moment, like he was trying to fold the feeling away somewhere safe.
Then his breath stirred warm against her hair, a hint of wonder laced through his words.
"How'd you pull this off, sweetheart?"
Her voice came quiet against his shoulder, almost shy.
"It was the first thing you ever told me about your ma."
She stayed curled in his arms as she went on, her thumb brushing absently over his back.
"You said she made them when you were eight. You even drew the bunnies, remember? I... kept it."
His mouth curved faint against her skin, like the shy beginning of a smile he thought he'd outgrown.
A small, breathy laugh slipped out of her, warm against his neck.
“I found a seamstress who does custom work, searched for a blue like the one you told me about, and—” her cheeks flushed as she nudged the pyjamas still clutched in his hand, “—showed her your drawing."
He went still, like he was trying to catch up to everything she'd just said. Then his gaze found her, soft and a little dazed, like she was something he wasn't sure he deserved to be looking at.
One hand rose to sweep her hair gently from her eyes, lingering just a heartbeat longer than needed. "Doll... you're too good to me."
Her finger tapped his nose, her grin soft and a little mischievous.
"Even trade, Buck."
A crooked grin tugged at his lips, soft and smitten, brushing close against hers.
"Gotta admit, doll... first time in a long time I'm excited to hit the pillow," he murmured, the words spilling right into the kiss.
He drew back with a soft laugh, still close enough that his nose bumped hers. "And it ain't just the bunnies."
Then he toppled back onto the mattress, dragging her with him until she collapsed in a fit of giggles, her laughter muffled against his chest.
She let her laughter fade into a grin, propping her chin on his chest.
She nudged his jaw with her nose, eyes sparkling.
"So, birthday boy... you planning to spend all day in bunny pyjamas, or can I talk you into letting me steal you away for a few hours?"
He let out a low chuckle, kissing the top of her head.
"Steal me away, huh? Where are you takin' me?"
She traced idle circles on his chest, her voice soft.
"Well... you started talking about wanting to go back a little while ago. Just when you were ready... everything else got in the way."
Her eyes lifted to his, tender, the hint of a smile curving her lips.
"So I thought today, of all days..."
A beat.
“Brooklyn.”
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"Brooklyn, huh?"
"Only if you're still ready."
"I am," he murmured, thumb brushing over her hand.
After a moment, he asked, "But what about that press gig the others got saddled with? You're not going?"
She shook her head gently.
"They'll survive without me. It's not my world."
He exhaled, a soft laugh escaping.
"Lucky me. Means I get you to myself."
Her heart gave a small, ridiculous flutter. Lucky him. Like he had no idea what saying things like that did to her.
She cleared her throat, trying to will her voice steady as her eyes caught the clock on the wall. Oh. Right. The team. Waiting.
She sighed, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone before slipping off the bed. "Alright, Barnes," she murmured, tone mock-stern, "shower, get dressed, and meet me at the front door."
He blinked up at her, slow and lazy, like his brain hadn't quite caught up.
"And don't be late," she added with a grin.
"Mm," he hummed, not moving an inch.
She laughed under her breath, pulling the door open. "Thirty minutes, birthday boy. Tops."
After she slipped from the room, Bucky flopped back onto the pillows, his gaze lingering on the door, his chest aching in the best way.
He looked like a man caught in a dream he didn't want to wake from.
The shower hissed off, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.
The mirror was fogged over when he stepped out, but his own shape waited on the other side — broad, steady, whole, alive.
He stood there for a moment, towel slung around his hips, palms pressed to the counter.
This was the part that always caught him off guard.
Looking at himself and not seeing a weapon.
Just... a man.
A man who had someone waiting for him by the front door.
His mouth tugged into a crooked grin before he could stop it.
A man who was loved — and letting himself be.
And about to let himself be stolen away — unarmed, and fine with it.
He pulled on his favourites — dark denim, a navy henley in his shade of blue, leather jacket creasing over his shoulders like an old friend. The familiar weight of his dog tag settled against his chest.
For a beat, he just stared. The reflection smiled back.
Guess you made it, Buck, he thought, the words strange and warm in his head, and maybe for the first time... he believed it.
And with that, he slung his old, well-worn backpack over one shoulder, and stepped out to meet the day — and the woman who was waiting for him.
The compound was oddly quiet as he headed out, his boots echoing softly down the corridor.
A little too—
And then he saw her.
Waiting by the main doors.
Jeans, sneakers, and that strawberry-covered sweater he could never quite take seriously — and could never stop smiling at.
She was watching the morning light spill across the floor, hands tucked into her pockets.
Too damn adorable for his heart to handle.
"You wearin' that to tempt me, doll?" he said, voice low and warm as he walked toward her. "'Cause I swear, you look sweeter than every strawberry on it."
"James," she breathed, cheeks warming as the word slipped out softer than she meant. Her heart was doing somersaults — and judging by his grin, he knew it.
"Just saying."
She shook her head, still pink and still smiling — then froze, eyes flicking past his shoulder.
Sam and Tony were wrangling a massive balloon—ARCH?!—through the side corridor, both of them bickering under their breath. A cluster of balloons broke free, bobbing chaotically into the air as Tony hissed, "Grab them, grab them, grab them—"
Sam lunged. Missed. Swore.
Steve and Clint darted in from opposite ends like covert agents, snagging rogue balloons mid-bounce as if they were live grenades. One skittered across the floor and Clint dove after it, sprawling with theatrical desperation.
A muffled thump echoed.
Bucky's brow knit and he started to glance back—
But she caught his jacket collar and pulled him down into a kiss.
Sure, sudden — and yeah, he was a goner.
By the time his brain rebooted, she was smiling, and the last of the balloons had been smuggled away like nothing had happened.
The morning air was cool as they headed out, fingers laced loosely between them.
"Driving," she said as they reached the car, already fishing the keys from her pocket.
"Wouldn't dream of arguing," he chuckled, already circling to the passenger side.
He didn't mind. Riding shotgun with her had quietly become his favourite seat.
He slid into the passenger seat, the cushions sun-warmed, the leather creaking softly as he set his bag on the floor.
She reached into the backseat and pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper.
"For you," she murmured, passing it to him before starting the car.
He peeled the paper back carefully, the faint warmth of it seeping into his palms.
Inside: his favourites. Ham and cheese toast, cut in tidy halves, crusts gone.
He then noticed his black metal tumbler sat waiting in the holder, a swirl of steam fogging the inside of the lid. Chocolate and vanilla curled through the air, warm and sweet.
He looked at her.
She caught his glance and smiled faintly.
"Can't have my birthday boy hungry now, can I?"
He smiled, the kind that came slow, like he’d never quite get used to her looking after him this way.
The city had fallen away behind them, replaced by soft green blur.
He sat back, elbow hooked on the door, cocoa still warm in his chest.
"You okay?" she asked gently, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"Yeah," he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. "Just... feels good, bein' here."
She glanced at him, smiling like she'd just seen something she'd been hoping for.
Like she knew what it meant, hearing him say that.
The quiet held.
And in it, a memory rose.
"My folks used to take us outta the city sometimes," he said after a moment, eyes half-lidded on the passing green.
"Pa'd strap me and Becca in the back like we'd fly off through the roof. Ma'd start singing. He'd try to join in — never got a single word right... and she'd laugh like she hadn't heard it all a hundred times before."
The memory lingered, then slipped away like light through leaves.
He blinked, the sound of the road slipping back in, and reached for the dial. Soft piano filled the car — familiar, aching, warm.
She recognised it after a beat. "All of Me."
Peter had played it for them once, all proud and grinning.
He let it play for a few bars, eyes on the passing blur of green.
Then, barely above the hum of the tires, he murmured —
"'...love... your curves...'"
"'...and all... your perfect... imperfections...'"
The next line wavered, and he cast her a quick, almost shy glance — and she was smiling.
"'...you're my end and my beginning...'" she sang gently, like she'd been waiting to catch him.
He huffed a laugh, shy and soft, and let his voice slip back in.
The car filled with mismatched harmony, laughter between the lines.
And somewhere in the harmony, he swore he heard it —
his ma singing true, his pa singing wrong,
and now... him, somehow carrying it forward.
The song faded, leaving only the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the tires beneath them.
Then the skyline rose ahead.
Brooklyn.
Something in his chest pulled tight — not pain, not quite — just... remembering how to breathe here.
They rolled in slow, past brick and stone worn soft by years, fire escapes clinging to old bones, laundry lines swaying like small flags of ordinary life.
The car eased to a stop.
Bucky stayed still for a long moment, fingers loose on his knees, eyes on the street outside.
Then he pushed the door open.
Cool air slid in, laced with salt and old asphalt.
His boots hit the pavement.
A ghost of roasting chestnuts drifted up from nowhere — a flicker of winter evenings, Becca's mittened hand tugging his.
A trolley bell clanged in his memory though none passed by now.
Her hand slipped into his.
Her thumb brushed his knuckles once — quiet encouragement, nothing more.
It was enough.
He looked at her.
Nodded.
Then they started walking.
At first, it was just streets.
Brick and shadow.
Too much change to hold on to.
Then—
A faded green awning on a corner store.
He slowed, his eyes catching on it.
"...used to buy penny candy there," he murmured.
"Becca'd save hers. I'd finish mine before we got home."
The blur of new glass and chrome thinned, and pieces he remembered began to surface.
A dry cleaner with a cracked bell still hanging above the door.
"Pa hated that bell. Used to smack it every time it stuck."
A faint grin tugged at his mouth, and his shoulders eased a little.
Every few steps, something else came back.
A crooked railing on a front stoop.
"Snapped one like that when I was nine. Thought I was Popeye."
Her eyes flicked to him — warm, patient — just letting him go.
And then he really did.
Words started spilling out in quiet bursts between steps, pieces of old Brooklyn sparking loose as he saw them.
A corner barbershop. A brick wall where he and Steve once chalked their names.
The street where he broke his first pair of shoes running races with the older kids.
Then the smell hit him — roasted peanuts from a small cart tucked by the curb.
"Hold up," he said suddenly, and she blinked as he cut toward it.
Two minutes later they were walking again, paper cones in hand, steam curling from the warm nuts.
"Back in the day, one of my buddies' pa's used to run a cart right here..." he said, grin tugging wider now. "Used to sneak me extras 'cause I'd always bring Becca one too."
She bit into one, smiling as she listened.
She stayed beside him, fingers loosely tangled with his, letting him name the streets, the smells, the cracks in the sidewalk, as if stitching the past and the present together.
The heaviness had slipped off him.
He was animated now — alive, eyes bright as he found his way through the city that once raised him.
They turned a corner, and a group of school kids tore past in a flurry of sneakers and laughter, their shouts echoing off the brick.
She watched them go, a smile tugging at her mouth.
"Remember meeting Steve in the schoolyard?"
He let out a low laugh, soft and surprised.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
He glanced down the block, eyes distant, like he could see it.
"Truth is, I actually met him in an alley, right next to the school,” he said, voice easy with old memory.
"We were ten. I was walking home one day, and heard this tiny voice — all stubborn — yelling, 'Give me back my inhaler!'"
A grin curved across his face, helpless.
"I peeked in... and there he was. This scrawny little kid with a mop of blonde hair, cornered by three bigger boys like he didn't even notice how outnumbered he was."
"I figured I'd break it up," he went on, a ghost of his younger self flickering through his smile. "Stepped in and told them to knock it off."
He let out a short laugh.
"They didn't. So... y'know."
He shrugged, boyish mischief flashing in his eyes.
"One swung first. I swung back. Next thing I knew, we were scrapping in the dirt."
She stayed quiet, watching him talk — like the words were walking out of him on their own.
"One of 'em got me in a headlock," he said, shaking his head, still grinning. "And Steve — this scrawny kid with a busted inhaler — instead of running off, just launched himself at the guy's back."
A laugh slipped out of him, low and warm.
"Didn't even think twice. Tried to get him in a headlock, like he could haul him off me."
He huffed, fond disbelief softening his voice.
"Didn't budge him an inch... but it was enough. Gave me the space to throw the other one off."
His eyes flicked to her, bright with something old and full.
"That's how it started, I guess."
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
"Fight ends, the other kids scatter... and Steve just stands there, hair all messed up, wheezing like he ran a marathon."
His grin softened, almost disbelieving even now.
"Then he looks at me — dead serious — and says, 'Ma's a nurse. C'mon.'
"I told him I was fine," he said, smiling faintly, "and he just frowned at me — all four feet of him — and said, 'You're bleeding. You're coming with me.'"
He huffed a laugh.
“Didn’t even look back to check if I was following. Just marched off like I was already his responsibility. Hadn’t even told me his name yet.”
"Next thing I knew, I was sitting at their kitchen table while his ma pulled out a tin of bandages."
He shook his head, the smile lingering.
"She didn't ask what happened. Just set a glass of milk in front of me and said, 'Arms on the table, honey.'"
Y/N stayed silent, eyes soft as she listened.
"She patched every scrape, even the ones that weren't bleeding. Hummed the whole time. Kept calling me 'sweetheart,' like I'd been showing up there my whole life."
He was quiet for a second, then added, softer:
"When Steve went to wash up, she leaned down and said... 'That boy's never brought anyone home before. Not once.'"
He let the words settle between them, almost smiling, almost aching.
"Guess I didn't know I was supposed to leave after that."
He was quiet for a moment, the smile fading into something more distant.
"Didn't know it then," he said, voice low, "but Steve's dad was a drunk. Mean. Didn't care if Steve was sick, just—"
He stopped, jaw tightening briefly, then let the breath go.
"Steve made me swear not to tell anyone. So I didn't. Not Ma, not Pa. Nobody."
A small, almost rueful smile tugged at his mouth.
"Figured if I couldn't fix it, I could at least get him out of there."
His gaze traced the old buildings as they walked, but he wasn't really seeing them.
"Started bringing him over to ours as much as I could. Said it was for homework, or 'cause Ma made too much stew."
His voice warmed at the edges, the memories softening him.
"Ma and Pa never questioned it. Just... set an extra place, like they'd been expecting him. He'd turn up in shoes two sizes too big, stuffed with newspaper like that made 'em fit. We'd race bottle caps down the gutters after a storm, play stickball till the lamplighters came, drag the couch cushions in front of the fire and make a fort. Fall asleep there."
He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes distant and full.
"Didn't take long before if you saw one of us... the other wasn't far behind."
He glanced at her then, just for a second, eyes bright with something old and sure.
Her fingers tightened lightly around his.
Her voice was soft when it came.
"Guess some things were just... meant."
They walked on, joined hands swinging between them, his stories spilling out in bursts that kept drawing her laughter like bubbles rising to the surface.
They rounded the corner, and the Paramount rose before them, all carved stone and gilded trim, its marquee lights winking faint in the afternoon light.
He slowed to a halt, boots scuffing the sidewalk.
"This is where—" He stopped short, the words tangling like they'd betrayed him.
Her brows knit, her head tilting slightly.
"Where...?"
He cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated by the pavement.
"...where I turned my charm on," he muttered.
Her grin bloomed.
"Oh? Did it work?"
He let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Think it might've. A little."
She stepped close enough that her smile ghosted his cheek, her voice a low tease at his ear.
"Show me."
The words lingered, warm where it touched his skin.
He stared, momentarily stunned, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. "You serious?"
She gave the faintest nod, lips quirking.
"C'mon, Sergeant. Let's see it."
That boyish grin tugged free, easy as the words that followed.
"Alright, doll."
The words curled warm off his tongue, lingering like a promise.
Something settled in his eyes, that old spark catching light.
He stepped back, still holding her hand, and let it turn gently in his palm as he bowed over it, brushing a soft kiss to her knuckles — eyes never leaving hers.
And then—like the last beat of a swing song—he swept her in, sudden and sure, until she landed flush against him, his arm locking firm around her waist.
Her breath caught.
His voice dipped low, silk through gravel.
"Are you wearing lipstick... or have your lips always been this pretty, darling?"
Heat rose in her cheeks, her eyes widening before her gaze darted down. When she lifted it again, it was soft and daring all at once.
She bit her lip, eyes sparkling.
"Why don't you find out, Sergeant."
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then his grin broke wide — bright and triumphant, like she'd just handed him the whole damn moon.
"Gladly," he murmured.
Before she could breathe, he swept her into a smooth dip, his arm firm at her back, the motion fluid as a step from an old dance floor.
Her laughter spilled out, bright and startled, as her hair brushed the air.
And then he kissed her — sure and smiling, wonder soft in the edges, laughter tangled between them as the world tilted into something golden and dizzy and theirs alone.
When he finally let her up, she was laughing outright, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He only grinned wider, keeping her close like he might just dip her again just to hear that sound spill out of her.
The city carried on in colour and sound; in their bubble, it felt like daylight.
Then a quarrel, faint at first, began to thread through from nearby. An older voice, thin with strain, sparring against a younger one that snapped fast and defensive.
Bucky's head turned first, the sound pulling at him. His hand stayed firm around hers as he angled toward the alley tucked between a shuttered shop and a brick walk-up.
A few strides brought the scene into view: a wiry old man, his weathered face creased with deep lines, white hair thinning at the crown. His stance was squared and stubborn, fists curled tight like he was ready to swing even if his knees disagreed.
Across from him stood a man half his age — curly dark hair, short beard, leather jacket hanging loose over a faded tee. He wasn’t big, but he carried himself like the alley belonged to him.
“He’s putting his trash into my trash,” the old man snapped, jabbing a finger at the younger one.
“It’s just trash,” the man shot back, rolling his eyes.
The old man barked something sharp in Japanese, his fist trembling where it hovered.
"Whoa, hang on." Bucky moved in, hands lifted in a calm stop. His gaze stayed steady on the old man until the fist wavered — then slowly lowered.
Only then did he turn.
The younger guy straightened, flashing a grin like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “Hey, man. I’m Unique. Like Monique — but with a U. For uniqueness.”
Bucky shook his hand with an ease that surprised Y/N, then flicked her a sidelong glance — the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. She nearly laughed, catching it.
Unique spread his hands, still grinning.
“Look, I’m not looking for trouble. Just saying — trash is trash.”
Bucky tilted his head, voice calm. “And cans are cans. You want one, there’s three down the block. No fighting required.”
Y/N gave a small nod of agreement. “Easier that way.”
Unique hesitated, eyes flicking between Y/N and Bucky before he gave a loose shrug. “…Guess I’ll just take my stuff somewhere else. Tough crowd.”
He offered a half-hearted two-finger salute and slunk off down the block.
The old man huffed, fist finally uncurling. He glanced at Bucky and Y/N, the furrows on his brow easing just a little. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice worn.
His gaze softened. “I thank you.”
He straightened, as if remembering himself. “My name is Mr.Na—” He stopped, then shook his head. “No. You can call me Yori. Easier.”
Bucky extended his hand, a small nod accompanying it. “Bucky.” He glanced to his side, a faint softness in his tone. “And this is Y/N.”
Yori’s eyes narrowed, but in the way of someone sizing up new friends. Then he jerked his chin toward the street. “You eat lunch yet?”
Bucky shook his head once, already starting to answer, but Yori cut him off with a huff. “Good. Then you come with me. My treat.”
Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone. “That’s not—”
Y/N gave a quiet laugh, glancing between them. “I don’t think he’s asking, Buck.”
“No,” Yori said firmly, already turning toward the street. “And don’t argue. You’ll lose.”
Yori waved a hand and just set off down the street, tossing the words over his shoulder. “C’mon. Best sushi in the neighbourhood. You’ll eat, you’ll like it. No complaints.”
Bucky hesitated, then nodded, falling into step beside Y/N. She stifled a grin, leaning closer. “Guess we’ve got a lunch date now.”
He shook his head, though his mouth curved just slightly. “Guess so.”
The little restaurant was quiet, the clink of teacups and low hum of conversation filling the space. The waiter brought steaming bowls and neat trays, setting them down with a polite bow. Yori poured sake for himself, then waved for her to bring tea for Bucky and Y/N.
“You step in for me back there,” he said finally, his voice rougher, softer. “Not many would. You’ve got good hearts.”
Bucky shifted, unused to the praise, but Y/N met Yori’s gaze with a small smile. “Sometimes all it takes is someone willing to step in.”
Yori nodded once, satisfied, and raised his cup. “Then today, we eat as friends.”
The food was hot and filling, tea fragrant in their cups, the kind of meal that made time slip easy.
Conversation carried them through the last bites, Yori’s humour surfacing between grumbles, Bucky answering in soft amusement, Y/N laughing enough for the both of them.
When the check came, Bucky’s hand went for it at the same time he bent down, unzipping his worn bag at his feet. “We’ll cover it,” he said shortly.
Yori snorted, already pulling out his own wallet. “Over my dead body.”
Bucky frowned, trying to nudge the tray back. “At least let us—”
But Yori slapped a neat stack of bills down with finality. “Done. No arguing.”
Bucky let out a long breath through his nose, and Y/N bit back a smile. The waitress swept the tray away, leaving the table bare.
As they stood, Yori slid his wallet toward his back pocket. It missed, slipping soundlessly into the open mouth of Bucky’s bag on the floor. Yori didn’t notice, already straightening his jacket.
A moment later, Bucky zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder — sealing more inside than he knew.
“You come back, we eat again.” Yori jabbed a finger at them both on their way to the door. “Next time, you let me win.”
Bucky smirked. “Don’t count on it.”
Yori huffed, dipped his head to Y/N in a small bow, and wandered off down the street.
Bucky and Y/N lingered a moment, then drifted in the opposite direction, their steps carrying them past storefronts that soon gave way to quiet rows of homes. The air smelled of cut grass and earth, of late flowers.
That was when he slowed, then stopped altogether.
Across the street, a garden bloomed full with purple hydrangeas. Their weight bowed the stems, vivid against the fence.
The sight held him fast, sorrow threaded through the awe like shadow through light.
Y/N followed his gaze, then back to the way his eyes had gone glassy, fixed on the blooms like a man staring into a memory too tender to touch.
He stepped forward, and she matched his pace, letting the unseen pull carry them both toward the garden fence.
They reached the blooms, globes of purple hanging bright and heavy along the border.
His hand lifted without thought, fingers hovering near the rounded heads, featherlight, like he was afraid the whole cluster might fall apart if he pressed too hard.
“My ma had purple hydrangeas like this… in our lawn,” he murmured. His thumb brushed a single petal, almost absently. “They were her favourite.”
The the wind stirred, and a few loose petals broke free, floating down slow as feathers, spinning until they came to rest across the pavement.
His eyes followed them to the ground.
The drifting petals became many, carpeting a lawn that was bright with purple, heavy blooms bending toward the sun. His ma crouched low, hands deep in the soil as she tended the roots.
He came running, breathless and laughing, small legs pumping across the grass. She plucked one small blossom, tucked it behind his ear with a smile. A breeze swept through, scattering petals around them. He spun in the shower of colour, laughing louder, until he stumbled and toppled into her lap.
She gathered him close, pressing a kiss to his hair.
“You’re always so full of smiles and light, Jamie,” she whispered against his temple. “Don’t ever let the world take that from you.”
The voice of his ma faded with the wind, and he found himself standing still, the scattered petals at his feet a pale echo of the blooms she once tended.
He didn’t notice the tear until it slipped free, falling soundlessly to join the petals at his feet.
The ache in his chest swelled, heavy and tight, the memory pressing harder than he could hold. His breath stuttered, the world blurring at the edges.
And then—warmth. Her hands cradled his face, gentle and sure, and he looked up with tear-bright eyes to find her there.
She moved closer, drawing him in until his forehead pressed against her shoulder. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms folding her in, like letting go wasn’t an option. Her hand rested steady at the back of his head.
“I got you,” she whispered.
And with that, he let go. The fight to hold steady faltered, and the breath he drew hitched sharp against her shoulder. Tears slid, slow at first, then steadier, as if he no longer knew how to stop.
And still she held him, steady as the roots his mother once tended, until he could breathe again and all that was left was the faint memory of purple blooms, and the warmth of her arms reminding him he was still here.
Time blurred until his grip eased. He shifted, lifting his face from the curve of her neck until his forehead rested gently against hers. Eyes still closed, he drew a shaky breath, then let it out slow.
For a moment he stayed like that, clinging to the warmth that anchored him. Then he opened them, slow, and found hers already waiting— warm and steady, like sunlight resting across petals.
When he leaned back just enough to take her in, the weight in his chest loosened. A small, soft smile flickered through the trail of his tears.
“Hold still,” he whispered.
Fingers careful, he plucked one small blossom and brought it back to her, tucking it softly into her hair. His smile deepened as he leaned back to look, his eyes blooming like the clusters around him.
“Beautiful,” quieter, as though speaking more to himself than to her.
His touch lingered near her temple for a moment before falling away. The smile stayed, softer now, like he was memorising the moment.
Then his eyes softened, distant but fond, as though some old memory had risen quietly to the surface, and she could almost see it flicker in his eyes.
“There’s… something I want to show you.”
Her fingers threaded through his with quiet steadiness. “Okay,” she said softly, as though promising she’d go wherever he asked.
He led her through the quiet streets, their footsteps tapping softly against the pavement. Houses with flower-bright porches gave way to corner shops spilling warm scents into the air.
With each block, the air shifted—less of shopfronts and stone, more of open sky. The streets widened, space unfolding around them.
The faint tang of salt caught at the back of his throat. By the time the last row of homes fell away, the horizon had opened before them, the sea waiting with its endless rhythm, as though it had been holding its breath for his return.
The sand began where the pavement ended, pale and fine, almost untouched but for the faint trace of passing feet. She lingered a moment, drinking in the horizon, when a shift beside her drew her back.
A brush at her arm, then the quiet scrape of laces loosening—by the time she looked down, his boots were already off, set neatly aside.
She reached to undo her own, but his hand caught her wrist. A small shake of his head, then he knelt, fingers working carefully at her laces. The gesture was simple, but it sent warmth through her chest all the same.
He left both pairs tucked safely near the dunes, then laced his fingers back through hers, guiding her forward toward the low sweep of waves, silver light curling at the shore.
The first rush of water lapped cold at their ankles, tugging soft sand from beneath their feet until they sank a little deeper, toes curling for balance.
His hand tightened around hers in quiet reflex, the salt wind tugging loose strands of hair across her cheek.
For a while, they just walked, side by side, waves rising and falling at their feet.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter, almost lost in the sea’s breath.
“My ma and pa used to bring us here every weekend. Becca and me… we’d spend hours collecting shells. Came home with our pockets stuffed, sand everywhere.” His mouth tugged faintly at the memory.
“Pa would rinse ’em clean, Ma’d set them on the windowsill to dry. Next morning, we’d sit around the table, count ’em out, drop ’em in a glass jar for the shelf. Like they were worth keeping.”
Her gaze softened, a faint smile warming her face. She brushed her fingers lightly across his, before whispering, “That sounds… really beautiful.”
Her words lingered, soft as the breeze. They walked a little farther, until he paused, choosing a place where the tide still touched. He slipped the bag from his shoulder before lowering himself, knees apart, and with a quiet glance drew her gently into the space between.
With her back against his chest, his arms closed around her, their fingers knotting together in her lap. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.
His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow, unaware. For a while it seemed like that was all he meant to give her. Then his hand shifted against hers, fingers tightening. He didn’t look away from the sea when he spoke.
“My ma died when I was pretty young.”
He let out a breath, gaze dropping. “She’d been sick… as long as I can remember. I think she knew she wasn’t gonna be around for long, and she tried to prepare me and Becca. Best she could.” His mouth tugged faintly, bitter at the thought. “Not that you can ever really be ready for that.”
For a moment he said nothing, the tide filling the silence.
“Couple years later, my pa too. An accident at the army camp he was stationed.”
His mouth pressed thin.
“After that… it was just me and Becca.”
His voice roughened though he kept it steady.
“I dropped out of school, took the docks. Pay wasn’t much, but it put food on the table. Made sure Becca could stay in school. She was smart — real smart.”
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. “Got herself a scholarship. Went abroad.”
His voice thinned into something quieter, almost tender. “I was proud of her. Missed her like hell, but… she deserved more than Brooklyn could give.”
The tide washed cold over their ankles. He squeezed her hand once, steady, unthinking.
"Thing is… for all that, me and Becca had our share of squabbles. One time Ma wasn't having it, sent us to our room till we made up. Told us we were family, had to say we loved each other."
The corner of his mouth lifted, remembering. “So we did. Only… Becca had to outdo me. Said she loved me more. I said most. She said infinity. And I —” his thumb brushed her hand, almost sheepish “— I said infinity plus one.”
His gaze softened, just a flicker. “And it kind of stuck.”
“Last time I saw her, I walked her right up to the plane. She stopped, hooked her pinky around mine — wouldn’t let go till we said it… infinity plus one.” He shook his head faintly. “Didn’t think that’d be the last.”
The smile faltered. He went quiet. His thumb dragged once over her knuckles, like he needed the anchor. She leaned back a little more against him, letting him know she was there. The silence stretched, then something eased in his face. “Steve…”
“He wanted to quit school too, back when I dropped out. Said if I was working, he should be. I wouldn’t let him.”
He huffed, not quite a laugh. “Didn’t stop him from showing up after school. Sat with his sketchbook, split the sandwiches his ma packed for us both.”
“Sometimes he’d try to hand me more, like I needed it. I’d stick it back in his hands, tell him next time.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if bracing for where the memory went next.
“Then she got sick. Tuberculosis. Took her quick, when Steve was eighteen. After that, it was just me and him.”
He exhaled, long and quiet.
“He picked up work — papers, errands, whatever paid a nickel. I was pulling nights at the docks by then. We’d put our money our money together buy what food we could for the day. Sit and share it between us. Didn’t have much, but… it felt like enough.”
A pause. His jaw clenched.
"Most days it felt like the medicine was the only thing keeping Steve standing. Pay from his jobs never stretched far enough."
He gave a faint shake of his head. “Thought I didn’t notice. I’d toss in what I had, cover the rest.”
Her thumb brushed the back of his hand. His chest eased, just a fraction.
“After a while, when things steadied some, I started putting a little aside. Figured maybe I’d take classes one day. Always had a head for science — liked taking things apart, figuring how they worked. Thought maybe I could get into engineering, if I kept at it.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. It faded.
“But then I got drafted.”
He fell silent, the sea filling the space where his words had been. His arms stayed around her, as if the weight of what he’d said might otherwise drift loose between them.
Then he felt her hand slip free, rising to cup his cheek, steady and warm. He turned into it, slow, and found her gaze — trembling, aching, the weight of it reflected deep within her.
His arm shifted by instinct, to fold her nearer against his chest. But her hand caught his wrist, guiding it back, the sand shifting beneath her as she turned within the space between his knees, facing him now, her own braced in the sand on either side of his hips.
She leaned forward, arms closing gently across his shoulders, guiding him down until his forehead rested against the crook of her neck. Her palm came to rest at the back of his head, holding him close.
His body reacted the only way it knew how — arms tightening, the same way they had around his ma in her sickness, his pa through shell shock, Becca when tears wouldn’t stop, Steve when fever left him cold.
But this time, he was the one being held.
A shield in a world he never had one.
But was one.
And he felt it.
Protected.
She held him close, the tide whispering at their feet. After a while, she felt a faint shifting at her back — the slow scrape of fingers through sand.
“Buck?” she murmured, tilting just enough to look at him.
One arm was still steady around her, and his face hadn't left her shoulder. But his eyes were peeking over it, his other hand moving, fingers digging through the sand like he was chasing something. His focus was so intent it almost made her smile.
When she tried to turn, he finally drew back, just enough to meet her eyes. Without a word, he pulled his hand between them, opening it with a quiet flicker of excitement, as if to say look what I found — a small shell resting in his palm.
Her head tilted, eyes glinting with amusement, a small laugh escaping before her expression softened. She looked from the shell back to him.
“Want to look for more together?”
He nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“Yeah… I’d like that.”
She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers over his palm before slipping the scrunchie from her wrist. Then she tugged a folded handkerchief from the back pocket of her jeans and, with a quick twist, tied the corners together, making a small lopsided pouch.
“There,” she said softly, holding it open between them. “Our shell bag.”
He glanced at the makeshift bundle, then at her, a gentle brightness kindling in his eyes as he carefully set the shell inside.
For a while they moved along the waterline together, pausing now and then to stoop and brush sand froma pale curve, a ridged edge, a glimmer half-buried at the tide’s retreat. One shell became two, then more, each tucked carefully into their little treasure bundle.
By the time the horizon shifted warmer, the easy gathering had tipped toward mischief — quick dashes for the nearest shimmer, triumphant grins, mock groans and laughter spilling as they compared handfuls to see who had more.
They were almost back to the pouch one last time, hands brimming, the little bundle already overflowing with more shells scattered in careless piles around it, when the tide drew back, froth tugging at the sand — and there it was, broad and gleaming, waiting in the wet.
For a beat they both spotted it, caught each other’s eye — and in the next instant, they were running.
Sand flew under their feet as they sprinted to the waterline, breathless. They both reached at once, fingertips brushing the shell just as a wave surged in, sweeping their legs out from under them and sending them tumbling into the water.
Foam washed back, leaving them in its wake — tangled in the sand and surf, soaked through, both of them breathless, grinning at the absurdity of it all.
Salt clung to his skin as his eyes stayed closed, forehead resting against hers, and the moment that followed left his heart warm, full.
Happiness had never felt so simple.
And in it, he felt the light his ma once saw in him — darkened by the world, but rekindled in every smile she drew from him. And this time, he would keep it.
The sky above flushed deeper, scattering colour across the wet sand as the tide eased back. He felt the faint shift of her hand, and his eyes opened to follow it — down to her palm, uncurled between them.
The shell rested there, wet and shining, held as carefully as if it were glass.
For a heartbeat, all he could do was stare, wonder softening every line of his face.
She placed it in his hand, folding his fingers around it, her touch lingering. When she kissed his cheek, he didn’t move — couldn’t — lost in her.
Then, quietly, he turned his hand to keep hers inside it, the shell pressed safely between. ‘I’ll rinse ’em when we get home."
Her smile deepened, the fondness in her tone easing into something that felt like home. “I’ll dry ’em. We can count tomorrow.”
The moment held — soft, whole — and so did he.
They pulled their things together, shoes in hand, feet rinsed clumsy at the tide before slipping them back on, water squelching in their socks. She laughed at the face he made, and he couldn’t help but laugh too, helpless.
By the time they reached where they’d parked, she shot him a sideways grin.
“Think we can get the car cleaned before Sam finds out?”
Bucky huffed a laugh, tugging the door open. “Not a chance.”
The car hummed along the road, the drive settling into an easy silence.
“I was thinking…” she said after a while, voice light. “Maybe we could use one of the cookie jars for the shells. You know—put it on your table, so you’ve got ’em close.”
Your.
It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did, but it did.
He didn’t want it to be his.
He wanted more.
He wanted it to be theirs.
The thought lingered, sweet and possible.
A jar on their table.
A space that wasn’t just his to come back to, but theirs to share.
He let the corner of his mouth tug upward, small and helpless, before steadying his voice.
“Cookie jar’s a good idea.”
By the time the compound came into view, night had settled in, streaks of violet holding out against the dark. The clock on the dash blinked past seven.
Perfect. She thought. Just as planned.
All she had to do now was ease him into the kitchen. Hot cocoa would be the excuse, harmless, expected, their little end-of-day ritual. After that, a gentle nudge toward the common room.
Where the surprise was waiting.
They stepped into the cool night, making their way inside the compound, leaning into each other, lopsided and smiling, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
As the elevator doors opened, she nudged him with her shoulder, casual, easy. “Cocoa?” she asked, as if it were nothing more than a comfort at the end of the day.
His mouth curved, soft and easy. "Yeah. Cocoa sounds good."
They reached the hall outside the kitchen when she paused, hand brushing at her pocket as if the absence had only just clicked.
“Damn” she muttered, frowning. “I left something in the car.”
He stopped, half-turning. “I’ll grab it—”
She shook her head quickly, lips tugging into an easy smile. “It’s fine. Just go get the cocoa started. I’ll be right there.”
He searched her face a moment, then his mouth curved. “Alright, doll. But if I add too many marshmallows, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”
“Guess I’ll take my chances.” She tipped up on her toes to kiss his cheek, and slipped back down the corridor, her pulse quick.
Not for a forgotten scarf or bag — but for the Polaroid camera she’d tucked away in the car. She wanted to catch his face the moment he saw it — the cake, the balloons, all of it.
He watched her go and padded off down the hall, thinking nothing more than cocoa and marshmallows as he pushed open the kitchen door.
What he walked into was a huddle.
Six Avengers, shoulder-to-shoulder bent over a cake on the counter, locked in fierce debate over a cluster of candles.
He moved in without a word, slipping into the circle like he’d been part of it all along.
“Three in the middle looks better—”
“Clint, you can’t just shove them in—”
“They’re candles, not explosives—”
“Thor, you’re crooked—”
“I’m crooked? Look at Banner’s—”
He peered over Sam's shoulder, tilting his head to get a better look at the counter.
“Hey, man,” Sam muttered absently as he shifted, eyes still on the candles.
A second later, he actually looked.
"…oh, crap."
Six sets of eyes snapped toward him, mid-argument, mid-frosting, mid-chaos — staring at him like they’d been caught breaking into their own kitchen.
He blinked. “…What?”
And right then the door swung open again.
Y/N bustled in with a little bag at her side, all ready to sneak him off for the big reveal in the common room.
She stopped short, blinking at the scene.
Cake. Avengers. Bucky.
He was in the right place. They weren’t.
For a beat, no one moved.
Bucky’s eyes stayed on her first, then slid to the counter, where the cake sat — round, frosted in white buttercream with rosettes circling the rim. Navy blue letters curved across the top: “Happy 107th Birthday, Bucky!”
The words dipped, the candles scattered — each one placed like they’d all wanted a hand in it. Not perfect. But warm. Real. For him. His gaze flicked back to her, then to the Avengers frozen beside him, before dragging back to the cake.
His voice dropped, softer than he meant it to be.
“…You all did this for me?”
Y/N’s reply came soft, sheepish. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
He didn’t lift his eyes, still caught on the cake. His voice dropped, softer than he meant it to be. “Best damn surprise I’ve ever had.”
For once, nobody had a comeback.
Tony cleared his throat, breaking the beat.
“Sweet, Barnes. Really. But you might want to hold onto that thought.”
His gaze slid to Y/N, head tilting toward the common room.
“Chief, you wanna do the honours?”
Bucky glanced at her. She smiled, then held her hand out to him. His grin came quick and soft, before he slipped his hand into hers. She gave a gentle tug, and he let her lead him to the door.
He pulled it open.
Blue and white. That’s what hit him first — the balloon arch behind the couch, leaning just a little, the colours carried over from the cake.
Then the banner, letters dipping and tilting in places, glitter clinging stubborn to the edges. Not just Happy Birthday, Bucky — but the whole roll call: James. Buck. Barnes. Like they couldn’t pick one, so they’d stuffed in every name they’d ever called him.
At the end of the couch, a pile of gifts waited, wrapped in every shade, ribbons curling every which way.
Beanbags and cushions were pushed close around the coffee table, plates waiting in a stack.
He stood still for a moment, like if he blinked too hard it might all disappear.
Y/N gave his hand a small tug, and he followed, still a little dazed.
Then the lights dimmed.
He turned, blinking against the shift, and saw them — all of them — standing in the doorway, bunched together, smiling like they’d been waiting for this moment. Steve stood at the center, cake in his hands, candles lit.
The singing started three times before they managed to land on the same key. Steve tried to set the pace, Tony ignored him, and Thor was just loud enough to throw the whole thing off.
His chest shook with a laugh he couldn’t hold back as they moved toward him.
Steve set the cake on the coffee table, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and pulled him into a tight hug, all warmth and no warning.
“Happy birthday, Buck.”
He held on a moment longer, and Steve stayed with him until they let go.
Thor’s voice boomed after, cheerful as ever, as he swept a hand toward the couch like he was announcing a feast. “Come, my friend—sit! Let us celebrate you properly!!”
He huffed a laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck, the smallest grin slipping free as he sank onto the couch.
The cake still glowed with candlelight, the soft flicker reflected in his eyes. For a moment, he just looked at it, then at all of them— his gaze lingered on Y/N last, her eyes bright in the glow of it.
The wish came easy.
He drew in a breath and blew the candles out.
As soon as he did, Sam appeared at his side, holding out a knife dressed with a blue bow. “It’s chocolate chip — your favourite.”
He shook his head, smiling, and set the knife to the cake.
The second the blade pressed into frosting, the room filled with cheers and clapping, warm as a memory he didn’t know he’d missed.
A Polaroid clicked somewhere in the middle of it, flash catching the exact moment his smile broke wide. He glanced up through the noise, and there she was — beaming at himlike this was the best thing she’d ever seen.
The chaos melted into clinks of forks and muffled laughter, as Bucky sat back with his slice, carving neat lines through the frosting just to chase every last bit onto his fork.
By the time he glanced up, Y/N’s smile broke into a giggle at the smear of frosting on his mouth.
She reached to wipe it, and he leaned in without thinking, blue eyes catching hers, mouth lifting like he couldn’t help chasing her smile.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Tony’s voice cut through as he waved the Polaroid in the air. “Save the staring contest for later — group photo time.”
Low whistles and chuckles rippled through the room at Tony’s words as the whole team piled in, squeezing onto the couch in a tangle of elbows and laughter. The shuffle pushed her off balance until Bucky’s arm curved around her, pulling her onto his lap, safe against him.
Clint let out a long whistle. “Barnes, save some lap space for the rest of us.”
The laughter spiked, and Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but Bucky only smirked, lips curving faintly against her shoulder, as if he couldn’t help it.
Tony angled the Polaroid with a snort. “Cute. Blush harder Barnes, it’ll look great on film.”
Then he paused, scanning the frame with a squint. “...Someone’s missing.”
Right on cue, the door banged open.
“Mr. Barnes—Sergeant Barnes—Mr. James—I am so sorry!” Peter tumbled in, words tripping over themselves. “Traffic was insane, Ned’s bike chain snapped, and then May insisted I bring lasagna but it spilled and—” He cut himself off with a frantic wave, already digging into his backpack. “But! I didn’t forget your gift!”
He yanked out a large Lego set, half the wrapping paper hanging off where it had been taped too fast. “Cap—uh, Mr. Rogers—he said you like building things, so I thought—well, I thought you’d like this!”
He thrust the box out with both hands, wide-eyed and earnest, as if the whole night hinged on whether Bucky would take it.
For a second, Bucky just stared at the box, too startled to move. Then he shifted, brushing a hand at her waist as he carefully eased her off his lap and rose to his feet.
He took the box carefully, his mouth curved, small and warm. "Thanks, kid. Really."
Peter’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh—good. Okay. Cool.” He hesitated, shifting on his feet before blurting, “my aunt always said, uh—birthdays aren’t official without a hug.”
And before anyone could stop him, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Bucky in a quick, earnest squeeze.
Bucky froze, wide-eyed, Lego box clutched awkwardly at his side. Too close, too sudden—yet, slowly, almost against his own instincts, his arms came up, circling Peter’s shoulders in a careful hold.
The room went quiet for a beat. The corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hold on tighter.
Then—
Tony strolled forward with a box tucked under one arm, casual as ever. “Alright, enough with the Hallmark moment. Guess we’re doing gifts first.”
He flipped the lid with a flourish. “Barnes, I know you’ve got your whole broody aesthetic going—but I figured your skull might appreciate a little more protection than a leather jacket.”
Inside gleamed a custom matte-black helmet, polished lines edged with faint blue accents, Stark Industries etched at the hinge.
Bucky blinked. “You did this?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tony said, though his grin betrayed him. “FRIDAY did most of the work. Heads-up display, auto-tint, crash sensors. Biometric lock so nobody else can swipe it.”
Bucky turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the smooth curve. “Thanks, Stark.”
Tony waved a hand like he was brushing it off. “Don’t thank me yet. It also comes with voice packs. Default’s me telling you not to crash it. Enjoy.”
Bucky groaned, but his grin came quick, helpless, as he set the helmet aside with care.
His gaze lifted just as Steve shifted forward, a leather-bound book in his hands, edges smudged faintly with graphite.
“I, uh… put this together,” Steve said, voice low but steady. “I figured — if you can’t have the pictures, maybe I could draw the ones I remember.”
He took it slowly, thumb brushing the cover before easing it open.
The first page held his ma, smile soft as she kneaded dough at the kitchen table. A few pages later, his pa—head bent over the newspaper.
Further on, Becca—hair tied back, clinging to Bucky’s shoulders in a piggyback, cheeks dimpled as her laughter spilled across the page.
His breath caught. He turned another page.
The two of them, grins crooked in scuffed shoes, like one had just dared the other into trouble. Behind them, the Coney Island rollercoaster rose in looping strokes.
Another page—his uniform, the salute steady on the page. And then, him and Steve together, shoulder to shoulder, as if they’d never been parted.
But when he kept turning, his chest stuttered.
These weren’t Brooklyn. These were now.
Himself on the compound steps, black-and-gold arm catching the light as he bent over his bike. Another page—ice cream smeared across his cheek, Y/N leaning close to brush it away. His smile penciled soft, smitten, like Steve had known he’d never look at her any other way. Further on—the common room, a popcorn bowl tipped in his lap, his socks mismatched, the team scattered around him, cushions mid-air, him caught mid-laugh among them.
Every page full. Every moment held.
Bucky closed the book, fingers locked on the cover. Steve saw it, and before he could find the words, he pulled him close, steady as ever. His voice came low against Bucky’s shoulder. “Just thought you should have them back.”
He only held tighter, before his throat worked, the words rough when they came. “Thanks, Steve.”
The words lingered.
Then—
Thor rose suddenly from where he’d wedged himself into a beanbag, reaching for the great bundle propped against the wall, bound with golden cord.
“Brother Barnes!” he declared, voice carrying over the room. “On this day of your birth, I present to you a gift most worthy of a warrior… and of a man at peace.”
He dropped it at Bucky’s feet with a thud. The knot slipped, and a massive blanket spilled out, white and gold, pooling in rich folds at everyone’s feet.
Sam gave a low whistle. “Man, that thing’s half the size of the room.”
Thor only grinned wider, sweeping the cloth up and over Bucky’s shoulders in one grand motion. It nearly swallowed him whole, draping off the couch to the floor.
Bucky huffed, tugging at the edge. “You trying to bury me alive?”
Thor clapped him on the back, booming with laughter. “Nay! It is woven of Asgard’s finest wool. So you may rest warm, brother, not as a soldier, but as a man.”
Bucky's glanced down, fingers brushing the weave.. “Thanks, Thor.”
Thor beamed, settling back into his seat with a flourish. “You are most welcome, my friend. Though I suggest you share it — elsewise, the rest of us shall surely freeze.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, we’ll all just climb under it next movie night. Hope you don’t mind, Buck.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but the faint tug at his mouth said otherwise, as he shifted it carefully, though the fabric refused to be neatly set aside.
Thor’s booming laughter was still echoing off the walls when Clint nudged Natasha with his elbow. She rolled her eyes but stood with him, the two of them hauling a slimmer box.
Clint set the box down with a grin. “We figured you could use an upgrade”
Bucky gave them both a suspicious look before tugging the lid off. Inside lay a leather jacket, black as midnight, the kind of clean, simple cut that would never go out of style.
Amusement caught his eyes as his hand smoothed over the sleeve. Then he breathed out, a small, grateful smile breaking through. “…Thanks, guys.”
Natasha’s lips quirked. "Don't ruin it, Barnes."
The laughter rolled back in, easy and warm. Then Bruce cleared his throat, shifting a small box across the table. “It’s not much,” he said, almost apologetic.
Bucky opened it — and stilled. Inside, cushioned against velvet, sat a watch. Simple, silver, face slightly aged but gleaming all the same. A 1940s model. The kind he remembered seeing in shop windows he could never afford.
“I, uh… tracked it down through a collector,” Bruce said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Figured… maybe it’d feel familiar. Something from your time, but… still working. Still keeping time.”
For a long beat, Bucky didn’t speak. He just ran a thumb across the glass, chest tight with something that felt too big for words.
Finally, he swallowed. “Thanks, Doc.” His voice came quiet, thick at the edges. “It’s just right.”
Bruce only smiled, small and a little relieved. “Glad you think so.”
The room went quiet for a beat — and then all eyes slid to Sam.
He raised his hands. “What? I was waiting till the man’s stomach grumbled.”
A few chuckles broke out, as Sam pushed to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, the smell drifted out — rich, savoury, unmistakable. Bucky’s head lifted before he even realised it.
Sam came back balancing a steaming dish in both hands. He set it down carefully on the coffee table, right in front of Bucky.
“Your ma’s pot roast,” Sam said, the words gentler than his grin. “Well… close as I could manage.”
Bucky stared at the steam curling off the dish, wide-eyed.
Sam nudged his chin toward Steve. “Rogers here was my taste-tester the whole way. Kept me at it till he swore it matched your ma’s recipe.”
Steve ducked his head, sheepish. “Needed to be right.”
Sam handed him a fork with a grin. “C’mon, Buck. Just try it.”
Bucky took it, his metal hand curling against his knees, like he was steadying himself. He took a bite, slow, almost careful.
When the taste hit, a breath eased out of him, almost reverent. His mouth curved, as the words slipped out.
“…Tastes like home.”
Sam’s shoulders loosened, his smile easy, like hearing it was all he’d wanted.
He set the fork down, gaze sliding back to Sam. “…Thank you.”
Sam nodded once, grin tugging wider. “Anytime, man. You deserve it.”
Then—
Sam clapped his hands, the crack sharp enough to jolt the room. “Alright, you freeloaders — help me out. Birthday boy’s not surviving on pot roast alone.”
The room emptied in a rush of voices, and Bucky turned to Y/N, baffled. “Doll, what—”.
Her kiss cut him off, soft and sudden against his cheek. She giggled at his startled look.
“Will be right back, Buck.” And then she was gone too, leaving him sitting there, cheeks faintly pink, caught somewhere between a frown and a grin.
A few minutes later, the kitchen door banged open like a parade.
Thor marched out first with a platter of roasted chicken big enough to feed Asgard. Clint followed with a bowl of popcorn dusted with way too much salt. Natasha came behind him with a tray of perfectly arranged dumplings. Sam sauntered in with a basket of fries, already stealing one on the way. Bruce slipped in next with a steaming pot of noodles, the kind that smelled like comfort itself. Tony announced, “Don’t say I never cook for anyone,” as he dropped a bag of takeout onto the table. Peter darted in after, juggling a mix of chocolate bars. And Steve brought up the rear with a pie, calm in the middle of the frenzy.
The table filled fast—dishes landing one after another. Chaotic. Mismatched. A jumble that didn’t belong together.
But then he saw it.
Meals he’d quietly claimed since he’d been here.
Dishes he’d stolen bites of when no one was watching.
The takeouts he’d muttered once were “pretty damn good.”
His favourites.
And then Y/N slipped in last, a small white box cradled in her hands. She set it down in front of him with a smile.
“Cinnamon rolls,” she said softly. “Figured we couldn’t skip those.”
The sweet smell hit, warm and familiar—their little favourite.
He huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it.
Any of it.
And this time, it was him who looked like he’d been caught—
Caught off guard.
Caught cared for.
Caught belonging.
He glanced at Y/N, then at the spread, then back at the team hovering, like they were looking for a cue.
He cleared his throat, almost shy, and nudged the cinnamon rolls a little closer to the center of the table.
“…Well,” he muttered, eyes flicking around at the waiting faces, “you all gonna sit, or what?”
They did.
Food passed hand to hand, laughter sparking easy as stories spilled across the table. He lost track of time—eating, talking, smiling so much his face ached.
And somewhere in the middle of it, someone dragged out the camera. The whole group leaned in, half of them mid-bite, the rest laughing too hard to stay still.
The picture snapped blurry.
Loud.
Ridiculous.
Perfect.
Later, the Polaroid sat between his fingers, edges bent slightly where his grip had tightened without meaning to, as he lay back on the bed, shower-warm, cotton soft against him, bunny pyjamas making him feel absurdly safe as he waited for Y/N.
The compound was quiet now, the night finally settled in.
He smiled to himself, turning to rest the Polaroid on the nightstand. It found its place between the photo of him and Steve—younger, side by side, smiles easy as the old days—and the one of him and Y/N, both pulling faces at the camera, eyes crossed and grins lopsided, perfectly them.
His gaze fell to the little bowl of shells beside it—the shells he’d rinsed and left to dry. Next to it sat the empty cookie jar Y/N had set out, waiting to be filled tomorrow. And at the edge, leaning against the frame of their photo, the hydrangea bloom he’d tucked into her hair.
It all looked… right.
Like home.
The stillness gave way to the quiet click of the door, Y/N stepping inside, shower-soft and tucked into her own pyjamas.
She stopped short at the sight of him—Bucky Barnes, curled in bunny PJs, smiling like a boy safe in summer light.
So soft. So happy.
“Well, don’t you look adorable,” she teased gently, padding toward the bed.
He looked up, cheeks pink, and suddenly she was in his arms, yelping as he pulled her down. In a heartbeat he rolled her under him, peppering loud, sloppy kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her nose until she laughed so hard her stomach ached.
“Buck!” she gasped through giggles.
He only hummed, burying his face in her neck like a dog too big for its own lap, breath warm against her skin, heart drumming steady against her.
His arms tightened like he couldn’t help himself, and the words tumbled out in a whisper, almost shy: “Thank you… for everything.”
She cupped his cheek, tilting him enough to meet her eyes.
“Anything for you, Buck,” she whispered, eyes shining, like saying it was the easiest truth in the world.
So simple. So certain.
He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten this lucky — only that he had, and she was in his arms right here.
He rolled them like second nature, settling her above him, her head rising with the slow lift of his breath. He kissed her forehead, smiling like he couldn't stop.
“I love you, doll,” he breathed, pinky brushing hers where it rested on his chest, hooking around it, clumsy and sure.
“Infinity plus one.”
Her pinky tightened against his, the smallest squeeze, her voice already soft with sleep. “Infinity plus one.”
His chest eased, eyes crinkling soft.
He thought of the time he first blurted it out as a kid.
It never made sense.
Infinity has no end.
But with her snoring softly into his chest, pinky still hooked with his, he finally understands.
Even all the way to the end of forever, he would want one day more with her.
Content warning: Mentions of trauma and emotional distress
It was another Sunday morning.
Sam had groceries, a good mood, and exactly zero clue what he was walking into.
He nudged open the kitchen door, balancing two heavy paper bags in his arms. "Good—"
He stopped cold in the doorway.
"...Lord."
There was flour in the air.
On the floor. On the counters. On the fridge.
On Bucky.
The super soldier stood at the stove, apron on crooked, white powder streaked across his cheek like war paint. One pancake was glued to the ceiling. Another clung halfway down the wall like it had tried to make a break for it and failed.
And Bucky?
He was wielding a spatula like it was a combat knife.
"...Do I even wanna ask?"
Bucky didn't look up. "I'm making pancakes."
Sam raised a brow. "Sure you are. You winning?"
Bucky jabbed the spatula into the batter. It hissed in protest.
He didn't answer.
So Sam set the bags down slowly and softened his voice. "Is this for Y/N?"
Bucky's jaw tensed.
"She's not eating," he said finally, quieter now. "Not properly. "
Sam didn't say anything—just listened.
"I've tried everything," Bucky murmured. "Cooked her old favourites. Tried new recipes I thought she might actually enjoy. Even picked up takeout from all the spots she used to like."
He kept his eyes on the pan, voice low, almost to himself.
"She takes a few bites. Smiles like it's fine. Says she's full."
A pause.
"But I know she's not."
Sam's chest tightened.
There was something in Bucky's voice that hadn't been there last week. Not panic. Not frustration. Just a quiet kind of helplessness—like he was watching something fragile fray at the edges and didn't know how to stop it.
Without a word, Sam reached out and gently took the spatula from Bucky's hand.
The pan hissed softly as he flipped the pancake with practiced ease.
"I know," Sam said, voice low. "I noticed too."
He handed the spatula back, then turned to the bags he'd brought in and peeled one open. Inside—fresh greens, okra, tomatoes still warm from the sun. Bundles of herbs, soft fruits wrapped in cloth, all carefully packed like something carried with love.
"That's why I went down to Louisiana this weekend," he said, voice softening. "Sarah helped me pull it all together. Organic. Straight from the community garden."
He paused, then smiled gently. "Some of the neighbourhood kids helped pick 'em. Sarah told them it was for someone who needed a little sunshine."
He glanced up at Bucky.
"Thought maybe I'd make something light for Y/N," he said. "Easy on the stomach, but packed with enough good stuff that even if she only eats a little, it'll help keep her going."
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"She never liked her veggies much. Always needed a little bribe," he added, pulling out a small bundle from the bottom of the bag. "So I grabbed the chilies too—the ones that make you breathe like a dragon."
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
"She only touches veggies if they're drowning in heat. Gotta be spicy enough to make her forget they're green."
Bucky let out a soft chuckle—the kind of sound only she could pull from him.
For a moment, the flour-dusted chaos around them didn't matter. Just that laugh, and the reason behind it.
Then Bucky turned to Sam, flour still streaking his temple. His voice cracked, just a little.
"Thank you."
Sam didn't hesitate.
"No need to thank me, man," he said gently. "This is what family's for."
A beat passed. Then Sam narrowed his eyes at the sizzling pan behind Bucky.
"Why don't you go cut up those fruits I brought," he said, already reaching out. "I'll take over before we both need hazard pay."
He gently plucked the spatula from Bucky's hand and nodded toward the counter. "Smoothie duty's yours. I'll finish the pancake battle you started."
Bucky moved to the other side of the kitchen without argument, already reaching for a cutting board.
Sam opened a cupboard. "We got any maple syrup for the pancakes?"
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, we do."
Then, quieter—"But I picked up the one with the raw honeycomb inside. The one Y/N likes with pancakes."
Sam looked over, eyebrows raised. "You really do pay attention, huh?"
Bucky didn't look up—just sliced a strawberry with quiet precision, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.
"It's easy," he murmured. "She's my person."
The kitchen was barely surviving them—shoulders bumping, flour flying, batter splashing, and fruit bits clinging to everything in sight.
Sam was just about to flip the last pancake when Bucky walked over and placed the smoothies on the table, a strawberry flower perched on Y/N's glass like a tiny crown.
Sam glanced at the pan, then back at Bucky.
"You know," Sam said, nudging the pan toward him, "I was gonna do the last one myself..."
He shot Bucky a grin. "But I figured I'd give you a shot at flipping one without hitting the ceiling."
Bucky narrowed his eyes, stepping up like the pan had personally challenged him to a duel. He slid the spatula under the pancake, took a breath, and—
FLIP.
It soared. Higher than necessary. Suspiciously elegant. A little too confident.
And then—
It nosedived.
Landing squarely on Y/N's head just as she stepped through the doorway.
The pancake flopped over her hair like a beige beret.
Sam froze, eyes wide.
Bucky dropped the spatula in horror. "Sweetheart—oh my god—I swear, I didn't—"
But before either of them could launch into apologies, Y/N blinked, reached up slowly, and peeled the pancake off her head.
And then—
She giggled.
Soft at first. Then full.
The kind of laugh that started in her chest and lit up the whole room. The kind they hadn't heard in weeks.
Both men stood there like they'd witnessed a miracle.
Y/N covered her mouth, eyes gleaming. "Did you throw a pancake at me?"
Bucky looked wrecked in the softest way.
Sam grinned, relief flooding his chest. "Technically, gravity did most of the work."
She looked at them—flour-streaked, fruit-splattered, standing in the chaos of what might've once been a kitchen—and smiled.
Small. Tired. But real.
Bucky stepped forward first, gently brushing flour off the nearest chair. "Sit down, love," he said softly. "We, uh... made breakfast."
Sam slid into the seat on her other side. "Figured it was time we brought back our Sunday tradition. Been a while."
Y/N blinked at the tableful—pancakes stacked, smoothies waiting, her cup marked with a strawberry flower—as Bucky took the seat beside her.
She didn't reach for anything yet. Just looked at the spread with that same soft expression—eyes warm, but hesitant.
Sam gently nudged a glass toward her. "Start with the smoothie. Just a sip."
No pressure. Just an offering.
Y/N reached for the glass, fingers curling around the cool ceramic. She took a small sip—and blinked. "Is that mango?"
"And peach," Sam nodded. "Bucky went full Fruit Ninja in here."
She raised a brow at Bucky, amused.
He gave a little shrug, eyes warm. "Had to. Can't leave out the peach."
A beat—then he added with a soft smile, "'Specially when you're mine."
Y/N giggled again, her smile catching the light.
And Bucky thought—
God, I missed that sound.
Sam groaned, laughing. "Man, that was so corny."
Bucky just smirked, leaning back like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
They started eating slowly, letting her ease into the moment. The conversation stayed light—something about the pancake on the ceiling still holding strong, and how Sam might have to call Redwing to retrieve it.
Then, once she finished half the smoothie, Bucky stood and returned with a small glass bottle.
He placed it gently beside her plate.
Y/N's eyes widened. "Is that... the honeycomb one?"
Bucky nodded, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Just for you."
Her tongue poked out in concentration as she poured the syrup —and Bucky watched like it was sunlight finally filtering through.
And then she took a bite.
Just one.
But it was a start.
She took a few more after—liked it, they could tell—but then the fork stilled again.
She started pushing the rest around her plate, drifting quiet.
Sam caught it. Didn't say a word.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and launched into a story—something about Sarah's kids trying to convince a neighbour's goat to join their lemonade stand.
Y/N gave a soft laugh, sipping her smoothie.
Bucky didn't press.
Just watched.
He remembered something—movie nights on the couch, how she'd get so caught up in the story she'd eat without thinking. Bite after bite, completely unaware.
It had been a while. Still, he tried.
He cut a piece of pancake, balanced it on a fork, and held it near her mouth.
She was focused on Sam—head tilted, eyes bright as he launched into a story about the lemonade stand somehow becoming a waterpark.
She didn't even look at the fork. Just opened her mouth and kept laughing.
So Bucky did it again.
And again.
By the fourth bite, Sam noticed—mid-sentence—and nearly lost it.
Bucky shot him a look.
A very serious, "don't you dare stop talking or she'll notice" look.
Sam bit the inside of his cheek, nodded solemnly, and kept going. "—so the goat jumps the fence, right? Like full-on, Mission Impossible style—"
Y/N laughed again, chewing.
Another bite disappeared.
Sam glanced down at the plate. It was almost empty. He raised his brows at Bucky.
Bucky just tilted his head toward it like, keep going, preacher.
Another bite.
And just like that—goat heists and sneaky fork passes—they got her to finish the whole plate.
No pressure. No coaxing.
Just quiet teamwork.
And pancakes.
The doorbell rang just as Y/N swallowed her last bite, Sam's voice still echoing with the tail end of his goat heist saga.
Bucky made a move to stand, but Y/N gently touched his arm. "It's okay—I've got it."
She padded barefoot down the hallway and opened the door.
A courier stood there, holding a box wrapped in soft gold paper.
"Delivery for Y/N," he said with a polite nod.
"That's me," she replied, accepting the package.
It was light in her hands. Pristine. And on top—tucked just beneath the fold of the ribbon—was a small note in Pepper's unmistakable handwriting:
For the gala next week.
No pressure to show up, honey.
But if you do—
Walk in like the diamond you are.
Because you've always shone that bright.
—P.
Y/N stared at the note for a moment, her thumb brushing the edge of the card, as if reading between the lines. Then she closed the door behind her, the quiet settling around her like a held breath.
She passed the kitchen on her way to her room, glancing at the chaos inside. "Just dropping this off," she said casually, lifting the box in her arms. "Be right back."
The guys—still dusted in flour and halfway through a debate about pancake flipping technique—just nodded.
Y/N carried the package down the hall and set it carefully on her bed.
The ribbon came undone with a whisper.
The gold paper rustled, delicate as waking wings.
Inside, wrapped in soft tissue, was a dress the colour of a sigh. Not blush. Not bubblegum. Something softer. Softer than she ever allowed herself to wear.
Pink.
Her fingers skimmed the fabric—light, fluid, shimmering faintly like water under moonlight.
Off-shoulder.
Of course that was Nat's idea.
After Y/N once admitted—half-laughing, half-blushing—that Bucky had kissed her shoulder once when her shirt had slipped, then gently tugged the sleeve back up like a gentleman. She'd said she missed that kiss. Just soft enough to stay with her all day.
And the hem—full and wavy, made to ripple like petals in motion.
That was all Pepper. Y/N had once lingered at a shop window and said, half-joking, "I never got a dress like that. The kind you can spin in." Pepper had remembered.
The whole dress looked like it belonged in a fairytale.
And maybe, for once, Y/N didn't want to wait to be the girl in one.
She stepped into it slowly. The fabric cooled against her skin, hugging her at the waist and falling in soft waves down her legs. She zipped it up and turned to the mirror.
And for a moment, she simply stood there.
Looking.
Breathing.
And then—softly—she smiled.
A gentle knock came at the door.
"Doll?" Bucky's voice, low and warm through the wood. "Everything okay?"
Y/N turned toward it, the hem of the dress whispering around her legs.
She hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then: "It's open."
The door creaked.
And Bucky stepped in—then froze.
His breath slipped out slow, like his chest couldn't hold the feeling and the sight of her at the same time.
She stood in the centre of the room, framed by the light pooling through the window. Her hair loose. Her hands brushing the sides of the dress like she still wasn't sure if she was allowed to hold it.
When his voice came, it was a whisper.
"You look..."
A pause. His eyes softened.
"...beautiful."
Y/N's gaze dropped shyly to the floor, then lifted again—cheeks warming. "Thank you," she murmured, barely above a breath.
She turned slightly, brushing her hair to one side. "Would you help me with the bow in the back?"
Bucky moved like he was being pulled.
He stood behind her, fingers gentle as he found the ribbon. He tied it with care—not rushed, not clumsy. Like she was something he didn't want to crease.
"All done," he said softly, the bow settling like a promise at the small of her back.
Then he noticed it.
The chain around her neck.
His dog tag.
It didn't match the dress—not in colour, not in elegance. But it was there.
He reached for it, thumb grazing the edge of the tag. "You don't... you don't have to wear this with the dress. If you don't want to."
Y/N turned her head, meeting his eyes through the mirror.
"I want to," she said simply.
Something cracked open in his chest.
Before he could think twice, his lips found her shoulder—like instinct, like he'd been aching to return to the place he kissed once and never quite forgot.
She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
Instead, she smiled.
And when he lifted his head, their faces turned toward each other like it was muscle memory.
Their foreheads brushed.
And then—soft as a secret—Y/N kissed him.
The first since it all fell apart.
Bucky kissed her back—gentle, tentative, like he was afraid to break the moment. Or her.
But then—
She smiled into the kiss.
And he melted.
His right arm wrapped around her, slow and careful, his hand rising to rest gently against her stomach. It was meant to hold her closer. Just that. Just closeness.
But the warmth that bloomed beneath his touch...didn't stay.
It recoiled, like it knew better.
She's fourteen, standing in front of a mirror in a borrowed dress.
Her mother's voice slices through the silence:
"That dress is clinging to your stomach, Y/N. No man dreams of holding a doughy midsection."
The zipper suddenly feels like it's choking her ribs.
At dinner. Quiet, tense. She reaches for a second roll.
Her father doesn't look up from his paper:
"Your arms jiggle when you pass the butter. Maybe skip it next time."
Everyone pretends not to hear. She pushes her plate away.
On the porch, summer heat clinging to everything.
Her brother throws a lazy grin her way, biting into an apple:
"Fat girls don't get fairy tales. No guy's picking you to ride off into the sunset."
The boys laugh. She stops wearing dresses after that.
The schoolyard. Giggles behind her back.
"Did you see the way her thighs rub when she walks?"
"Why don't you roll to class, tubby? You're already halfway there."
She begins skipping lunch the next day.
She sucked in her stomach without thinking. Barely a breath—but it was enough for Bucky to feel the shift.
The warmth beneath his palm faded. The ease between them cracked.
He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowing. "Doll, are you okay? Did I—?" "
Her eyes were open now.
Glass-bright. Unblinking. Holding too much.
Bucky's chest tightened. He searched her face, voice low.
"Darling? What happened?"
But she wouldn't meet his gaze.
She stepped out of his arms, one hand clutching her stomach, the other wiping at her cheek.
Then she bolted—across the floor, fast—the dress rustling behind her like wind through petals.
Bucky surged after her. "Y/N—wait—please—"
But before he could reach her, the bathroom door swung shut.
A beat passed.
Then the sound of retching.
"Sweetheart?" His voice cracked. "Can I come in?"
Another heave. No reply.
But she hadn't locked the door.
He opened it slowly—and the sight made his chest cave in.
She was curled over the toilet, hands braced on porcelain, trembling. The hem of the dress pooled around her like a wilted bloom.
He dropped to his knees beside her.
"I got you," he whispered, gently sweeping her hair back, keeping it out of her face.
His other arm wrapped around her shoulders—steady and warm.
"I've got you, honey. I'm right here."
He held her as her body shook.
His grip strong but soft—anchoring her through the storm.
Later, she slumped against the side of the toilet. Trembling. Breath shallow.
Bucky flushed it gently, then reached for the tissues.
Wiped her mouth with care.
His touch tender—like he was afraid she might shatter.
"Okay," he murmured. "Let's get you to bed."
He helped her to her feet slowly, steadying her as she leaned against the sink. Her hands trembled as she rinsed her mouth, barely able to hold herself upright.
Bucky didn't hesitate.
He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her carefully, holding her close like it was second nature.
She didn't resist. Just curled into him, small and silent.
He carried her back to the bedroom, setting her down gently against the pillows, her back to the headboard.
"I'm gonna grab you something comfy to change into, alright?"
She nodded—barely.
Bucky crossed to the wardrobe, reaching for a soft hoodie and sweatpants.
Then he heard her.
A whisper—cracked and quiet behind him.
"Belly's too doughy. Arms too wobbly. Thighs too thick..."
He froze, turning slowly. His heart twisted.
"Always too big. Too ugly."
Her voice was flat. Empty.
"Fat girls don't get fairytales."
There was a pause. Then, softer—like it hurt to admit it:
"I just wish I was beautiful."
The words sat in the air for a moment. Heavy. Bare.
Then the fabric suddenly felt wrong. Tight.
Like it was pressing in on every part of her she'd learned to hate.
She looked down at herself—at the dress that shimmered like it belonged to someone else. Someone delicate. Smaller. Lovelier.
Then she moved.
Frantic.
Her hands clawed at the zipper at her back, gasping like it was choking her.
"I can't—I can't—" she whispered, tugging blindly, nails scraping fabric.
"Hey—hey, sweetheart."
Bucky was at her side in an instant, kneeling on the floor beside the bed where she sat, folded in on herself.
His hand reached gently for the zipper.
"It's okay. I've got it."
He unzipped the dress slowly, carefully—the sound soft, like paper tearing in a quiet room.
The fabric loosened around her ribs, and she exhaled. Trembling.
He looked up at her, voice low.
"Want me to help you take it off?"
She shook her head—a quick, small motion.
He nodded.
"Okay. I'll give you a minute."
Bucky placed the hoodie and sweatpants he'd grabbed earlier gently beside her on the bed.
"I'll just be right here, alright?" he said gently.
He turned around and sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to her.
"Take your time."
Silence followed.
Then came the faint rustle of fabric. The whisper of the zipper. Satin sliding off skin.
A pause.
Then the softer sound of cotton and fleece—something that felt more like her.
He stayed still. He could tell she was done, but she hadn't said anything.
So he didn't turn. He just waited.
A breath passed. Maybe two.
Then—softly, like memory brushing the air—his voice came. Low. Steady. Like a hand held out in the dark.
"Strawberries."
He paused.
"I never really cared for them. Not until one of our trips to the farmer's market..."
A breath.
"You kissed me. Your lips were stained red—sweet and sticky—and that was all I could taste after."
A soft huff of breath, almost a smile.
"Been my favourite fruit ever since."
Another breath. Quieter now.
"Blue."
His head tilted, like he was seeing something only he could.
"I never had a favourite colour. Not that I remember."
A faint smile pulled at his mouth.
"But one night in Wakanda, when we were lying under the stars... you asked me what mine was."
He paused.
"I told you to guess."
He could almost hear her voice from that night. Clear as ever.
"You said blue."
Another breath.
"Since then... I can't help but see you in every shade of it."
He let the quiet settle. Gave her space to breathe.
Gave himself space not to rush what came next.
Then—
"You've got this way of making things beautiful just by being part of them. Without even trying."
Another pause. His voice lowered again, almost a whisper now.
"Some people can't handle that. They look at something real... and all they see is what it threatens in them."
He glanced down for a beat.
"So they slap on labels. Too much. Not enough.
Whatever makes them feel like they're still in charge."
Something steadier settled into his voice—like a line being drawn.
"It's 'cause you scare them.
The way you rewrite beauty on your own damn terms.
Not by looking for approval.
Not by tearing anyone down like they do."
A beat.
"You live it. Every day."
He heard it—barely. The hitch in her breath.
Like she was holding something back.
So he kept going.
"The way you don't prefer to wear makeup—but admire when someone else does."
His voice stayed low, but the corners of his mouth curled just slightly.
"The way you wear nerdy T-shirts when everyone else is dressed to impress—because that's when you feel most like yourself."
"The way you walk into rooms in sneakers, smiling brighter than the heels clicking around you."
His gaze dropped to the floor, almost like he was picturing each moment as it came.
"The way you wear donut-print pyjamas like royalty.
Your lab coat with Parker's little Star Wars pins.
And your scrubs—the ones with those goofy animals that make the kids laugh."
He paused—long enough for it to mean something.
When his voice returned, it was quieter. Like it held more than just words.
"The way you wore my dog tag... with a dress meant for a ballroom.
Like you already knew you didn't have to change a damn thing to be radiant."
His voice dropped to a hush.
Like he still couldn't believe it. But he did.
And then—
He heard it.
Just the faint shift of her breath.
Not shaky this time. Steady. Present.
He turned his head—just slightly. Not to see her. Just to face her more.
Like he needed her to hear this part in full.
A breath.
"Do you remember that little girl?"
"The one you met at the hospital with Banner a few weeks before the mission?"
A beat.
"Yeah," she said quietly.
That was all he needed.
Bucky turned to her then. Fully.
She didn't meet his eyes.
Just stared at her hands, curled in her lap.
But he kept going. Softly. Steadily.
"I remember—you said she was barely conscious when they brought her in.
Hadn't eaten in days. Bullied at school. They called her fat."
"You kept visiting her after. Every day."
His voice lowered, gentler now.
"And when she said she was ugly... that she believed them..."
He paused—like it still made his chest ache.
"You told me what you said to her."
A beat.
"You said—'Fat isn't ugly.'"
"'It's not a flaw.'"
"'It's not the opposite of beauty. It's not the opposite of anything.'"
"'It just is. Like freckles. Like laugh lines.
Like the way you tilt your head when you're thinking.'"
A hush stretched between them—one that held more than silence.
Memory. Meaning. Weight.
He let it linger. Then, softly—
"Banner told me that day was when she finished a whole meal for the first time in weeks."
A breath.
"You helped her not shrink herself into a shape that someone else invented."
His voice stayed steady. But there was ache in it—like he was carrying the hurt for her, just for a second.
"You should've grown up knowing that too."
A pause.
The words settled between them—heavy, but careful. Like he didn't want to break the quiet, but couldn't leave it unsaid.
"And the people who told you you'd never get a fairytale..."
His tone gentled—sure, like he already knew how she might flinch from the thought.
"...They just told you the wrong one."
That's when she finally looked at him.
Slow. Careful. Like it took everything.
And when their eyes met—
His voice dropped to a hush. Raw. Certain.
"'Cause I'm looking at mine."
The words didn't just land.
They settled somewhere deep—like something long-frozen had started to thaw.
Something flickered in her eyes.
Just enough to give way to a small smile.
Then she looked down—but only for a moment.
A quiet sort of shy.
Then lifted her gaze again.
Not wide-eyed. Just... steady.
And he saw it.
In the way her chest rose just a little easier.
In the way her hands finally stilled.
So he shifted slightly and opened his arms.
Didn't say a word. Just waited.
Slowly, she slid down from the bed into him.
Bucky didn't move at first. Just let her rest—small, warm, real—against his chest.
Then he wrapped his arms around her. One looping low to anchor her, the other sliding up to cradle the back of her head. Fingers splayed. Protective.
She tucked herself beneath his chin like it was where she belonged.
And he started to rock her. Slow and instinctive. Like it was the oldest way he knew to say: I've got you.
Her eyes closed.
And then—a little yawn escaped her.
He felt it more than heard it—her body softening just slightly in his arms.
A quiet chuckle slipped out of him.
Y/N peeked up, confused.
"What?"
Bucky smiled. His voice low, warm—like a secret he'd been saving.
"I missed that," he said.
Y/N peeked up, a crease forming between her brows.
"Missed what?"
He smiled—voice soft and rough all at once.
"That little yawn," he murmured.
A beat.
"The one you let out every morning—right before you stretch those beautiful arms and wrap them around me again."
His voice dipped, warm with fondness.
"Then you nuzzle in, lips soft against my chest... sometimes drooling a little."
He smiled, completely endeared.
"I love that."
Another pause. Slower now, like he was letting himself really feel it.
"Then you open those eyes—those beautiful eyes—and look up at me. And every single time, I think: there's my pretty girl."
He let the quiet carry a second longer before continuing.
"Then you hook your thighs around me, all warm and sleepy. You pull me closer. You always do."
A faint smile touched his lips—soft, like the thought of her always was.
"And our tummies touch. My growling one against your soft, beautiful belly..."
His voice turned softer still.
"The part of you I love to hold every chance I get."
Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt. Just enough for him to feel it.
"Then you smile," he said, voice almost a whisper now. "That's the moment."
A breath eased out of him.
"Now, I know Banner would say people aren't stars. That science wouldn't back me up."
He let a small smile tug at his mouth.
"But screw science. Screw logic."
A beat.
"You're the brightest damn sun I've ever seen."
A hush fell.
Then—
A small smile curved her lips.
Not wide. Just enough to turn her cheeks a little pink.
She leaned in, shy, and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek.
Bucky closed his eyes—like he needed to breathe her in, just for a second.
And for a beat, all was still.
Safe. Held. Warm.
Then—
A soft growl.
Her stomach.
Bucky pulled back, eyes warm.
"...You hungry, doll?" he asked softly.
She didn't answer at first, just nestled in.
So he tried again—gentler this time.
"Just a strawberry for now?" he offered, voice low.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Y'know... they're kind of my favourite fruit."
A blush crept up her cheeks, quiet but warm.
The way he said it—like the taste of her lips still lived in every berry—made something flutter in her chest.
She looked up at him—gaze soft, open.
And then—her lips curved, just a little.
"...Okay."
Bucky's smile deepened.
"Alright, sweetheart," he murmured.
He gave her a moment longer, just holding her—her weight soft and warm against him. Then, gently, he shifted.
His hand slid down to hers, fingers threading through like it was second nature.
"Shall we?" he asked, voice low—just for her.
She nodded.
He rose with her, one hand at her back, the other brushing her fingers until she held his.
And without letting go, they started toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, he added—casual, like it was just part of the morning:
"Oh—by the way," he said, glancing down at her with a grin,
"Sam's making lunch with those dragon-breathing chilies you love."
A beat.
"I bet he's sobbing cutting them up right now."
Y/N huffed a tiny laugh.
A flicker of light—small, but it caught.
"Think I've got one chilli war left in me."
-
A few days later, the rain came down in steady sheets, tapping gently against the lab windows. Just outside, Sam leaned against the wall, two cappuccinos in hand, steam curling into the cool evening air.
Y/N stepped out of the lab, so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice Sam until she nearly colliding with him.
She startled. "Geez—Sam!"
Sam grinned, unfazed. "Good evening to you too," he said, voice easy, eyes amused.
Y/N narrowed her eyes, still catching her breath. "Lurking outside labs now?"
Then she caught the scent—warm, spiced.
Her gaze dropped to the mugs. "Wait. Is that coffee?".
Sam chuckled, offering one. "Figured you might need it. You looked like you were about to float away with that brain of yours."
Y/N huffed a laugh, accepting the cup. "You're a lifesaver."
"Don't I know it," he said, sipping from his own and leaning back against the wall.
He watched her for a moment, then asked—softer now, more careful—"You got plans after this?"
She shrugged. "Just some stuff I've been meaning to finish."
Sam tilted his head. "Think you can push it a little? I want to show you something."
Y/N glanced over, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Sure. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," he said, giving her arm a light nudge. "Just... something I think you'll like."
Curiosity flickered across her face, but she nodded and fell in beside him. They walked in easy silence down the corridor, past hushed offices and empty briefing rooms, until they reached the elevator.
Neither spoke as the doors closed.
When it opened at the top floor, Sam led the way toward a smaller stairwell—one rarely used except for rooftop access. The distant sound of rain was louder now, closer.
As they climbed, Sam spoke—voice low, almost like he was remembering it out loud more than saying it to her.
"Back when you first got here," he said quietly. "Still trying to find steady ground again."
Y/N's steps slowed, fingers brushing along the railing.
"I stopped by the med floor one afternoon. You were by the window—hooked up to monitors, barely saying a word. But your eyes were fixed on the rain."
He let out a slow breath.
"We hadn't really talked yet. I didn't know what to say, so I just stood there for a while."
Then, softer:
"And I asked if you wanted me to go."
Y/N blinked, looking at him. The memory stirred—blurry at the edges, but still there.
"And you said..." Sam's voice held the edge of a smile. "'I think I like rainy days.'"
A pause.
"You said you didn't remember why. Just that you liked watching it now."
He looked over at her, a soft warmth in his eyes.
"That was the first thing you ever said to me. And I never forgot it."
For a second, it almost felt like that same day—rain against the glass, quiet between them. But this time, she wasn't behind it. She was walking beside him.
They reached the rooftop door, and Sam held it open for her.
The rain was steady but gentle, drumming softly on the canopy overhead. The air was cool, fresh. Near the edge of the roof, a small table and two chairs waited under the shelter—quiet, tucked away, made for watching the rain.
They sat, mugs in hand. The soft clink of ceramic filled the space between them, the warmth of the coffee cutting through the chill.
"So," Sam said after a beat, voice low and easy, "what've you got planned after this?"
Y/N took a sip, letting the warmth linger before replying. "Just a few tasks I need to finish up."
"Uh-huh. A few," Sam said, eyes twinkling as he pulled a notepad from his hoodie pocket and flipped it open. He skimmed the page, then began reading aloud:
He paused, raising a brow as he looked at her.
"You even updated Tony's vitamins. Who does that?"
Y/N blinked, stunned—her gaze flicking between the notepad in his hand and his face. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, then closed again.
Sam let out a soft chuckle, leaning back slightly in his chair, all ease and amusement.
"You left this at the breakfast table before bolting off to the lab. Figured I'd take a peek."
He tapped the notepad with two fingers, like presenting a piece of evidence.
"Your To-Do List," he said, drawing the words out with a mock investigator's flair.
Then he set it down on the table between them.
He let the pause breathe, watching her before he went on.
"You know Steve and I came in this morning, ready to tackle a stack of mission reports..."
He lifted a brow, smirking.
"Except they were already done. Filed. Signed. Neater than Steve's desk on inspection day."
He leaned back a little.
"FRIDAY said the last keycard swipe into the report room was yours. Eleven. Last night."
A short beat. His grin returned.
"So... you've officially been caught, little elf."
Y/N blinked at him. "Elf?"
"Yeah," Sam said, grin deepening. He leaned in slightly, like he was sharing a secret. "You know—like the shoemaker and his elves?"
She tilted her head, still uncertain, and Sam chuckled softly.
"It's an old story," he said. "The shoemaker leaves the work out overnight, planning to do it in the morning — but when he wakes up, it's already finished. Turns out the elves had done it for him."
He tapped the notepad slightly, his voice softening. "You've been our little elf, Y/N."
She let out a quiet breath, trying to laugh it off. "It's just a few things—"
Sam shook his head. "Nope," he cut in gently. "Not just a few things."
A pause. His voice dropped a little, more careful now.
"How long have you been doing these?"
She shrugged like it didn't matter. "It's no big deal."
But Sam wasn't buying it. He leaned forward, eyes steady on hers.
"Working yourself past what you need to. Taking on things for everyone else. Making sure the job gets done, but no one sees who did it."
His voice softened.
"You've been lifting weight off all of us... while carrying the whole damn thing by yourself."
Y/N's chest tightened, the truth of his words settling in like a stone.
"Hyper-responsibility and hyper-independence... pretty heavy defence strategy, Y/N."
Her eyes dropped to her lap. No pushback. No protest.
Sam studied her for a moment, then said gently,
"I saw it the first time when you rebuilt yourself from scratch. All on your own. Like reaching out would come back with a price."
He leaned back slightly, voice calm but steady.
"I still see it when you jump in before anyone asks. Like helping is a reflex you can't turn off."
A beat.
"I see it when you take on every little rift between all of us—like if you don't hold the pieces, they'll fall."
Her jaw tightened.
He paused.
"And I see it when your hands shake over one mistake. When you beat yourself up like being human is a flaw."
Then, quieter:
"I always thought the root cause was Hydra. The trauma. The survival wiring."
He looked at her now — really looked.
"But it wasn't, was it?"
She didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"It was your childhood."
He let the rain speak for a second. The hush of it made everything feel suspended.
"Because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that being good meant being useful. No rest. No help. No mistakes."
"You were probably the kid who handled things so no one else had to. Who got good at guessing what might set someone off. Who apologised first even when it wasn't your fault."
He paused, his eyes searching hers, and his next words landed quieter—deeper.
"You learned to survive by staying ahead of the damage."
Y/N stayed quiet for a moment.
The steam from her mug curled into the rain-washed air. Her fingers tightened around the ceramic—grounding herself.
Then she exhaled, almost like something inside her was unclenching.
Her voice, when it came, was fragile. Paper-thin.
"When I was little... my mom used to say it was my job to hold everything together."
She swallowed.
"She said if I really loved the family, I wouldn't need to be told to take care of them."
Her hands clenched slightly in her sleeves.
"So I always just... did. I never stopped."
The words hung there, soft but weighted.
"I figured... maybe if I held it all together, they'd have one less thing to worry about."
The steam from her mug curled between them as Sam spoke again.
"You were surviving, Y/N. By adapting to what you were handed."
He looked out toward the rain for a beat, then back to her.
"And that's more weight than any kid should've ever had to carry."
Sam set the notepad down on the table, never taking his eyes off her.
"But here's the thing," he said, voice low. "Habits? They're not chains."
A beat.
"They're just old armour. You wore it because you had to."
His tone softened further, almost like he was walking her through it.
"But now?"
He nodded toward the list between them.
"Now you get to decide if you still want it."
Silence.
Her eyes stayed on the pad — like it held a verdict she hadn't prepared for.
"You don't have to earn being loved here," Sam said softly.
"You don't owe us your exhaustion to keep your place."
"You're not measured by what you do for us, Y/N."
He leaned back just slightly. Let her breathe.
"You're one of us. That's it. That's the whole thing."
Outside, the rain kept falling — soft and steady. But under the shelter, something long-held began to loosen.
Y/N didn't speak.
She stared at the notepad on the table, chest tight with something that wasn't quite grief, wasn't quite relief — just full.
Full of a weight she hadn't known she carried, until someone told her she didn't have to.
Part of her wanted to believe it. But that kind of love still felt foreign. Like a sweater she hadn't earned.
Sam shifted slightly, reaching into his hoodie pocket again.
"I know it's not easy," he said softly. "Letting go all at once. But maybe... we could start with this."
He pulled out a second notepad — smaller, newer. The cover was soft, slightly creased from being carried around. A scattering of yellow flowers curled around the edges, and in the centre, handwritten in Sam's tidy lettering:
Bucket List.
Y/N blinked at it.
Sam gave a half-smile, not forcing it.
"You know what a bucket list is, right?"
She shook her head, just once.
"It's a list of things you want to do," he explained. "Not because you have to. Not because someone needs it from you. Just because you want to experience them for yourself."
He offered it to her gently, letting it bridge the space between them.
"Doesn't have to be wild. Could be 'eat pancakes at midnight' or 'paint something badly' or 'watch fireworks from a roof.'"
Y/N looked down at the notepad on the table — the one he'd given her first — the old armour she'd always worn.
Then her gaze shifted to the one in his hand — something light. Something forward.
"Figured it's time you lived for yourself," he said. "Maybe it helps to have a map — even if it's just scribbles to start."
The rain continued softly around them.
Y/N reached out — slow, deliberate — and took the notepad from his hand.
For a long second, she just held it.
Then, quietly, she smiled — shy, almost private — like a secret being remembered.
Sam caught it instantly.
"What?" he asked, one brow lifting.
She glanced up at him, a little sheepish.
"You're gonna laugh."
He tilted his head, amused. "And that's a bad thing?"
She let out a soft huff. "I always wanted to... dance in the rain as a kid. Not, like—real dancing. Just... be in it. Get soaked. No coat. No umbrella. ...And not feel guilty for liking it."
A pause.
She glanced down again. "I know it sounds silly."
Sam's voice came back low, warm. "No," he said. "It sounds like a start."
Before she could answer, he pushed up from the chair.
She blinked. "Wait—?"
And then he stepped out from under the shelter.
Right into the rain.
Water hit him in sheets. His hoodie darkened. His sneakers splashed through the shallow puddles. He didn't flinch. Didn't shield himself. Just tilted his head back for a moment, letting it fall.
Y/N's breath caught. "Sam—!"
He turned, smiling. "Come on."
She stayed frozen, the rain just inches from her shoes.
"Let it happen, just once," Sam said. "Do something that doesn't fix anything. Doesn't help anyone. Just feels like yours."
Y/N looked down at the edge of the covered floor.
The line between dry and soaked.
Her heart pounded.
But then—slowly—she stepped over it.
The first drop hit her cheek like a question.
The next — an answer.
It soaked into her sleeves. Clung to her spine. Cold, clean, clarifying.
It dripped from her lashes. Blurred the world just enough to feel new.
She closed her eyes.
Not smiling. Not crying. Just letting it happen.
She just let herself be drenched in a moment that asked nothing of her.
And Sam didn't say a word.
He just stood nearby, arms crossed, letting the storm hit him too.
Two people under open sky.
No umbrellas.
No responsibilities.
No need to be useful.
Just the rain.
The choice to stay in it.
And her first step of quiet rebellion against perfectionism.
-
It was Saturday night—team dinner night, a tradition that never failed to bring out the best (and most competitive) in the Avengers. The kitchen was full of life as Sam stirred his infamous chilli, the kind that could make even the most seasoned taste buds beg for mercy.
"I'm telling you, I can handle it better than all of you," Natasha declared, leaning on the counter with a challenge in her eyes.
Steve, who was already eyeing the dish warily, shot her a grin. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Natasha tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Watch me.” She tapped the counter with her fingers. “Anyone else think they can keep up?”
Bucky raised his hand with a faint smirk. “I’ll take that bet.”
Tony leaned forward, smirking. “You sure about that, Barnes? ‘Cause I came prepared to out-chilli all of you.”
Bruce chuckled from the other side of the kitchen, shaking his head. "You're all crazy. I'll sit this one out, thank you."
Y/N couldn’t help but laugh as the room filled with bravado. One glance at Sam was enough; they didn’t need words to agree they’d keep their title as the chilli champions.
The friendly chaos grew louder by the second, the team’s competitive spirit spilling over as everyone tried to outdo each other with ridiculous claims of who could eat the most heat.
Voices overlapped.
Forks tapped plates.
Someone laughed too loud.
Someone banged a palm on the table mid-story.
It wasn't angry.
Not at all.
But it was loud.
Too loud—
She was eight. Maybe nine.
Dinner.
Her parents’ voices clashing across the table — sharp, overlapping, a rhythmless duet of blame that filled the house night after night.
Her mother’s voice cut high and shrill, every word a blade, while her father’s reply thundered back in a furious roar that shook the room.
"You always—always think you're better than me!" she snapped, slamming a fist on the table. The china rattled.
“I’m sick of this. Maybe I should just walk out and let you handle it all yourself!” His voice rose with every word.
His eyes flicked toward Y/N, gesturing at her with a careless wave. “God knows she’s not worth sticking around for.”
Y/N’s heart raced. Her fingers trembled in her lap, a knot tightening in her stomach.
“You never listen, you never care — and I’m the one who suffers for it!” her mother shot back, desperate, angry.
Bang.
Her father's fist on the table. The sound felt like a punch to the gut.
"Don't raise your voice at me, woman," he warned, his words thick with an anger she knew too well.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, breath shallow.
She waited for the crash that always came.
The tension snapped.
She flinched. Then the door slammed.
The silence after felt heavier than the fight.
Her mother's voice cut through it, full of venom."Why didn't you stop him? Huh? You saw it. You should've said something."
Y/N stayed frozen, too small to fix what was broken.
"Good daughters are supposed to keep the calm. Why didn’t you?”
Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t breathe past the weight in her chest.
“If you can’t even keep the peace…”
Her mother’s words sliced through.
“…you’ll never keep anyone.”
A pause. The silence hung heavy, poisonous.
“You’ll end up all alone.”
Her voice dropped, colder still.
“Just like you deserve.”
Another beat.
“Go to your room,” she said, voice ice. Final. Unyielding.
“That’s where you belong — locked in with yourself.”
Y/N stood.
Her feet moved, each step caught in the same mechanical rhythm now as it was then.
She didn't hear the chair scrape back.
Didn't feel Natasha's hand leave her arm.
The voices behind her blurred — playful squabble twisting into the shape of shouting.
Even though they weren't.
Her brain didn't care.
Raised voices meant one thing.
And it remembered.
Bucky saw it the moment her expression shifted — the laugh cut short, her shoulders curling in before she pushed her chair back. The light in her eyes dimmed, retreating.
"Y/N?" His voice was careful, gentle.
She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.
The others shifted, half-rising, concern etched in their faces.
Bucky looked back once. A warning in his eyes: stay seated. Don’t spook her.
They did.
He followed — quiet, steady. Her shadow.
Y/N drifted down the hall, each step automatic, unthinking.
Bucky trailed her, expecting her to turn toward her room — but she didn't.
She kept going, slipping instead into the stairwell at the far end, swallowed by shadow.
Down she went.
One flight.
Then another.
And another.
Until the last floor rose up to meet her, thick with the dry scent of dust and old paper.
Her mother's words echoed, curling like chains around her steps: That's where you belong — locked in with yourself.
And here it was, waiting.
The archive room.
Her cage — shelves stacked high with Hydra’s keeping of her.
Every file. Every record. Every piece of herself dissected and stored within.
The door she had avoided since the mission.
But now her hand moved before her mind.
The handle turned.
A low groan of hinges.
She stood there, blank, breath caught in the dim.
Then — inside.
The door clicked shut.
Her back found it.
Her eyes fell closed.
When they opened—the compound was gone.
She knew this room.
Too well.
The small bed. The peeling wallpaper — her childhood bedroom, untouched.
And by the pillow—
the same worn soft toy, slumped and waiting.
Her hand reached out, fingers closing around its worn shape.
She could almost hear her own voice, small and broken, sobbing into it.
Her chest clinched tight, and before thought could catch up, she was on the floor, knees to her chest, curling small the way she always had.
As if the shape could make her invisible.
As if smaller meant safer.
The walls didn't stay quiet.
They never did.
The voices rose. Not one. Not two. All of them.
Fighting to be heard, crashing over one another—
“You’re invisible.”
“You don’t exist to anyone.” “Nobody’s here for you.”
They circled, splintering, louder, sharper.
Until she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
Noise became memory.
Memory bled into the room.
And the room became her.
Her hands pressed harder against her ears, palms grinding so tightly the skin flushed red. Tears blurred her vision, spilling unchecked as her body shook.
"Please stop," she begged, voice ragged. "It's too loud—please, stop."
The pounding in her chest was louder than her pleas.
And then warmth pressed over her hands, covering them gently.
Not prying. Just steady. Holding.
His voice slipped through, low, rough with certainty:
“I’m here.”
The others pressed in harder.
“No one wants you.”
“You’ll never belong.”
“You will always be alone.”
She trembled, drawing herself small.
His forehead came to rest against hers, anchoring her in the steady presence of him.
His words cut through again, soft but unyielding:
“You’re not alone anymore.”
But the voices didn’t falter. They clawed back, harsher than before, fighting to bury him.
“You’ll never be enough to keep.”
“No one will ever hold you.”
“You’re on your own. Forever.”
Her body shook harder, the voices drilling deeper, leaving her hollow.
Until he moved closer, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her against his chest.
Holding her small shape within his, gentle and sure.
His voice broke through like light, low and final:
“I’ve got you. Always.”
The voices wavered, thinning into static.
His presence filled the space they left behind — warmth, weight, steadiness.
His heartbeat rose against her, louder than the echoes.
Her hands fell from her ears, finding his shirt instead.
What had been a shield became an anchor, her body easing into him as the trembling slowed.
His hand moved slowly to the back of her head as he murmured again, firm and low, “I’ve got you,” the words bracing around her like armour.
His chin came to rest lightly against her hair, a quiet press she felt, close and sure.
Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat falling into rhythm with his, anchored by the enduring beat beneath her ear.
And for the first time, she let herself believe it.
She stayed there, cheek shifting slightly against him, listening. The rise and fall of his chest was steady beneath her ear, patient.
The silence held — not heavy, not cruel, simply waiting.
When her voice came, it was small, halting, as if she were testing the ground before stepping forward.
“I was afraid to come down here,” she whispered.
Her eyes flickered away, then back.
“Since the mission… I thought if I let myself remember—” her throat caught, the pause long, “—it would undo everything I’ve tried to build back.”
His hand tightened around hers, thumb brushing slow across her knuckles. “I know,” Bucky murmured, his breath stirring against her hair.
After a beat, quieter: “But someone once told me healing doesn’t mean forgetting.”
His breath warmed her temple, his voice holding the same gentleness she’d once given him.
“It means remembering… but not letting it drag you under. It means walking past the wreckage… without trying to piece it back together.”
"And still choosing—” his voice softened, earnest “—to plant something beautiful where the fire once was."
His vibranium fingers shifted, careful, threading through hers until their hands folded together. A gesture deliberate and gentle — as though showing her what he meant.
For a moment she only stared at their joined hands, then up at him — and the words fell from her lips, softer than breath.
“You’ll always be the most beautiful living proof of that.”
His breath caught, eyes flicking over her face like he couldn’t believe she’d said it.
“Doll… I was going to say that about you.”
She shook her head faintly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
“…Right now? I can’t tell the difference between her… and me.”
His hand closed around hers, firm and steady.
“You’re not that little girl anymore.”
His thumb brushed across her knuckles, deliberate.
“You’ve grown into someone who would’ve protected her. The strength you found back then—that’s what made you who you are today.”
A tear slid down her cheek. He reached up, brushed it away with the back of his knuckle.
“And right now?” His words dropped to almost a murmur. “You’re holding her hand through the fire. But this time… you’re not leaving her there. You’re walking her out. Together.”
He let the word linger in the quiet before he spoke again, his voice softening, steady with something that felt like a promise.
“And you’re not doing it alone this time. I’m here. Every step.”
For a heartbeat she nearly let it in. Then she shook her head, the reflex quick and quiet.
“You don’t have to, Buck. I’m used to managing on my own.”
Then quieter, almost like an echo from somewhere younger:
“I’m a tough kid. I can handle it.”
Bucky stilled, the words hitting him with a weight he felt in his chest. It broke something in him, hearing her repeat the same armour a child had once needed just to survive.
His throat worked, but he didn’t argue, didn’t push — he only held tighter, folding himself into them, making space for her and for now.
“I know you are,” he said softly, voice thick with something like awe and ache. “And I know you can. You have. You still do. You always will.”
His hand squeezed hers tighter, steady, certain.
“But now I’m here too. We take care of each other.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, wide and unguarded for a heartbeat.
His vow sat heavy, almost foreign, like he was asking her to believe in something she’d never been taught to want.
Survival had always been hers alone. She wasn’t sure she knew how to let it be anything else.
But she found herself tightening her grip anyway, pulled closer by the echoes of his voice.
I’m here.
You are not alone anymore.
I’ve got you. Always.
The words tangled with her breath, leaving only one truth left to hear.
We take care of each other.
The simplicity of it made her wonder, for the first time, if it didn’t have to be.
And with the faintest dip of her chin, she nodded.
Bucky’s chest eased at the sight, the faintest breath of relief slipping through him. He hadn’t realised he was smiling until the corners of his mouth tugged soft, almost in awe.
Slowly, he touched his lips to her forehead, lingering like firelight—gentle, steady, carrying warmth into places long cold.
For a few long moments, they stayed like that, the world outside their cocoon forgotten.
Until it wasn’t.
Footsteps. Too many of them, muffled but unmistakable, stopping just outside the door.
“—I’m telling you, they’re in there.”
Tony scoffed. “Or we’re loitering in a basement, which is a great look, by the way.”
“We’ve checked every floor twice. This has to be it.” Sam said, certain.
No one moved.
“We should knock,” Steve offered.
Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “By all means. You first.”
A pause.
Bruce’s voice came quiet but wry. “You realise if they are in there, they can definitely hear all of this.”
Y/N’s lips curved into amuffled laugh against Bucky’s chest. His own huff of amusement rumbled low in his throat, forehead still pressed to hers.
Without moving, his voice cut through, low, steady:
“We’re here. Come in.”
A pause—then, absurdly, a polite knock on the door.
Y/N gave a small bubble of laughter, covering her mouth. Bucky’s eyes softened, the faintest smile tugging as if he couldn’t help indulging her.
Tony’s voice rang out, full of disbelief: “He just said come in! You knocked anyway? Incredible. America’s most wanted, ladies and gentlemen.”
Steve’s voice came back, dry and utterly serious: “That’s called manners.”
The door creaked opened.
He stepped in first, composed as ever. The others filtered in and sat where there was space, their steps soft until a close circle formed around the two of them.
No one spoke for a minute.
Then Tony broke the silence. “Doing some light reading, are we?”
“Stark.” Natasha’s elbow caught his ribs, sharp enough to make her point.
Bucky’s arm shifted, tucking Y/N a little nearer.
She glanced up at him, a flicker of resolve in her voice. “Figured it was… about time.”
The corner of his mouth tugged, almost a smile, admiration flickering soft in his eyes.
The moment lingered, unbroken, until another voice cut in.
Sam leaned forward, brows raised. “You good with that?”
She nodded once, meeting Sam’s eyes.
It was answer enough.
Steve’s voice came calm, grounding. “Then we’re with you.”
Y/N blinked. “We?”
Steve reached for a nearby crate, pulling out a worn file. “Let’s take a walk down memory lane.”
“I’m in,” Sam said, snatching up another file with a half-grin.
Y/N looked between them, surprise breaking through her guard.
Tony arched a brow, dragging a crate toward him. “What, you thought we’d let you sift through the wreckage solo? Not happening.”
Bruce adjusted his glasses, settling cross-legged with a file. "Been a while since I cracked open homework."
The others traded faint smiles. Then the quiet folded back in.
Y/N’s hands twisted in her lap.
“You don’t have to. I… I don’t even know how much mess there is left.”
A touch steadied her — Natasha’s hand warm on her arm.
“Show us your worst,” she said, tone even, eyes sharp. “Promise you we’ll still be here.”
Y/N’s throat worked, but no words came.
Steve shifted closer, his tone calm and certain.
“You don’t have to hold this together for us. We’re not here because it’s easy. We’re here because it’s you.”
Bruce exhaled softly, a rueful breath.
“Everyone here’s dragging a mess behind them. That’s kind of what makes us fit.”
Natasha’s mouth tugged faintly. “It’s what makes us family.”
Sam leaned back, arms folded, his tone easy but sure.
“You’re stuck with us now. That’s how this works.”
Tony’s voice landed last, dry as ever, though the warmth beneath it was clear.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You don’t get to kick us out. We’re squatters now.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the circle, settling around her like a blanket she hadn’t known she needed.
Y/N swallowed hard. For once, the old voice in her head had nothing to say back.
As the warmth of the moment sank in, she felt the brush of his lips against her temple, gentle as a breath, his voice following in a low murmur meant only for her.
"You’ve got backup now, doll. For good."
The words settled deep, undoing her in the softest way.
It slipped free like a whispered prayer, just a breath she’d been holding for years.
Before long they were shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor, knees bumped under open crates, sorting through what remained.
It wasn’t easy. But it felt possible.
Her hands didn’t shake as much this time.
She was still scared.
But she wasn’t alone.
For now, that was enough.
After a while, Steve pushed himself to his feet, rolling the stiffness from his knees.
He wandered toward the back wall, gaze skimming shelves stacked with cartons and files, labels smudged past reading, dust thick enough to choke the names.
Then his eye caught on something that didn’t fit.
A corner, half-hidden behind a stack of folders.
Red.
The colour alone made his chest tighten.
Steve dragged the box free, brushing dust from the lid with the side of his hand. The Hydra font glared back at him, cold and clinical:
L/N, Y/N - THE BEGINNING AFTER THE END - BARNES, JAMES B.
FOR DIRECTORS EYES ONLY.
His fingers curled tight around the edge of the lid.
He wasn’t sure what made his stomach drop more —
the blood-red of the container,
the words stamped across it,
or the broken lock, split open as if pried at by hands long before his.
He stared too long, caught in the pull of something he didn’t want to name.
Then —
A sudden swell of laughter and gasps cut the thread, snapping him out of it.
Steve blinked, the sound of Y/N’s laugh laced with Bucky’s low murmur tugging him back to the room.
He drew in a breath, steadying himself, then slid the red box further back into the shadows of the shelf until it pressed flush against the wall. Then he stacked a line of dusty folders and cartons in front of it, careful, methodical, hiding every trace of its edge.
“Plenty to get through first,” he muttered under his breath, low enough no one else would hear.
He bent, scooped up a stack of files from a crate, and carried them back to the circle. Laughter still rippled soft around him as he lowered himself into place.
“What’d I miss?” he asked, settling back in.
Sam held up a worn photograph he’d just pulled from a half-crushed box, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Take a look at this.”
Grainy, faded — but clear enough.
A little girl in too-big shoes and an oversized coat, standing with her chin up and her brows furrowed like she was ready to fight the world.
Mini Y/N.
Steve turned the photo over in his hands, the corner of his mouth curving in quiet amusement. "Now that’s a sight," he said.
Sam leaned in, grinning wide. “Tell me this isn’t exactly what a tiny version of these two would look like.”
Y/N blinked, caught completely off guard. "What—"
Bucky? He’d already melted into a puddle of emotional goo beside her.
He looked at the photo, then at her, then at her again — and something shifted in his eyes. Like the thought hit.
Like he could see it.
A tiny version of her, refusing help with her shoes. Pouting at bedtime. Dozing off mid-story, cheek pillowed against the open page she’d refused to close.
And then—
His arm tightened gently around her. His hand settled over her belly — instinctive, protective. Fingers spreading slightly.
Y/N felt it.
That pause. That tenderness.
But she didn’t flinch this time. She didn’t even freeze. She just leaned back into him, heartbeat steady under his palm. His thumb rubbed slow circles over her stomach, like he couldn’t help himself.
“You’re thinking about it, too,” she murmured.
Bucky smiled against her hair.
"Can't help it, doll. A Mini You in the world? That’d be some kind of magic."
A flush rose warm in her face when she looked up, only to be caught by a gaze so gentle it left her heart aching with love.
"Oh my god," Sam said, pointing. "Look at him. He’s got that ‘I’ll build a crib by hand and cry when she says da-da’ look."
Steve tried to be composed. Failed. "He's already memorising lullabies."
Nat smirked. "Barnes has officially left the battlefield."
Bruce, still flipping through a folder, raised a hand. "He’s in nesting mode. Two days before he’s sanding a rocking chair."
From behind a crate, Tony’s voice rang out:"I call godfather. Or crazy inventor uncle. Or—honestly, I just want to build her tiny suits."
A wave of dramatic protests followed, every one of them acting robbed.
Y/N laughed, overwhelmed in the best way. Her hand slid over his, right where it rested warm and steady on her belly.
She leaned her forehead to his, shy and soft, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Forever’s a long time to be stuck with me, Buck.”
Bucky looked at her like she was the only thing left worth building the world around.
“That’s not stuck, sweetheart. That’s home.”
She kissed him then, soft and sure, her smile pressed to his as the background filled with playful bickering once again — dibs flying fast and loud.
But this time, it didn’t ripple with old hurt.
Instead, her giggle melted right into the kiss, and Bucky’s lips curved against hers. Soft laughter slipped free — joy spilling over, wrapped in the sound of family.
Content warning: Mentions of trauma and emotional distress.
The next morning, the compound grounds were quiet.
Birdsong here and there. A distant breeze rustling the leaves. Natasha's footsteps light on the gravel path beside Y/N's heavier ones.
They weren't talking—just running, breathing, getting the nervous energy out of Y/N's body before it turned inward.
Around their third lap, Natasha slowed slightly, glancing sideways. "Doing okay?"
Y/N nodded once, breath tight. "Yeah."
But just then, she slowed to a stop.
One lace had come undone, trailing on the path like an afterthought. She crouched to tie it. Fingers working from memory.
Loop. Cross. Pull tight.
And then—
The texture of the lace. The pinch of the knot.
Too familiar.
The fingers were hers. But the moment wasn't.
Same motion.
Same dirt under her knees.
But she was smaller. The laces weren't hers—they were her brother's.
She was kneeling beside him on the edge of the front yard. Focused on the loops, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
Then—
A sharp kick.
Sand burst up into her face—grit scraping her cheek, stinging her eye.
She cried out, flinching back as he snickered, already running.
He didn't get far before he tripped. Hit the ground hard. Started wailing.
Their mother came out from the house a second later.
"What did you do?"
Y/N blinked through one swollen eye, still rubbing the sand from her lashes. "I—I didn't—"
"He pushed me!" her brother cried, clutching his knee. "She did it on purpose!"
She didn't even get the rest of the words out.
The slap came hard and fast. Her cheek exploded with heat. Her knees gave out under her.
"How dare you touch him!" her mother screamed.
"He's delicate. He's the one this family's proud of."
A trembling point.
"And you—"
Her voice dropped to something colder. Final.
"You are nothing but a monster. You can never take care of anyone."
Y/N stayed down. Quiet. Holding the sting in her face and the weight in her chest.
The memory faded. But her hands kept moving.
Loop. Pull. Undo.
Loop. Pull. Undo.
Y/N didn't realise she was tying the same lace.
Again.
Again.
A shadow moved beside her.
"Y/N," Natasha said softly, crouching down. "That lace is already tied."
Her fingers froze mid-motion, a loose loop trembling between them.
Her eyes drifted up toward Natasha's face—but didn't quite meet it. Her voice came out flat. Tranced.
"I'm a monster. I hurt people. I can't take care of anyone."
It didn't sound like guilt. It sounded like belief. One so old it felt inherited.
Natasha didn't interrupt it.
She let it hang.
Then, quiet. Certain—
"You take care of me."
She let that sit for a second.
"You don't even notice you're doing it, but you do. Constantly."
She gestured, vaguely, like she wasn't going to list it out. But then she did — carefully. Quietly.
"When I get sick, you make soup. Not from a packet. Real soup. The good kind."
"When I get too wound up to breathe, you let me braid your hair. Even when we're late."
"You bring back my favourite ice cream every time you go to the store."
She glanced down at her own hand.
"That time I grazed my wrist vaulting the fence? You iced it before I even realised I was bleeding. You didn't ask if I needed help. You just showed up with the med kit."
Her voice softened, but didn't lose strength.
"Most people don't do that unless they're told. You do it because you notice."
She looked back at Y/N now. Balanced on her heels. Steady as a lighthouse.
"You care about people in ways they don't even know they need. Not until it's already done."
Natasha reached forward.
Carefully, she began untying the loops Y/N had been knotting over and over.
One by one, she undid them.
She tugged the lace taut, slow and steady.
"You think you can't take care of anyone."
She tied a single, clean knot. Just once.
"But that's always what you do."
Her eyes dropped to the knot. Flicked back to Natasha.
And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like something might stay tied.
-
The next day.
Bruce and Tony entered the lab to find Y/N already there—reading at her desk, her old notebook open, pages filled with old scribbles, rewiring techniques she used from years ago on herself.
Tony had already brought Bruce up to speed on what happened during the mission.
They exchanged a glance before approaching—both relieved to see her there, and both knowing her well enough to understand that right now, she needed the work to keep her mind occupied.
So they eased back into their project—recalibrating the neural feedback array.
But they noticed the difference.
She was quieter.
She didn't chime in during the brainstorming. Didn't offer her usual sharp corrections unless Bruce or Tony directly asked. Normally, she'd be halfway through a sarcastic debate with Tony or buried deep in equations with Bruce by now.
Today, she was hidden.
Focused, careful—but tired. Fractured.
Her mind flickered — the mission, the broken teacup, distant screams. Bucky’s heartbeat steady against her panic.
Natasha’s calm certainty, like she’d always known Y/N would make it back.
It was during a test run that the spiral began.
A number. Entered wrong.
Tiny. But enough.
A low alarm blipped on.
Bruce reached past her to shut it off, calm as ever. "It's okay. Just a small slip. We'll rerun the sequence, no harm done."
Y/N blinked hard.
Bruce noticed it immediately.
"Hey. It's alright," he said gently. "We've all botched worse. I once melted the entire centrifuge."
Tony chimed in with his usual flair. "And I turned my eyebrows blue last week try to make a French dessert. For science."
He gave her shoulder a light pat.
But she didn't laugh.
Didn't move.
She froze.
It hadn't been a pat, then. It had been a shove.
A hard one.
Pain shot through her back as she hit the ground, schoolyard gravel digging into her knees. A circle of classmates loomed, fists and feet flying.
"You better give us the answers for this exam, Y/N."
"And don't even think about getting another A. The teacher'll know the answers came from you."
"If you top this one, we'll break your fingers so you can't even write for the next one."
She'd curled in on herself, silent. Tears streaming. Bruises blooming beneath her uniform until she gave in.
Later—a teacher's disapproving sigh as she handed back a test. A red circle—far below her usual score.
"You won't get anywhere if you keep messing up like this, Y/N. Everyone else improved. What's wrong with you?"
At home—
Her mother's voice, cold and sharp.
"This grade is an embarrassment. You were clearly born stupid and never worked hard enough to fix it."
"And don't lie about your classmates threatening you again. I've met their parents. Their kids are angels. Unlike you."
She slammed the paper down.
"How am I supposed to face them next week? Their kids succeed. And I have you."
Her father's voice, louder.
"You're grounded until the next exam. School. Home. That's it."
Her brother from the doorway—smirking.
"Not like you've got friends to go out with anyway."
Her father turned away with a final scoff.
"You're nothing but a disappointment."
She clutched her schoolbag tighter, her back still throbbing from the bruises.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll do better next time".
Back in the lab.
Her hand trembled as she stared at the equation. Her lips moved, soundless at first.
"I'm sorry. I'll do better next time..."
Tony blinked, stepping closer. "Y/N?"
But she barely hears him.
"Never smart enough. Always a disappointment. Always a failure."
The words repeated in a whisper. A haunted chant.
Bruce moved slowly, crouching beside her. Her posture was locked—shoulders taut, breathing clipped.
"Y/N," he said gently. "A miscalculation isn't a reflection of your intelligence, or your worth."
No reaction.
So Bruce reached into the pocket of her lab coat and gently pulled out her ID badge—tucked away instead of worn like usual. Quietly, he set it down on the open notebook she was staring at.
"I spent some time going through your old personal files," he said softly. "The ones recovered two days ago."
Tony tensed. "Bruce—now might not be—"
Bruce raised a hand. Calm.
Y/N's eyes flickered to the badge, but didn't lift. Just stared—fixed, distant.
Bruce stayed still beside her. His voice was soft, but certain.
"I know you grew up in an environment that hurt you. Abuse at home. Peers who beat you down until you stopped fighting back. Psychological dehumanisation."
He paused.
"Hyper-responsibility. Perfectionism. Self-blame. Isolation. They became your way to survive."
His tone softened.
"But even through all of that... you were curious. You studied medicine, then chose neuropsychiatry—because you wanted to understand why trauma breaks people."
He glanced down at the notebook.
"Specifically, the psychological wounds of warfare."
A breath.
"Because you didn't just want to survive it. You wanted to prove it wrong. To prove that minds could be unbroken. That even those convinced they were beyond saving could be rewired, healed, made whole again."
He looked at her, eyes steady.
"You used your own history—your refusal to stay broken—to build techniques that changed lives. Groundbreaking work. Work that's helped soldiers. Trauma victims. Survivors".
Another pause.
"You've helped them disarm triggers. Showed them that peace is safe. Taught them how to sit with calm—even when it felt unfamiliar—and not run back to the chaos that used to feel safe."
His voice lowered.
"You didn't just save lives. You changed them."
He let the silence settle for a moment, watching her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the badge.
Then, quieter:
"Including mine."
He paused, gaze soft but steady.
A breath.
"Y/N, for most of my life I've lived in fear of the other guy—what he might do, who he might hurt. I wasn't just afraid of losing control. I was afraid I was the damage."
He glanced down at his hands.
"I've tried to turn myself off more times than I care to admit. But the 'other guy' wouldn't let me. And every time I failed... it just made the anger worse."
His voice cracked a little.
"Then you came. Sat with me in this lab. Every day. Studying every trigger, every reaction. Even when it got messy. Dangerous."
He paused, eyes distant for a moment.
"You helped me understand that control isn't about suppression. I stopped trying to cage the other guy—because of you. I started trying to understand him."
He looked at her again, softer now.
"You taught me how to manage the one thing I thought I never could."
A breath.
"My anger."
A pause.
"And now I get to choose who I want to be. And when I want to be him. That room they built to hold me, in case I lost control? It's just a storage closet now."
He paused, letting it land.
"You helped me believe I wasn't a monster. So let me say this as clearly as I can—"
His voice was soft, but firm.
"You are not a failure, Y/N. You're the reason people like me want to keep living."
Her lips stopped trembling.
Just for a moment.
Her breathing had slowed, just a little, as the silence lingered in the space Bruce had carefully held.
Then—
Tony cleared his throat.
"Well," he said, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets, "tough act to follow. Thanks for that, Banner."
He stopped just beside Y/N, eyes flicking between the badge and her still-downcast face.
"You know, after my parents died, I spent years letting guilt drive every damn thing I did. Built entire industries. Systems on top of systems. Contingencies for contingencies."
A breath. Quieter now.
"I used to think that if I just kept building—more tech, more armour, more legacy—I could outrun it. Outbuild it."
He exhaled, eyes softening.
"But you—somehow—you convinced me I didn't have to punish myself to make something worthwhile. That I didn't have to be some walking redemption arc to matter."
He shifted on his feet, then crouched down to her level—just enough that his voice lowered with it.
"You taught me that the past doesn't have to be the blueprint for the future. That healing isn't weak. That feeling things—disgusting as that is—actually helps."
He gave a dry smile. "Still hate it. But, you know... I feel things now. Which is your fault, by the way."
He shifted, the edge of his usual humour creeping back in, gentler this time.
"And I don't say this lightly, but... I don't let just anyone borrow my Genius Billionaire mug."
That got the smallest breath out of her. Not quite a laugh—but something.
Tony softened further.
"You helped me become someone I can actually stand being," he said. "And if that's not proof you're a genius, I don't know what is."
A pause.
"And I know you find it hard to believe. But if you can't believe it yet... then borrow it from me. For now."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then slowly—like surfacing from deep water—
Y/N finally looked up.
Eyes red. But clearer.
Present.
Tony nodded at her gently.
"Glad to have you back, doc."
Bruce reached up to the table, setting her pen upright.
"Ready to give it another go?"
-
Sleep hadn't come easy.
Not since the nightmares returned.
Not because she couldn't feel safe — but because the moment she let her guard down, her past reached for her.
She didn't sleep in her bed anymore. The couch felt safer—less exposed, less hollow. Beds were for people who could let go. She wasn't one of them.
Bucky never questioned it. He just adjusted — brought in soft blankets and extra pillows. Tweaked the lights until they were soft and warm like late sunlight.
He queued up her comfort movies without asking. Played the same playlist each night. Read aloud from whatever book was lying nearby if her hands were too tired to hold it.
Sometimes, he sang to her. An old lullaby he barely remembered from another life.
Other times, they talked about nothing. Filling the silence so it wouldn't eat her alive.
He never rushed her. Never asked her to sleep.
He just stayed—night after night—by her side.
And slowly, the battleground began to shift. Her exhaustion started to wear her down, overtaking the fear that kept her awake for so long.
It happened late one night.
They were halfway through a movie. The couch was warm. Bucky sat beside her, blanket over both of them, his arm not quite touching hers—unless she let him.
Sometimes she did.
This time, she did.
He felt it when her shoulder drifted toward him—slow at first, hesitant. Her body dipped slightly, pulled by fatigue. Then her head, warm and heavy, leaned gently against his arm.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe too loud.
Just waited.
Waited to see if she'd pull back, if her body would flinch beneath the weight of comfort.
But she didn't.
After a minute, she shifted closer. Nuzzled in, the way she used to—when curling into him felt as natural as breathing.
That was all the permission he needed.
He wrapped his arm around her, slow and careful, like folding a blanket. Let her settle into the curve of his chest. His other hand came up to stroke her hair—lightly, rhythmically.
And when her body melted further into his, when her breathing finally began to slow—
He lowered his lips to her forehead.
Pressed the softest kiss there.
"I've got you, baby girl," he murmured against her skin. "I've got you."
He kept stroking—gentle, grounding—until her body eased fully into his, the tension she carried like armour finally beginning to slip away, piece by piece, into his arms.
She let out a soft breath—
and as sleep took hold, her mind reopened the door Hydra once forced shut.
She was strapped to the chair again.
Same cold slab of steel beneath her spine. Same worn leather restraints biting into her skin. Ankles, wrists, shoulders, throat.
The lights above her buzzed with static — bright enough to bleach thought. Her body already ached, like it remembered what was coming.
"Subject prepped. Vital signs holding."
A shadow passed overhead. The glint of metal.
She didn't flinch.
She couldn't.
The trigger words had already been spoken. She was still. Obedient. Muscles limp but conscious. Aware of everything.
She arched violently, breath catching in her throat — but her limbs stayed bound. Her mouth stayed shut.
Because her body no longer had permission to scream.
The serum hit harder this time. Sharper. Every nerve lit up, surging against her bones like electricity chewing through the marrow. She felt it in her teeth. Her eyes. Her spine.
Not less painful—just more refined. Like her body was no longer rejecting it, only absorbing it too fast.
Her vision swam.
She bit through her tongue.
"No loss of consciousness. Liver uptake shows 89% saturation."
"Continue sequencing. Next batch has structural cohesion additives."
This went on for days. Weeks. Months.
She didn't know how many batches there had been. Just that each one made her stronger. Harder. Sharper. She could feel it. Her bones knitting faster. Her wounds closing before they opened. Her heartbeat slower. Colder.
She was becoming something.
But not someone.
Then, one day, everything changed.
The needle was labeled "Batch 47."
They said nothing as they injected it. Just watched.
She braced herself for the fire. The frost. The ache. The seizure.
It didn't come.
Only stillness.
Only silence.
Her body didn't resist it.
It welcomed it.
Everything inside her snapped into alignment like magnets locking into place. Her vision sharpened. Her heartbeat dropped to a steady, controlled rhythm. Her muscles flexed without pain.
She was awake. Alert. Stable.
And not dying.
Not yet.
"Blood work?"
"Holding."
"Tissue response?"
"Clean uptake. No mutation. No rejection."
"Cognitive?"
"Fully responsive. No sedation. Compliant under trigger."
"Batch forty-seven confirmed."
A long silence.
Then:
"This is the version."
Another voice, colder. Senior.
"Repeatable?"
"Once stabilised, yes."
"Then we begin protocol escalation. Prepare for preservation trials."
A pause. A verdict.
"Now we know how to control both body and mind."
"She was the perfect blueprint".
"Now we build the weapon."
A beat.
"The Winter Soldier."
She screamed.
The sound cracked through the compound like breaking glass.
A crash. A gasp. A thud.
Bucky was flung off the couch with a force that surprised even him.
Y/N sat upright, eyes wild, chest heaving, her hands held out like they didn't belong to her.
"Bucky—?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay," he said gently, grounding his voice, steadying hers. He reached for her trembling hands, careful, slow.
But her gaze had already dropped to the floor—where he'd landed. And the horror that bloomed across her face hit harder than the fall.
"I hurt you."
"No—doll, you were dreaming. You didn't—"
"I hurt you." Her voice cracked.
"You woke up scared darling. That's all."
Her hand trembled in his. Her breath came in sharp, broken stutters. And the look on her face—
He would never forget it.
Like she was the monster. Like he needed saving from her.
"I don't know what I'll do next time. What if I don't stop? What if—"
"Doll—"
"No." She stood, already backing away. "Please—just let me sleep alone. I can't trust myself right now."
He stayed where he was. Afraid that even a step closer might push her further away.
But his voice—low, quiet, aching in that way only she ever heard—spoke everything his hands couldn't reach.
"Don't shut me out, doll. Please. Let me stay."
But she shook her head, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
She flinched when he reached for her—just a gentle touch meant to wipe them away.
Curled in on herself when his voice softened, like even kindness was too much to bear.
And that's when he saw it—clear as day, and just as devastating.
Not just the fear.
But where it was aimed.
It wasn't him she was afraid of.
It was herself.
And he understood.
God, he understood.
Because he'd lived that same fear.
Had stared at his own hands like they weren't his.
Had woken from dreams soaked in guilt he couldn't shake.
And he remembered—
How she'd helped him through it.
How she never forced closeness, never reached too far.
Just stayed near. Soft. Steady. Letting him come forward when he was ready to trust the safety she offered.
So now—when the roles had reversed—
he knew what she needed.
Not his presence.
But his patience.
And the kind of love that didn't ask her to be okay before she truly was.
So he nodded.
That night — and every night after — Bucky tucked her in with quiet care, in her own bed.
He smoothed the blanket. Straightened the pillow. Tucked Wolfie at her side.
"Guard duty," he murmured to the plush, patting its round head. "She needs you tonight."
He never said a word about the way his hand hovered above her hair before falling back to his side.
Never kissed her forehead, no matter how badly he ached to.
Never touched her skin.
Because she looked at herself like she was radioactive. Contaminated.
Like even tenderness might burn.
And so, he held his love in silence—not to withhold it, but to make sure she never felt unsafe in its presence.
She never knew that the door never fully closed between them when he left.
Because he never truly left.
Each night, after stepping out of her room, Bucky would fold himself down against the wall just outside. Back to the door. Hands tucked in. Eyes open longer than they should've been.
Listening. Waiting. Just in case.
He never said a word. Not to her. Not to anyone.
No one noticed he was out there—
Y/N always went to bed long past midnight.
And Bucky didn't leave until she did.
So no one saw him after the hallway lights went dark.
Not even her.
Each morning, when he heard her start to move—always up before the rest—
he'd quietly get to his feet, limbs stiff, and slip away.
Back to his room.
Silent. Unseen.
Because if she ever found out he sat outside her door every night, she wouldn't see it as comfort.
She'd see it as trouble. As a burden.
As something he had to go through.
An effort she didn't deserve.
And he knew that feeling.
He used to think the same way—
that anyone choosing to stay was choosing to suffer.
Like it was his fault.
And he couldn't let that happen.
Not when loving her meant never making her feel like something to be endured.
Then one night—
Steve stepped out for a glass of water. Barefoot. Half-asleep. And nearly tripped.
"Jesus—Buck?"
Bucky blinked, startled, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
He looked up, lifted a finger to his lips.
Steve didn't say a word.
Just stared at him for a moment, then disappeared.
Thirty seconds later, he returned.
Dropped a pillow and blanket into Bucky's lap.
And without a word, sat down at the opposite side of the doorframe.
No questions. No judgment.
Just quiet understanding.
Two soldiers. Keeping watch.
The silence held as hours passed quietly.
Then the scream cut through it like a blade.
Bucky was on his feet before his eyes even opened. Steve jerked upright beside him, both of them scrambling for the door.
Bucky didn't knock.
He burst in.
"Y/N?"
She was curled on the far side of the bed, breath ragged, soaked in sweat.
Her eyes were wide—too wide—locked on the crimson staining the sheets beneath her. Her hands were trembling in her lap, and she didn't seem to see him.
She was mumbling.
Barely audible.
"What did I do? Oh god—what did I do?"
Bucky froze. Then followed her gaze.
Blood.
Not a lot—but enough to make her panic, especially in the dark.
His heart slammed in his chest—but not from fear. Not anymore. Because now he saw it clearly: not a wound. Not an attack. Just—
Just that time of the month.
His shoulders dropped with quiet relief—but only for a second.
Because he knew what that blood would mean to her now—
a threat, a memory, in a body she's still learning to trust.
He crossed the room slowly, crouching down by the bed, voice steady and low.
"Y/N, it's alright. It's okay, sweetheart—it's not what you think."
She flinched at his voice, but didn't pull away.
He still hadn't touched her. Just kept talking—soft, steady.
"You didn't hurt anyone. You're safe. It's... it's just your period."
Her gaze dropped again.
Still dazed. Still lost somewhere between now and then.
But his voice anchored her—just enough to keep her breathing.
A shift in the light caught Bucky's eye.
Steve stood in the doorway, eyes sweeping the scene—Y/N trembling, Bucky crouched beside her, the blood on the sheets.
Concern etched into every line of his face.
But his voice was calm.
"Need me to grab pads or tampons from the supply cabinet?"
Bucky shook his head. "No—I picked some up on the last grocery run. Got a few stocked in here. Just in case."
Steve nodded. No hesitation.
"You want me to warm the heat pack?"
Bucky's voice stayed soft. "Yeah. In the fluffy cover—she likes that one."
Steve didn't say anything else. Just turned and walked out.
Bucky turned back to her gently.
"C'mere, sweetheart. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"
She didn't answer—but didn't resist when he gently helped her to her feet.
He guided her into the bathroom, flicking on only the soft vanity light, low and warm.
She stood frozen.
Hands twitching. Breath shallow.
Bucky kept his movements slow.
"I'm just gonna help a little, okay?"
No answer.
But no resistance.
He guided her to sit on the closed toilet lid, then opened the cabinet and pulled out a towel—soft, clean, already set aside for moments like this.
From the drawer below, he retrieved a pad, a fresh pair of underwear, and a soft pair of sweats. He'd stocked them himself—quietly, weeks ago. Just in case.
He unwrapped the pad, placed it neatly in the fabric, and set it aside.
Then knelt by the sink and dampened the towel, wringing it out with practiced care.
His voice stayed steady, gentle.
"Just your thighs. That alright?"
She nodded, barely.
So he did—quick, careful wipes along the inside of her legs, cleaning where the blood had streaked. Her sleep shorts stayed on. He never touched what he didn't need to.
Then he offered her the pad-prepped underwear and turned to face the wall.
"Take your time. I'm right here."
A beat passed. Then a whisper behind him: "Okay."
He turned, helped her into the soft sweats he'd laid out.
"All done," he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
"You did really good."
Steve was waiting when they stepped out of the bathroom.
He held out the warmed heat pack, wrapped in the orange, fluffy cover Bucky had once bought her—soft enough to cuddle when he wasn't there to rub her stomach.
She took it with quiet fingers, eyes still hazy. Shoulders beginning to lower.
For a second, it looked like she was coming back to herself.
Until she saw the bed again.
The sheets still stained.
Red, sharp against the white.
She froze.
Her breath caught. Her hands twitched.
And then she started to tremble.
Bucky saw it—watched the calm drain from her body like a tide pulling back.
He moved slowly, just enough to shield her view of the bed.
"Don't look at it, sweetheart," he said gently. "It's just fabric. It's nothing."
Her eyes stayed locked.
"I'll take care of it," he added, stepping closer. "Would you go outside with Steve for a bit? Get some fresh air? That cocoa place you two love—it's still open, yeah?"
She shook her head, barely.
"Bucky—no, I should help—"
"You already did," he said gently, offering a small smile.
"You made it through the hard part. Let me take care of the rest."
But she didn't move.
Steve stepped beside her—quiet, calm, his presence like a steady hand on the back.
"Y/N," he said softly, "remember our cocoa café? The one with the fairy lights?"
She blinked, slowly turning toward him.
"We haven't been in a while," he added, smiling faintly. "I bet Mr.Burke still leaves the door unlocked for us. He used to say it never felt like morning till we showed up".
A beat.
"We'll sit by the window. Just us.Like old times."
Her grip tightened on the heat pack. Something flickered in her eyes.
Bucky gave a small nod.
"By the time you're back," he said, "this room'll be spotless. Like nothing happened."
She hesitated—then nodded.
Once.
And that was enough.
Bucky crossed to the closet and pulled out her floral tote.
He folded her hoodie inside first—soft, oversized, the one she always reached for.
Then added her water bottle from the nightstand.
He set the bag down, ready.
Then paused.
His hand lingered on the strap.
She was still unsteady, fingers trembling faintly at her sides.
Steve stood beside her, watching without intruding.
Then—quietly, gently—he stepped forward and took the bag from Bucky's hand.
"I've got it," he said softly.
Y/N reached out, instinctive, hand still trembling. "It's okay—I can—"
"You don't have to," Steve said, already slipping the strap over his shoulder with a small nod. "Just walk with me."
Her hand faltered mid-air.
Before she could retreat, Bucky reached out and took her hand—warm, steady.
He brought her knuckles to his lips, holding them there for a beat.
She let him. He noticed. He felt it.
"I'll be here when you get back," he murmured. "Clean sheets. Ice cream. Chocolates. And something ridiculous to watch while we pretend not to like it."
Her eyes flicked to him, the corner of her mouth twitching—just barely.
He smiled.
Not because she had to.
Because she was trying.
And that was everything.
They turned to go, and as Steve walked with her, he glanced back—just once.
Bucky met his eyes.
No words passed between them.
But the message was clear.
I've got her.
I know.
The streets were still—painted in the soft blue hush before dawn.
Storefronts asleep. Lamps blinking against the last of the night.
Their footsteps echoed faintly as they crossed to the little café on the corner.
It looked just the same.
Crooked fairy lights still glowed dimly in the window. The chipped "Open Soon" sign still hung askew.
Steve gave a familiar knock on the glass—three short taps, one soft.
The door clicked open within seconds.
The café owner lit up when he saw them.
"Well, I'll be," he smiled, drying his hands on a towel. "Haven't seen the two of you in ages."
He stepped aside as Steve gently ushered Y/N inside.
Steve offered a faint smile. "Yeah... it's been too long. Nice to see you, Mr. Burke."
The owner nodded, still warm. "Good to have you two back. Your booth's right where you left it."
Steve guided her to the window seat—their seat—and helped her ease into it.
The cushion dipped beneath her weight.
"You want the usual?" Steve asked gently, crouching next to her for a moment.
She gave a small nod.
"I'll be right back," he said, rising.
He crossed the floor to the counter and placed their order, reaching for his wallet.
As he paid, a glimpse through the open back door caught his eye—a heavy shelving unit, tipped awkwardly against the wall, boxes half-spilled.
He raised a brow.
"What happened there?" he asked, nodding toward it.
The owner huffed, waving the towel over his shoulder. "Ah, that thing damn near broke my back yesterday. Stocked it too high and it slipped off the wall. Tried to get it back upright but it's too heavy. Was gonna leave it for now."
Steve was already stepping around the counter. "I can get it."
"Steve, you don't—"
He caught himself. "—Captain. You don't have to do that."
But Steve was already bending, bracing the weight with practiced ease.
"I've got it." he said simply. "And please—just Steve's fine."
Y/N stayed tucked at the window, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, knees pulled close under the table. She was just starting to settle her breathing when a group of girls neared the window.
Early twenties, fresh off a morning run, loud in that effortless way that made people turn.
One of them glanced in. Then stopped.
"Wait—is that her? The Avenger?" she said, nudging the others.
The second girl leaned in, squinting. "Oh my god, yeah—but... ew, is she sick?"
The third one's eyebrows lifted. "She looks like she just crawled out of bed."
"Literally. I wanted a pic, but—nah. I'm not going near her like that."
"God, imagine being seen with her. I'd rather die."
They didn't come in. Just lingered.
Laughed like she wasn't even there.
Then—bang.
One of them tapped on the glass. Loud. Too loud. Not a knock. Not friendly.
Another joined in, laughing as her palm smacked the window.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Y/N heard it. But didn't look up.
Her breath hitched—barely.
That sound—from another lifetime—
rattled back through her like a match struck in the dark.
Echoing within a tiled stall.
She was fifteen.
Curled up on the toilet seat. Arms wrapped tight around her backpack.
Trying to disappear. To make herself small enough to be forgotten.
The stall shook again.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Come out, psycho!"
"Did she lose her voice again?"
"Maybe she finally cut out her weird little tongue."
Laughter echoed like a siren.
Y/N bit down on her sleeve to keep from making a sound. Her body trembled in fear.
"No wonder nobody sits with you."
"You look like a corpse."
"I swear she sleeps in a dumpster."
"You ever heard her laugh? It's creepy as hell."
The metal latch groaned under their weight.
Then— CRACK.
The door flew open.
She didn't even scream. Just froze.
They grabbed her by the shirt and dragged her out, laughter echoing off the tiled walls.
One of them yanked her bag away and dumped it out across the floor—books skidding, pens bouncing.
Another shoved her into the sink. Her head cracked against the edge.
Blood hit the tile.
"Oops," one of them grinned. "She slipped."
Then came the fists. The kicks. Her body curled in tighter and tighter, arms thrown over her head as boots slammed into her ribs.
"You'll never have friends. No one wants to be around something like you."
"You're weak. That's all anyone sees when they look at you."
One girl grabbed her by the collar and shoved her again.
"You were born to be alone."
The door slammed shut behind them.
And then—
Silence.
Except the buzzing fluorescent lights.
And her breath—shaky. Wet. Struggling to come in at all.
She lay there bleeding. Books soaked, body aching, uniform torn. A sob rose in her throat—but she choked it back.
Because if she cried, it meant she was still hoping someone would come.
Steve lifted the shelf easily, bracing it back against the wall.
He was crouched, restocking the fallen boxes when he heard it.
Laughter.
Sharp.
Steve froze.
His hands paused mid-reach.
Words.
Unkind.
Steve's head snapped up.
Y/N.
He moved to head back—fast, too fast—and caught his foot in a loop of wires trailing from the wall.
The boxes toppled again as he stumbled, hitting the floor hard with a dull thud.
"Shit—"
He pushed up quickly, untangling himself, breath tight.
By the time he reached the front counter, he looked toward the window— and saw it.
The girls had just turned away, walking off.
And Y/N—
She hadn't moved.
Shoulders drawn in, hoodie sleeves pulled low.
She was still, too still.
Eyes wide.
Unfocused.
She wasn't blinking.
She wasn't here.
Then—he heard it.
Barely a whisper. A breath more than words. But it landed like a gut punch.
"Don't wanna go to school today... they'll be there again... said I should've just died..."
His body went still.
"Mute... psycho... weak... alone."
She wasn't repeating it to him.
She was remembering.
Something older than today.
Not just pain — but a child's voice trapped in a moment she never escaped.
Steve stepped forward slowly. His chest ached, physically ached, and it took everything in him to keep it from his face.
He walked to her table, careful not to startle her, and lowered himself into the seat across from her—quietly, steadily.
He didn't touch her. Didn't say her name.
Just let his voice find the quiet.
"They were wrong."
Soft. Certain. A line carved in stone.
Steve leaned forward just slightly. His voice dropped, low and even.
"You know how I know?"
Nothing. Not at first.
So he kept going.
"Because you're here."
Still no reaction.
But she hadn't pulled away either.
"You made it out," he said. "You kept going. Even when no one saw you."
His eyes softened. "I wish I could've."
A pause. Just long enough for the words to settle.
"I would've sat next to you."
Stillness.
"I would've told them to shut up."
The corners of his mouth lifted—just a little. Barely there.
"And I probably would've gotten detention for it."
That did something. Her lashes fluttered, barely perceptible—but present.
"I know what it's like," he added quietly, "to believe the worst about yourself because someone else handed you their fear and called it your truth."
Another beat.
"And I know what it looks like... to carry that long enough you start thinking it's yours."
His voice didn't crack.
But it felt like it wanted to.
Then, slower, softer:
"You didn't deserve the pain. You aren't defective. They just couldn't handle what you were — so they tried to break it."
Her eyes moved. Just barely.
"And if you still think you should've died back then..." He paused. Not for effect. For steadiness. "Then they really don't know what they almost destroyed."
That landed.
Her breath hitched—just once. A thread pulled taut.
He didn't reach for her. Just stayed there. Still, grounded, real.
And then, quiet as snowfall:
"You're proof that the people who hurt you were wrong. And afraid."
A breath. Firm.
"Afraid of how strong someone like you could be—if you ever stopped believing them."
The silence after that wasn't hollow.
It was full.
Full of everything she'd never been told. Everything she needed to unlearn.
Y/N blinked—once. Twice. Her fingers loosened.
She finally looked at him.
Not all the way. Not yet. But enough.
And then—finally—her voice, small but rooted:
"...You wouldn't have gotten detention alone."
He smiled.
And for the first time that afternoon—
She was here.
Steve blinked. A beat passed—and then a soft smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"No," he murmured. "I wouldn't have."
He leaned back a little, voice warmer now, like the worst of the storm had passed.
"And honestly? Bucky probably would've landed there too. Mouthier than me. Quicker to swing."
His tone dipped into fondness.
"He used to shove kids twice his size into lockers if they looked at me wrong."
He paused, then added, like it mattered—
"He would've liked you. Too much, probably. Might've taken on half that school."
That earned the smallest, tiniest flicker of breath from Y/N's nose. Almost a laugh.
Almost.
Steve caught it, and his smile grew just a little.
"And he would've absolutely gotten detention for it."
Then, softer: "And we wouldn't've let you sit alone after, either."
He watched the steam rise from his mug, like he was waiting for it to say something he couldn't.
"You know..."
His gaze dropped for a beat, then lifted again.
"I used to think I had to carry everything on my own too."
Y/N's eyes flickered toward him, searching.
He didn't look away.
"I didn't grow up with much. My ma was everything. Strongest person I ever knew. But when she died..."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"I told myself I'd be fine. I kept going. Said I didn't need anyone."
He exhaled through his nose, soft and even.
"Bucky knew I was lying. He kept showing up anyway. Every night. Didn't ask questions. Just sat there. Sometimes brought soup we both pretended was good."
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Told him I wanted to be alone. That I could get by on my own."
His gaze drifted to the middle distance like he could still see it.
"He just looked at me, real calm, and said—'Thing is, you don't have to. I'm with you till the end of the line, pal.'"
He let the silence sit for a second.
"That was the first time I realised I didn't have to do it alone."
Steve turned back to her then—really turned.
"So when I see you carrying everything by yourself... shouldering it like if you don't, the world might fall apart—" his voice didn't rise, but it deepened, "—I get it."
Y/N's throat worked, but she said nothing.
"I know what it's like to believe that if you let someone help you... you'll start to need them. And if they leave—"
His voice dropped. "—you're not just alone. You're wrecked. Because now you have to crawl back up from lower than before."
A long pause.
"But I also know what it's like to have someone stay, even when you tell them not to."
He looked down for a beat, then back at her—solid and certain.
"And that's what we're all doing. Me, Bucky, everyone. We're staying."
A breath passed between them.
"You don't have to carry it all anymore, Y/N. You never should've had to."
The words sat between them like a promise.
Y/N blinked slowly, the fog of memory still lingering in her eyes. Her voice came quiet, careful:
"...It's just hard to believe."
Steve nodded. Not to dismiss it—but because he understood.
"I know."
He reached into his jacket pocket.
"But every time you forget—"
He pulled out his wallet — old, lived-in. Unfolded it slowly. Slipped something from behind a few creased bills.
It was a photo. A Polaroid.
The nine of them crowded together on the compound lawn. Steve and Bucky flanking Y/N. Natasha smirking with her arm tossed lazily over Clint's shoulder. Sam mid-laugh. Bruce looking awkward in the corner. Thor blurry from moving mid-toast. Tony in sunglasses at night.
The sun had been setting behind them. It made the light look soft. Like something you'd remember.
Steve slid it across the table, toward her.
"We'll be there to remind you."
Y/N stared at it.
Her. In the middle. Not in the background. Not cropped out. Not an afterthought.
Her, surrounded.
She touched the edge of the photo like it might disappear.
Steve leaned back, just slightly.
"You don't have to believe it all at once," he added. "Just... keep that close. Until it starts to feel true."
She didn't speak.
But her fingers curled protectively around the picture.
And for the first time in a long time—
she didn't feel like she was disappearing.
The café had quieted again. Y/N was slowly sipping her drink now, eyes still rimmed in quiet.
Steve was sitting in front of her, arms relaxed, giving her space.
Then the bell jingled.
The girls came inside. Same three. Giggly, breathy, one of them clutching a phone like it was a ticket to relevance.
They didn't even glance at Y/N. They lit up the second they saw Steve.
"Oh my God, it's really you," one of them said.
Another one squealed. "Can we—sorry, can we please get a picture? You're, like, Captain America."
Steve stood slowly. Calm. Solid. The way he always did when something needed to be said.
His eyes didn't go to the phone. They went to Y/N—still curled in her booth, silent, small. Her fingers gripped her cup tight, eyes lowered like she was trying not to be seen.
Then he looked back at the girls.
"I heard what you said to my friend earlier."
They faltered. One of their smiles cracked.
"Wait—no, we didn't—"
"— didn't know I was here," he said gently. "But I was. And I heard every word."
Their mouths opened. Closed.
Steve's voice stayed soft, but firm now. "You saw someone sitting alone. Someone who didn't look the way you wanted her to—and you decided she wasn't worth kindness."
He paused.
"You don't get to disrespect someone and then ask for a photo just because I've got a shield."
He let that hang in the air for a second, then spoke again—so gently it was disarming.
"She's one of the strongest people I know. You don't know what she's been through. You don't know what it took for her to just walk in here today."
The weight of his words lingered—until one of them stumbled to fill the silence.
"We didn't mean anything by it," she said quickly. "It was just a comment—she looked sick—"
Another cut in, chin lifted. "I think you misunderstand. I'm not just asking. My dad's on the Senate Defence Committee."
The way she said it—like it mattered more than what she'd said about Y/N. Like it was supposed to mean something.
Steve didn't raise his voice.
He just looked at her—quiet, disappointed.
"You think that gives you a pass?" he asked.
Then, a pause.
"I've been around long enough to know bullies don't always wear the same uniform."
"Sometimes they wear badges. Sometimes they wear school blazers."
"And sometimes," he said, tone steady, "they walk into cafés thinking someone's worth less because they don't look camera-ready."
They looked down now.
But Steve's voice stayed soft.
"I don't like bullies."
"I don't care where they're from."
That line didn't land like a threat. It landed like truth.
"I won't be taking any photos today," he said quietly. "Because right now, the most important person in this room is sitting at that booth. And I won't stand next to anyone who made her feel smaller."
Polite as ever, he gave them a final nod. "Hope you have a good day".
He didn't wait for their reaction. Just turned and slid back into the booth beside Y/N.
He didn't say anything right away. Just reached out and gently rested his arm along the back of the booth behind her—not pulling her in, but anchoring himself there.
Then, like nothing happened, he nodded toward her drink.
"Want to count who has the most marshmallows left?" he asked softly, like always.
And for the first time since they walked in, she let out the smallest breath of a laugh.
And just like that, the moment softened.
But it stayed.
Because so did she.
The walk back to the compound was quiet.
Not heavy. Just... still. Comfortable.
It was a Sunday. The halls were mostly empty. The air inside felt like a held breath — quiet in a way that didn't press.
Steve walked her to her room. She lingered at the door, then stepped inside.
He followed quietly.
She stopped, breath catching.
The bed had been remade — sheets freshly tucked, the blanket folded back.
Her laptop was propped open on the duvet, Netflix already queued to her comfort show.
Two spoons rested neatly beside a pint of ice cream and a small box of chocolates.
But Bucky wasn't here.
She turned toward Steve, her voice softer than it had been in days.
"Where's Bucky?"
And then — a knock.
Not loud. Just a quiet tap against the open door, enough to draw both their gazes.
Bucky stood there — wind in his hair, jacket still on.
And in his arms: sunflowers. A whole mess of them, golden and uneven, like he hadn't known how many to get and panicked into getting them all.
His eyes met hers — warm, familiar, like he'd never wanted to be anywhere else.
Steve glanced at the flowers, then at Bucky — then back at Y/N, like he was trying not to smile.
"We might've taken the scenic route," he said lightly. "Someone texted me and said he needed ten more minutes."
He lifted a brow.
"Apparently, sunflowers don't grow on command."
Then, softer — still amused, still sincere:
"I figured it was worth the detour."
With that, he gave Y/N a small, knowing nod, and Bucky a quiet pat on the arm as he passed.
"I'll leave you two to it."
Bucky lingered for a beat after Steve left.
Then he stepped in.
The bouquet looked almost too bright for the room.
But in his hands, it wasn't out of place.
It was his glow — even in her darkness.
He stepped closer, slow and steady, until he was standing in front of her.
"I got you sunflowers," he said quietly, holding them out with both hands — like it wasn't a grand gesture, just the most natural thing in the world.
A pause, soft and full.
"You always smile around them."
His gaze met hers, a gentle warmth behind it.
"And they need sunshine," he added, a hint of something fond curling at the edge of his mouth. "So... you were kind of the obvious choice."
She didn't speak.
Just stared at the sunflowers in his hands — the way the yellow looked impossibly bright against the soft brown of the paper wrap.
Slowly, like the moment didn't need to be rushed, she reached out and took them. Her fingers brushed his as she did — and didn't flinch.
That alone nearly undid him.
She looked down at the bouquet, then back up at him — and smiled.
Soft. Real.
The first time in days.
And God, Bucky felt it like a punch to the chest — that smile. Not because it hurt.
Because it reminded him why he was still here.
This.
This was worth trying for.
She took a step closer, sunflowers cradled in her arms.
And without a word — just a soft breath — she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Then gently rested her head against his chest.
He didn't move right away.
Just stood there, stunned for a second — because she was letting him hold her.
No flinch. No stiff retreat.
Just warmth. Weight. Trust.
He wrapped an arm around her, slow and steady, hand splaying across her back like he was grounding both of them.
And in that quiet space — with her heartbeat against him, her breath slowing — he felt it.
She was coming back.
Little by little.
And so, softly — almost without meaning to — he started to sing.
"You are my sunshine... my only sunshine..."
His voice was low. Rough around the edges. Barely more than a whisper against her hair.
"You make me happy... when skies are grey..."
He felt her smile against his chest.
Felt the tension ease from her shoulders.
Felt her breathing sync with his.
"You'll never know, dear... how much I love you..."
His eyes fluttered shut.
This.
This right here — her in his arms, steadying under his voice — this was what he wanted to try to do for the rest of his life.
When it all melts down — when the past claws back, when the noise gets loud, when everything breaks again —he wanted to be the one who stayed.
Who helped her come back.
Who held her through the dark until she found her light again.
"...Please don't take my sunshine away."
The last note lingered.
And as she melted into him, soft and steady, still holding her sunflowers—
Content warning: Mentions of trauma and emotional distress.
The landing bay buzzed with pre-mission tension. The Quinjet sat idle, ramp lowered, its engines ticking softly as they cooled. Steve stood near the foot of the ramp with Tony, going over sector maps one last time.
A couple of additional field agents — hand-picked by Stark for extra support — loitered nearby, checking gear and cracking nervous jokes.
"We'll cover more ground if we split up," Steve said, glancing at each teammate. "West and east wings. Move quick, stay sharp."
One of the agents, cocky and too relaxed for the atmosphere, smirked as he adjusted his earpiece.
"Captain, mind if we borrow Hydra's prized weapon for our team?" he said with a nod toward Bucky. "Let the asset do what he was built for."
The effect was instant.
Sam's smile vanished. Natasha's eyes narrowed. Steve's fingers clenched so hard around the edge of his shield it groaned under the pressure.
And before anyone else could move—
Y/N stepped forward.
Calm, quiet Y/N.
Sweet, soft-spoken Y/N.
Except now her voice rang out like a gunshot.
"You call him an asset one more time," she said, shoving the agent hard against the side of the Quinjet.
"And I swear to God—" her voice shook with fury, "I'll break more than your pride."
She didn't blink. Didn't back down.
"He is a person. Not a damn asset."
A breath. Controlled. Sharp.
"And you will treat him with that respect."
The agent stumbled, stunned silent.
Bucky was already moving, gently taking her arm.
"It's okay, sweetheart," he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. "I'm okay."
She blinked, hands still clenched, breath sharp in her chest—then let him guide her back.
The team stood quietly, all wearing the same expression: smug, proud approval.
Sam gave a low whistle. Tony raised an eyebrow. Natasha just smirked.
But Steve?
Steve looked like he could've hugged her and punched the agent in the same breath.
He turned toward the stunned man, voice cool and firm.
"You owe Sergeant Barnes an apology."
The agent swallowed.
"I... I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes."
Bucky gave a small nod, lips twitching as he looked at Y/N — fierce and fuming and still glaring holes through the guy.
If she was a hurricane, she was his hurricane.
And in that moment, Bucky Barnes couldn't quite hide the proud little smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
The Quinjet hummed quietly as it lifted off, slicing through low cloud cover. Inside, the team sat strapped in, gear checked, mission details reviewed — but the silence didn't last long.
"So..." Sam drawled, glancing across the aisle. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Y/N."
"No kidding," Tony added, not looking up from his tablet. "That was full 'mama bear with a PhD' energy."
Natasha smirked. "She went from medic to menace in five seconds flat."
Y/N crossed her arms, still simmering.
"No one objectifies my man and gets away with it."
That earned a low chuckle from Sam, while Tony let out an impressed whistle.
Steve glanced back from the cockpit, grinning.
"Remind me never to get between you two."
Bucky leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on Y/N like she hung the stars.
"You just made getting dehumanised kind of romantic, doll."
Y/N rolled her eyes, murmuring, "Focus on the mission, Sergeant,"
—but she couldn't quite hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.
The Quinjet landed with a soft thud, its ramp lowering into the thick quiet. A couple of smaller jets followed, dropping off the extra agents assigned to support the mission.
They'd touched down in one of Hydra's original facilities — and now, its last. Buried beneath decades of snow, silence, and secrecy.
As the team moved to disembark, Bucky came up behind her, wrapped his arm around her, and drew her in close.
"Stay safe, okay?" he whispered against her ear.
Before she could answer, he pressed a kiss to her cheek and added with a soft smile,
"I like being alive at the same time as you."
Then he winked — casual and infuriatingly charming — and turned to take point, falling into step with his assigned team.
One by one, the Avengers split off, each taking their positions.
The mission had gone surprisingly smooth. Once the main sectors of the Hydra base were cleared and secured, Tony ordered the extra agents to head back — before they could touch something dangerous and blow the place sky-high.
Steve, Tony, Sam, Natasha, Bucky, and Y/N stayed behind for a final sweep, combing the shadows for anything worth salvaging. Whatever was left — files, tech, fragments — would be safer under lockdown at the compound than left to rot in this graveyard, waiting for the wrong hands to find it.
They split off, scanning every corner, moving with practiced ease.
Then Steve stopped.
Barely visible beneath a collapsed support beam was a narrow corridor — tucked behind a rusted bulkhead and crumbling signage. He signalled the others.
They regrouped and followed the passage, their boots echoing down the narrow stretch of shadowed concrete. The air felt heavier here.
"This wasn't part of the original floor plan." Y/N said quietly, unease curling in her chest.
Bucky moved beside her, eyes sharp.
"Which means Hydra didn't want anyone finding it."
"Whatever this is," Sam muttered, sweeping his flashlight along the walls, "it's rotting now. Let's make it fast."
At the end of the corridor, a sealed door loomed — slightly ajar, rust bleeding down its edges. Above it, faded red letters clung to the metal: RESTRICTED ACCESS.
Steve raised a hand for silence. Instantly, the team stilled.
Tony moved to the console beside the door, tapping through the manual interface.
"Old tech. Manual override's been tripped. Someone forced their way out — or in."
Steve stepped forward and pushed the door open.
Inside was a room long forgotten — sealed off, but not spared from decay.
The air was cold and stale. Dust hung thick, swirling in the beams of their flashlights. Rows of server towers stood silent, looming like tombstones. Wires spilled from broken panels like veins, trailing across the floor.
Faded Hydra insignias peeled from the walls, still leering.
"Whole place feels like it's been dead for decades," Sam muttered, sweeping his flashlight across the dust-choked walls.
"Hydra doesn't leave anything without a reason," Steve said, stepping deeper into the dark. "Keep looking."
They moved carefully, flashlights slicing through the dark. The deeper they went, the colder it felt — not from the air, but from something older.
"This place gives me the creeps," Tony muttered, wiping a sleeve across the console.
"Hydra doesn't exactly do welcoming," Steve said grimly, scanning the wreckage.
Tony knelt beside a still-glowing terminal.
"Old storage array's still active. Give me a sec — might be salvageable."
"Be careful what you pull up," Bucky warned, voice tight. He didn't like this. The walls felt too close.
Y/N hovered near the doorway, arms crossed. The tight coil in her chest had nothing to do with the cold.
Steve frowned. "Tony—"
"I know, I know, I'm being careful," Tony said, fingers flying across the dusty console.
The server screen flickered, casting an eerie glow over their faces.
Hydra scientists — five of them — sat around a glass observation window.
Beyond it: a younger Y/N, restrained in a metal chair, wrists and ankles bound. Electrodes spanned her skull, wires snaking down her arms.
Her head hung forward, chest heaving with uneven breaths.
"Subject resists direct obedience conditioning," one scientist said in clipped German-accented English.
"Subject's professional identity as a doctor provides robust cognitive countermeasures. Self-concept resists reprogramming."
"She fights on the level of identity," another added. "Conditioning alone will not break her."
"Then we bypass cognition," the lead scientist said coldly. "Target the emotional core — use extracted childhood profile."
Onscreen, Y/N tensed in her restraints, head down.
"Extracted childhood psychological profile indicates deep-seated shame complex — core belief: 'I ruin what I love.' Origin traced to pre-adolescent familial dynamics — chronic abuse, peer isolation, and hyper-responsibility patterns."
"Recommend targeted shame induction loop. Collapse self-concept through identity fracture, not obedience."
"Proceed."
The video jumped — next segment: Y/N alone, strapped down.
Her face pale, sweat beading along her temple.
Her lips are cracked, shaking, but her gaze burns defiant.
"Begin shame induction loop," comes the command.
Her voice — manipulated — begins playing, soft under the surface:
"You ruin everything. You ruin everyone you love."
Her body tenses. Hands twitch against the restraints.
"Forced confession cycle — begin."
A sharp electric pulse jolts her wrist — she flinches, teeth gritting.
"Say it," the scientist orders.
"Say it louder."
"No," her broken voice rasps — but the glare in her eyes sharpens. "No—"
Another pulse.
"Say it," the command repeats.
"No— I know what you're doing," she gasps. "I know... this is identity fracture. Shame loop pairing. I've studied this. You won't—"
The scientists murmur behind the glass. One taps a file:
"Subject's research notes indicate advanced understanding of trauma recovery. Developed counter-conditioning models specifically designed to interrupt shame-based identity collapse — personal case studies included."
"She built her techniques to fight this exact thing," another observes. "Her resistance is rooted in her own shame complex — that is why she entered neuropsychiatric warfare. To master what broke her."
"Then she will break harder once it's reinforced," the lead says coldly.
"Escalate. Physical augmentation — proceed."
A heavier restraint tightens across Y/N's chest — her breath catches.
A pulse fires again — sharper. She gasps, head jerking back.
"Say it," the voice drills in.
"You can't make me—" she chokes. "I know what I am. I know why I fight. I help people— I— I'm not—"
"Say it," the command cuts sharper. Another pulse.
"You ruin everything. You ruin everyone you love," the loop drones on.
Her body shakes. Her head drops forward — tears welling, spilling past her lashes.
"I... I ruin—NO, PLEASE STOP— I won't—"
The footage jumped. It began to fast-forward.
Blurred images flickered past — Y/N strapped down again. And again. The same voice, the same words, droning without pause. Day turned to night. Lights dimmed, then blazed back on. A cycle without end.
No sound now. Just the loop playing on, visible in her lips, her convulsions. Her pleas grew weaker each time.
Then—
The feed slowed.
A date flickered faintly in the corner.
Y/N now hung limp in her restraints, shoulders slack, her frame barely moving.
Tears streaked down her face. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, like it hurt just to exist.
Her eyes—glassy, distant.
"I... I ruin... everything" her broken voice whispered.
"I ruin what I love".
A long pause. The looping voice stopped.
"Initiate Phase Two," the lead scientist ordered.
"Identity fracture achieved?" another asked.
"Sufficient for compliance induction. Now we proceed to obedience protocols — subject is primed."
The camera shifted — a technician prepared a new audio file. A low, rhythmic tone began pulsing through the room.
"Subject conditioning sequence commencing."
The scientist spoke calmly:
"Subject Y/N — you will obey when commanded. You will comply when addressed. Compliance ensures you will not ruin those around you again. Noncompliance will result in further failure."
Y/N flinched — barely — as the words lanced through her shattered defences.
"Say it: I will comply."
No response.
Another sharp jolt — her body spasmed weakly.
"Say it."
"I... will comply," her voice rasped.
"Again."
"I... will comply."
"Good. Begin trigger sequence pairing."
The audio shifted — new words began:
"Taint. Heavy. Broken. Echo. Wrong. Silence. Fall. Mute. Obey. Winter...."
Y/N's fingers twitched. A faint tremor ran through her restrained limbs.
"Continue trigger loop until imprinting stabilises," the scientist ordered.
"Once established, begin scheduled reinforcement every two hours," the lead added. "Subject must be conditioned for immediate obedience upon external activation."
He turned slightly, voice lower but precise.
"After the trigger takes full effect, erase all memory — including procedural. She must not remember the conditioning. Only obey. If she's aware, she might attempt psychological counter-techniques".
"Understood."
The footage cut. Just a soft beep — then black.
Silence dropped over the room.
No one moved.
Bucky didn't breathe. Just stared, metal hand flexing once at his side.
Steve's head dipped slightly, eyes closing for a beat, as if bracing himself.
Tony stared at the monitor, chest barely rising.
Natasha remained still, unreadable.
Even Sam had nothing to say.
And then—
Bucky's head turned first.
Steve followed a second later, instinct flaring.
A sound. Barely audible. A breath—hitched.
They turned toward the doorway.
Y/N stood frozen there, pale and still as stone. Her arms had fallen to her sides. Her eyes were locked on the screen like she was still seeing it, even though it had gone dark.
Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"I couldn't... I couldn't remember."
She looked up then, eyes meeting Bucky's.
There was something hollow behind them. Something unraveling.
"My childhood. I never could remember it. I always wondered why."
A shallow breath.
"Hydra wasn't the source of the trauma. It was already there."
She swallowed.
"They just... weaponised it."
Another pause.
"Then they erased it all. Left the pain behind, but none of the memories."
Bucky moved toward her without a word. He stopped in front of her, hands rising slowly — and then cupped her face with both palms, like grounding a storm.
Her jaw trembled under his hands.
Her heartbeat thudded in his ears — fast, uneven.
Right as Steve moved to go to her, Sam touched his shoulder.
"Cap," Sam murmured, motioning toward the room around them. "All the files. Discs. Crates. It's all her. Everything in here is Y/N."
His light swept over label after label — all stamped with her name.
Y/N's breath caught. Her skin prickled, the hair on her arms rising as the words sank in.
Her eyes met Bucky's, wide, distant. Fragile.
Bucky let out a tight breath, giving Sam a look.
"You know we can hear that, right?"
Sam held up a hand. "Sorry. I was trying to be quiet."
Y/N spoke before anyone else could.
"I-it's alright, Sam." Her voice trembled, eyes blinking fast to hold it together. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
"Y/N—" Bucky started.
But she gently pulled away from his hands, her gaze dropping.
Her shoulders folded inward, retreating into herself. Her fingers fidgeted, restless — the tremble still there, still visible.
Bucky reached out again, this time just taking her hands. Holding them. Steadying them.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were tired. Frayed. But clear.
"Can we just gather the stuff as planned... and get out of here?" she asked quietly.
Bucky nodded, voice soft. "Alright. Let's get it done".
He knew.
Knew better than to ask her not to toughen up. Not after everything.
Especially not after that video.
Because now — with just one glimpse into the pieces Hydra had left behind, into the childhood she'd never spoken of — he understood, more than ever, why she never let anyone else carry the weight of her world.
She'd been holding it up alone for so long... it had become the only way she knew how to survive.
Steve stepped forward, a protest already forming on his lips as they started walking toward the crates, but Bucky reached out — a quiet hand to Steve's chest, a small shake of his head.
No words. Just a look that said: Don't.
Steve hesitated, then backed off.
Y/N crouched to grip the edge of one of the heavier crates. Before she could lift it, Tony knelt down beside her.
"You know you can wait in the Quinjet while we handle this," he said, voice soft but casual. "I mean—if you want—"
She shot him a look.
Tony raised both hands in surrender.
"Alright. Pretend I never said anything."
They packed up in silence.
Every file Y/N picked up had her name stamped across the front in red — CONFIDENTIAL stamped beneath it like a warning.
Her hands trembled with each one.
Bucky noticed.
Steve noticed.
Natasha, Sam, Tony — all of them noticed.
But none of them said a word.
They knew better than to ask her to step down from a fight.
So they just moved through the wreckage — Bucky beside her, always just close enough to steady if she needed — packing up the pieces of a childhood that had never been hers to remember.
At one point, Steve paused, watching her from a few steps back — the tight set of her shoulders, the way she kept moving, kept lifting, kept doing.
And he saw it.
That same stubborn grit. The refusal to break. The fire that once made a scrawny kid in Brooklyn stand back up no matter how many times he got knocked down.
I can do this all day.
She didn't say it.
She didn't have to.
It lived in her bones.
But the difference — the thing that dug cold into Steve's chest — was this:
He'd always had Bucky.
From the schoolyard to the battlefield, he'd never had to carry it alone.
And now, watching Y/N silently gather the shattered pieces of a life stolen from her, he realised —
She always had.
No one in her corner. No hand on her shoulder. No voice telling her, "I'm with you".
Just silence. And strength. And a world that had never once gone easy on her.
The flight back was quiet.
Y/N and Natasha took the controls, piloting the Quinjet through the clouds.
Nat had asked her to fly — knowing too well that sitting idle would only give her thoughts more room to spiral.
They usually loved flying together. Flips, dives, mid-air dares — just to watch the boys panic.
But not today.
Today, they just flew.
No words passed between them, but Nat glanced over now and then — and she noticed. The way Y/N stared ahead without really seeing. The way her expression didn't shift, like she'd put herself somewhere far away.
Nat didn't press.
She stayed beside her. Steady. Present.
Exactly how Y/N needed her to be.
The Quinjet touched down with a gentle thud. Landing bay doors hissed open, floodlights washing the steel floor in harsh white.
The team descended the ramp in silence, the weight of what they'd uncovered pressing down like gravity.
Y/N stepped out last, gaze locked forward, shoulders rigid. Her boots hit the floor—
—and then she broke.
No warning. No sound.
She bolted.
One breath she was there—
The next, gone. A blur of motion tearing down the corridor, her hair trailing behind her like the snap of a flag in wind.
"Y/N!"
Bucky was already moving. His body reacted before his mind did — super soldier speed kicking in as he shot off after her without hesitation.
A split second behind, Steve followed, matching their pace.
The landing bay went still.
Natasha took one step forward, then stopped.
Sam blinked.
Tony's mouth opened—then closed again.
No one spoke.
It had all happened in less than a second.
Y/N tore through the corridor, reached her room, and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked.
A second later, Bucky was there.
"Y/N..." His hand pressed to the door. "Please, darling... open the door. Just let me in. Please."
Her voice came — quiet, tired.
"I just need to be alone right now, Buck."
A pause.
"Please."
He exhaled, leaning his forehead against the door.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Whatever you need. I'll be right here."
And he stayed — hand still resting where hers might've been, if the door wasn't there.
Footsteps approached.
"She locked the door?" Steve asked softly.
Bucky nodded.
"Should we—"
"She asked for space," Bucky said, not looking back. "I know what that means."
"What now?"
Bucky exhaled, then sank to the floor, back against the door.
"I'll wait. As long as it takes."
Steve didn't say anything. He just sat down beside him.
After a beat, Bucky added quietly,
"Can you let the others know? I know they mean well... but too many voices right now'll just make it harder."
Steve nodded.
"I'll take care of it"
Night passed.
Bucky stayed.
He didn't sleep much. Still in his tactical gear, he just listened—to her breathing, the soft rhythm of her heartbeat through the door.
It was enough. She was still there.
But sometime near dawn, after he'd dozed off against the wall, a soft sniffle stirred him awake.
His eyes blinked open.
That sound hadn't been there before.
She was crying.
His instincts kicked in.
He knocked — gently this time.
"Y/N... sweetheart—c-can I come in?"
His voice cracked, just a little.
No answer.
He waited, heart hammering, about to knock again—
Then — the soft click of the lock.
He took a breath before pushing the door open.
She sat on the edge of the bed, changed into fresh clothes, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. The small teddy bear he'd given her years ago clutched tight in her lap.
Her eyes were red. Puffy. She didn't look up.
Bucky stepped in slowly. He reached toward her — but stopped when he saw it.
She was tense.
Back straight. Shoulders taut. Muscles wired beneath the stillness.
He remembered the footage—the restraints, the electricity, the way her body seized with every jolt.
He knew any touch right now would only make it worse.
So he didn't.
He just lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, hands in his lap.
"Y/N..."
His voice was soft. "Darling, I'm here."
Silence stretched between them.
"Do you want to talk?" he asked gently.
She shook her head.
He nodded once.
"Okay"
A quiet beat.
Then—"Tea?"
A small nod.
And that was enough.
The kettle clicked off with a soft hiss.
Bucky moved around the kitchen like muscle memory, pouring the tea into their usual cups. Y/N sat on a chair near the kitchen counter, knees pulled in, teddy bear still tucked in her arms.
He set one beside her, then gently placed the other within her reach.
"Careful, darling," he said, voice warm, soft. "It's hot."
Her hands trembled as she reached for it. More than trembled—they shook. She took the cup, but the warmth hit her palms like a shock.
And just like that, she wasn't in this kitchen anymore.
The soup was hot on her leg. It hurt, but she didn't move—still on the floor where she'd fallen, watching it drip down the counter.
The pot had fallen. The ladle clattered somewhere behind her.
"You stupid child," her mother snapped, towering above her. "Can't you do anything right?"
"I'm sorry," Y/N whispered, tears already falling. "I was just trying to stir it like you asked—"
"And now what will we feed the guests?" Her mother's voice rose, sharp and unforgiving. "You ruin everything you touch."
Footsteps. Her dad walked in, barely looked at her. Just sighed. "Go get changed. And stay in your room. Don't ruin anything else."
Y/N stood slowly, her leg burning—but she said nothing. Just nodded and kept her eyes down.
As she turned away, she heard her mother mutter—
"That child is a disaster. She ruins everything."
The teacup slipped.
Shattered on the floor.
Y/N slid down after it in a rush, panic taking over. "No, no—"
She was already on her knees, fingers reaching for the shards.
"Y/N—stop—don't—"
Too late. Her hand jerked as a sharp edge caught her skin, blood blooming fast across her palm.
Bucky dropped beside her, a clean cloth already in hand. "Let me see—just to wrap it, okay?"
The moment his hand touched hers, she flinched so hard she recoiled like she'd been burned. Her back hit the cabinets, her body curling into itself.
"I ruin what I love," she whispered. "I ruin everything"
Bucky froze.
She cradled her bleeding hand, pressing it to her chest. Her eyes met his—wild, broken.
"Don't," she choked out. "Don't touch me. I'll hurt you."
The silence tightened around them.
Then it began—soft, repetitive, unraveling.
"I ruin what I love... I ruin everyone I love... everything I love..."
The words looped like a curse. Just as Hydra had burned them into her mind and left them playing on repeat.
Bucky didn't speak. Just moved quick but careful.
He picked up the teddy from the counter, wrapped the clean cloth around it like a bundle, and lowered himself to the floor again.
He held it out to her.
She took it with her uninjured hand, fingers trembling. Unwrapped it slowly. Pressed the cloth to her cut. The teddy stayed in her lap.
Still shaking. Still murmuring. Still spiralling.
Bucky stayed with her—watching, hurting, holding still.
Then, gently, he reached out—placing his hand not on her, but over hers. On the wrapped cloth. No skin. No startle.
A pause. No flinch.
"Come back to me, love," he murmured. "Come back."
Her voice shook, caught between past and present. Her eyes were lost, flicking over his face like she was searching for something solid.
"Where?" she asked, barely audible.
Careful as anything, he lifted her hand—still wrapped in cloth—and guided it to his chest.
Right over his heart.
For a moment, he thought she might pull away.
But she didn't.
She felt it. That familiar rhythm. The steady heartbeat she'd heard every time her head rested against him.
"Here," he said softly, keeping his hand over hers.
Chapter 12 - Looks Like a Cinnamon Roll, Is a Cinnamon Roll
A week after the carnival—after the Ferris wheel, and the words that had changed everything — Y/N decided it was her turn to give him something that would stay with him.
Bucky had given her a day she would never stop carrying with her. The orange lilies. The movie. The dinner. The way he made her feel seen, chosen.
Little did he know, she hadn’t forgotten what he told her—back in Wakanda, one of those late nights under the stars. After she’d shared her own dream date, he’d spoken quietly, like he was touching an old memory—of the evenings he used to love in the 1940s.
Science expos. Dancing. Stolen hours of joy in a life too often lived on borrowed time.
And though she'd never written it down—never needed to—she'd remembered every word.
So the next weekend, she gave him a new memory to lay beside the old ones.
It started with Tony, of course.
A few emails, a favour, and one light bribe later, she had two early-access passes to the Stark-FutureTech Science Exhibition — complete with quantum demos, live tech labs, and particle illusions. Basically, everything that would make a formerly frozen 106-year-old with a metal arm absolutely geek out.
And oh boy—he did.
Bucky Barnes trying to play it cool in front of a quantum phase simulator was easily her favourite thing about the entire exhibition.
"That's not how magnetic fields actually fold," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the holographic display as if sheer willpower could correct the physics.
"Bucky, you're growling at a hologram."
"It's wrong."
He looked like a kid in a candy store — crossed with a man entirely unaware of how brightly his eyes sparkled when he found something that fascinated him.
Y/N trailed behind him most of the afternoon — “Holy cow” and “I love this place” had already become the soundtrack in her ears.
When they reached the Particle Entanglement Kinetics exhibit — all flickering lights, floating atom models, and interactive panels — Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.
"You can build your own qubit array?" His voice was equal parts disbelief and glee, fingers already darting toward the controls.
Y/N bit back a laugh as she watched him work through the display with the focus of someone defusing a bomb — eyes sharp, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of his mouth.
"This is adorable," she whispered under her breath.
"I heard that," Bucky said without looking up, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"You were meant to."
She let the smile linger before her gaze caught on a tucked-away alcove — a science merch shop, its shelves lined with quirky gadgets and trinkets gleaming under soft light.
Her heart tugged.
She wanted him to have a little piece of this day. Something to hold onto — a quiet reminder he was still free to learn, to reach, to wonder.
"Be right back," she murmured, fingers brushing his arm as she slipped away.
Bucky hummed softly in response, leaning just slightly toward the touch, eyes still locked on the shifting holograms.
The shop was a small alcove of glass and metal. She moved through it quickly, looking for something just for him.
One caught her eye — a retro robot keychain, its tiny metal body gleaming under the lights. A small tag hung beneath it, etched with a single line:
"Beep boop. You're my favourite human."
A smile curled at her lips. Perfect.
She paid quickly and slipped it into her hoodie pocket, heart light as she rounded the corner toward the exhibit where she'd left him — and stopped, caught mid-step.
Bucky stood at ease beside the display, shoulders relaxed, expression open enough to tug at her chest. A young scientist spoke animatedly beside him, words tumbling fast.
And Bucky — God — was answering in that low, steady tone, a faint smile curving his mouth as he explained something with a slow motion of his hand, metal fingers glinting softly under the lights.
They moved in rhythm, both lost in the flow of shared curiosity, two minds meeting across the years between them.
And Bucky looked... like a man in his element — curious, certain, alive.
Then, the moment broke.
A call drew the young scientist away — "Hey, come check this!" echoed across the floor like a bright interruption.
"Thanks, man — that was amazing," the younger man grinned, clapping Bucky lightly on the shoulder before hurrying off.
Bucky lingered a moment, gaze flicking back to the display. Then — head tilting, tongue peeking out again — he dove back into the controls, metal fingers poking at the buttons with a kind of boyish delight that made her heart catch.
Y/N smiled to herself. My little nerd.
She was about to move toward him — when a presence stopped her cold.
A figure drew in too close behind her, the shift of air, the subtle weight of it brushing against her awareness. Every sense flicked sharp.
"Fascinating man, your soldier friend," a voice murmured near her shoulder — smooth as silk, cold as glass.
She stilled.
"Quite the progress he's made," the voice went on, soft, measured.
"Learning. Trusting. Even smiling, I hear."
Her jaw tightened, pulse even. But she didn't move, didn't give the voice the satisfaction of a flinch.
A beat of silence followed — deliberate. The knife turning.
"But you know... you can't turn a wolf into a puppy."
The words slid like ice across her skin, slicing clean through the warmth she'd been carrying.
But her gaze didn't waver.
She didn't move. Didn't take her eyes off the man before her — her man, bright and alive at the display.
When she spoke, her voice was soft — calm as still water.
"That's alright," she said, each word deliberate, her breath even.
"I don't want a puppy."
The words landed quiet and sure — a blade she never doubted how to wield.
Across the floor, Bucky lingered at the console, metal fingers still dancing over the controls. But something in the air shifted — a subtle prickle down the back of his neck, the sharp edge of a voice that didn't belong.
Old habit, hard to shake.
His hearing caught it — the low, cold murmur, the words slicing through the warmth Y/N had wrapped around this day.
"You can't turn a wolf into a puppy."
And then — her voice, soft but unflinching.
"That's alright. I don't want a puppy."
His fingers stilled mid-press.
For a beat, he didn't move — chest tightening, breath caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief.
She'd said it like it was nothing. Like it was the simplest truth in the world. Like she saw him — all of him — and didn't flinch.
For as long as he could remember... he'd been trying to be smaller. Safer. Something people wouldn't fear.
Tamed.
But she didn't want that.
She wanted him.
That old tension he'd carried so long it felt like part of him, slipping free.
When he finally turned, the words still echoing in his head, she was already there — close, looking up at him with eyes soft and questioning.
"You okay?" she asked, voice low and gentle, unsure what had shifted in him.
And God — he couldn't speak. Could barely think through the weight lifting off his ribs.
So he did the only thing that made sense.
He reached for her — arms pulling her in, metal fingers flexing once at her back before settling. Held her close, closer, like he wasn't quite ready to let go.
And she came into it just as fully, arms circling him in return —steady and sure.
The first time they'd let something so quietly theirs exist in the open since that night on the Ferris wheel.
And when they drew apart at last, soft and slow, her eyes searching his, she smiled faintly, a little unsure, and lifted the small keychain toward him.
"I, um — got this for you."
His fingers brushed hers as he took it, careful, almost reverent.
His eyes dropped to the tiny robot in his palm — all chrome edges and awkward charm. The tag read, Beep boop. You're my favourite human.
It was small. Light. Easy to miss.
And yet —
There was a time he didn’t think he could ever be anyone’s favourite.
Not after everything.
But here she was. Saying it like it was obvious.
And somehow, that made it feel like the rarest thing he'd ever held.
His fingers closed around it, careful. Like it might slip through if he wasn't gentle.
"Thank you," he managed.
Then, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his bike keys and clipped the robot right onto the ring.
He glanced at her, smile just a little crooked. "Guess he's riding with me now."
Y/N giggled, then leaned in and kissed his cheek — soft, but just enough to leave it pink.
Bucky blinked, just once. Then grinned.
"I think I've soaked up all the quantum theory my brain can handle," he said, voice a little lower now. "Want to head out?"
Y/N smiled, already tugging his hand gently toward the exit.
"Sam mentioned there's a farmer's market a few blocks from here," she said. "Thought it'd be a good way to unwind after all that tech."
Bucky raised an eyebrow, amused — but she wasn't done.
"He said there's a vinyl stall," she added, eyes flicking to his. "With songs from... our time."
His smile deepened.
"You wanna check it out?" she asked. "Maybe we can find something to dance to tonight."
Bucky didn't answer right away. His thumb traced hers — a quiet yes before the words caught up.
"Yeah," he said, as they kept walking, hand in hand. "I'd like that."
And as they did, Bucky's mind began to piece it together.
The science convention. The vinyl store. The dancing.
None of it was random.
She remembered what he'd whispered into the night back in Wakanda — about science expos and swing music, about the small joys he thought he'd left behind in the 1940s.
She wasn't just giving him a day.
She was giving something back to the part of him that used to dream.
His grip on her hand tightened slightly — like anchoring himself to the moment.
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn't feel like a relic trying to keep up with the world.
He felt like a man who'd been remembered.
The farmer’s market buzzed with life — warm bread, citrus, and kettle corn in the air. Music drifted from a nearby stall, children weaving past with juice boxes, a guitar strumming under a tent.
They wandered the stalls until they found it — a narrow shop between a bookstall and a café. Y/N pushed open the wood-framed door, and a brass bell chimed overhead.
Just like the stores back then.
Inside, it smelled of dust and old paper. Vintage cameras, radios, postcards, and faded maps lined the shelves in cluttered harmony. One wall ticked with rows of slightly out-of-sync clocks.
Shelves stretched along every aisle, filled with relics — the kind that didn't just belong to history books but to memory.
"The vinyls'll probably be in the back," Y/N murmured, gently tugging his hand.
They walked through the narrow aisles, shoulders nearly brushing the shelves, surrounded by the weight and wonder of the past.
Dust clung to the air like memory.
Bucky slowed near a shelf stacked with thick parchment — creamy, slightly yellowed sheets bundled with twine.
He brushed the top page with a light touch. “This was it,” he murmured, voice low, almost distant. “Paper like this. We’d write letters on it… when they sent us away.”
Y/N turned toward him, her gaze soft. "To your family?"
He nodded once, fingers still ghosting the edge. "To Steve. To my ma. My sister."
A breath caught faintly in his throat — but he didn't stop.
His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Almost reverent.
"One of my buddies... Carter. He wrote to his wife. Every letter. Every damn time — even when we didn't know if we'd make it to the next post."
His thumb smoothed the edge of the parchment, the memory anchoring him there.
"He'd always sign them: 'Always yours.'".
Bucky huffed a quiet breath — part laugh, part ache. "Carter said it wasn't about forever. No one could promise that. Not back then."
He looked at her now — eyes steady, voice rough but sure.
"It meant — even if the world tore us apart... part of him would still be hers. Something she could keep."
Y/N stood silent, dazed by the depth of what he'd shared.
She'd seen soldiers write letters like that — her boots in the same dust, her hands steadying theirs in field tents and foxholes. Notes folded with trembling fingers, words inked with hope that outlasted the war.
She'd watched too many of them go unanswered. Letters sent back to bodies that never made it home.
And yet... here he was, speaking of that kind of love — not forever in the grand sense, but always in the everyday. A love made by choosing it, even when tomorrow wasn't certain.
Without a word, she tucked herself beneath his arm, nestling gently into his side.
Bucky let go of the parchment and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her impossibly closer.
His lips found her forehead and stayed there, full of quiet devotion.
Because Carter's words weren't just a memory now.
They were a vow he understood.
Because he was now carrying that kind of love too.
And it was hers.
And he meant every unspoken word of it.
They stood like that for a moment — steady, held, understood.
Then, slowly, Bucky lowered his hand from her shoulder, letting it slide down to lace gently with hers once more.
"Come on," he murmured, nodding toward the back. "Let's find those records."
She gave a small nod, her eyes lingering on his for a beat longer before they moved together through the narrow aisles, hand in hand.
The shelves thinned toward the rear of the shop, opening into a cozy nook lined with wooden crates.
Rows of vinyls waited — worn edges, glossy sleeves, the past stacked neatly and ready to be played.
Y/N smiled. "Looks like we found it."
They knelt beside one of the crates, fingers trailing over old sleeves — Ella Fitzgerald, Glenn Miller, The Ink Spots — laughter and memory tucked between familiar songs.
For a while, they stayed like that — reminiscing — until a warm, sugary scent drifted into the air, faint to most but sharp enough for their super soldier senses to catch.
Bucky's head lifted, nose twitching. "You smell that?"
Y/N closed her eyes, inhaling. "Cinnamon rolls," she said with a grin — and right on cue, his stomach growled.
Her voice was all fondness. "Now that is the sound of someone who definitely needs a cinnamon roll."
He rubbed the back of his neck, half-sheepish. "You know... I never used to let myself get hungry for stuff like this."
"I know," she said softly. "But I'm proud you do now. I'll get us some."
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, warmth creeping into his expression.
"You keep feeding me like this, doll... I'm gonna put on a few pounds."
Y/N's smile deepened, eyes bright.
"More of you for me to love."
And before he could even think to respond, she rose on her toes, pressed a slow kiss to his cheek, and whispered:
"Choose one for us. I'll be back".
Then she was gone — cinnamon rolls on her mind, no doubt — and he sat there, her kiss still warm on his skin.
"More of you for me to love."
God.
That simple. That sure. That safe.
He wasn't sure he'd survive her saying things like that — or maybe that was the point.
Maybe surviving didn't involve having to stay sharp-edged anymore.
Didn't mean lean muscle and cold precision like a blade.
Didn't mean watching what he ate.
Didn't mean fighting the instinct to want.
And hell — maybe he didn't have to look like a soldier anymore.
He could eat.
He could be full.
He could rest.
And if that meant there was more of him — more softness, more weight, more life —
she'd still hold it. Still want it.
Still love it.
And maybe that was enough — learning to hold himself the way she did: gently, without condition.
Maybe just being Bucky was enough.
And he was finally starting to see that.
He exhaled, slow — like letting something go — and turned back to the crates.
His fingers moved quieter now, dragging along old cardboard sleeves, until one made him pause.
The cover was worn, the edges soft with time. But something about it... stilled him.
He picked it up — held it there for a second, just looking.
Didn't smile. Didn't speak.
Just felt it.
Like the memory was already tucked inside.
This is it.
When he brought it to the counter, the older man behind the till gave him a knowing smile.
"Already taken care of, son," the man said, sliding the record gently into a brown paper sleeve. "Your girl paid for it on her way out."
Bucky blinked.
"She—"
He stopped, huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half something tighter.
Of course she did.
"Thanks," he said quietly, fingers lingering a second too long like he needed to feel it.
He stepped out into the bright market air — record tucked under one arm — drawn instantly by the warm, sweet pull of cinnamon on the breeze.
To the right — two stalls down — a small line had formed at the roll stand.
But no sign of her.
His brows drew together, gaze scanning the crowd — and then he saw her.
Two stalls over, just beyond the roll stand — her form familiar even in profile — standing at a flower stall.
Roses.
He caught the faintest glimpse of her reaching out — choosing them carefully, fingers gentle — before she turned, cinnamon rolls now bagged in one hand, the roses cradled in her arms.
And then she spotted him.
Stopped mid-step — smile blooming slow and shy across her face, as if she hadn't meant for him to see.
For a breath, he couldn’t move — couldn’t quite breathe.
Just stood there.
Watching her walk toward him, roses and rolls both in hand, looking for all the damn world like she was carrying half his heart back with her.
She stopped in front of him, smile a little sheepish, eyes bright.
"Thought you might like these too," she said softly, lifting the roses just a little.
For a moment — Bucky just stared.
At the roses.
At her.
At the fact that she was standing here, in the middle of a market, in broad daylight — handing him flowers like it was the most natural thing in the damn world.
God.
He'd never—
No one ever had.
His voice found the only question that made sense.
"For me?" he murmured, blinking down at the roses like they were some fragile kind of miracle.
Y/N's smile softened, eyes crinkling.
"For you."
When she kissed his cheek again — a little longer this time — he just stood there, heart too full to speak, the roses still resting between them.
And just like that, he was back in Wakanda — another flower, another day, by still water and soft earth.
A lotus in her hand. His, too broken to hold it.
The sound of crushed petals. Guilt.
Her voice from that day echoed now, clear as the sun overhead.
"Maybe it's about reclaiming who you were before they got to you."
The words surfaced again — sharp and sudden — catching in his chest.
Because this was it, wasn't it?
This was the reclaiming.
Not redemption. Not repair.
This.
A song chosen from a childhood he thought lost.
A science fair, for God's sake — because she knew he'd love it.
And now — roses. Given to him, for no reason but love.
It all gathered there — in his hands, in his chest.
But this time — his fingers didn't tremble.
They opened.
And he took them — held them — whole.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice rough with too much unsaid.
"I'll take good care of them."
This time, he knew he could.
Y/N's smile deepened — soft, a little shy — as if she didn't quite realise this was a gift he'd remember for the rest of his life. Then she reached for his hand, fingers slipping through his with familiar care.
In her other hand, the cinnamon rolls swung gently at her side.
In his free one, the roses rested carefully.
The record, tucked under his arm, pressed close to his heart.
And like that, they started walking again, wandering the market like two souls on a quiet quest for the perfect spot to share warm cinnamon rolls.
Y/N glanced at him, and just for a moment, she wondered — would he feel self-conscious?
Bucky Barnes. Metal-armed and broad-shouldered. Carrying a bright bouquet of red roses through a bustling market.
It wasn't exactly subtle.
When she looked up again, he was already watching her — a little smirk playing at his mouth.
"You're staring, doll," he said. Voice low, warm. Almost bashful — like her attention still caught him off guard sometimes.
She hesitated. "I wasn't sure if— if you didn't want to carry them, I could—"
But before she could finish, he cut in — firm, certain.
"No."
That stopped her.
She looked up, surprised — and he met her eyes with a soft smile, one corner of his mouth tugging higher.
Like he'd just been handed the damn moon.
"I'm carrying 'em," he said simply.
And just like that — she melted.
Because he wasn't embarrassed.
He wasn't hiding.
He was proud.
As if being loved by her was something he'd never, ever be ashamed of.
"First time I've ever been given flowers," he added after a beat, glancing down at the bouquet in his arm.
Then, a little softer:
"And it was you."
He looked back at her, eyes bright.
"Not giving that up to anyone else."
And with that, he adjusted the bouquet carefully in his arm, cradling it like something precious — walking beside her like he'd been waiting his whole damn life to do exactly this.
They lingered a little longer — cinnamon rolls shared on a sun-warmed bench, laughter soft between bites — before finally heading back.
The ride back passed in golden quiet, the kind that hums when everything feels right.
When they stepped into the compound, the stillness wrapped around them like a blanket.
Y/N shrugged, smile playing at her lips.
"Everyone's away this weekend."
A beat. Then softer—
"It's just us tonight."
Upstairs, they stopped in front of their rooms — side by side like always.
"There's one more thing I've got planned for tonight," she said, almost shy. "It's a little surprise".
Bucky looked at her, eyes soft with disbelief.
"You're spoiling me, doll."
She smiled, brushing it off with a small shake of her head.
"It might take a little while, so... why don't you change, get comfortable in the common room. I'll find you there."
Before he could answer, she added gently, "Also... can I borrow your bike?"
That earned her a low chuckle, and before she could even blink, his hand was at her waist, pulling her close, chest to chest.
"You really don't have to ask." His voice was low. "Everything I have is yours."
He pressed a kiss to her temple, then let go just long enough to reach into his jacket. He placed the bike keys in her palm, his fingers curling gently over hers.
Y/N’s smile softened. She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She took a step back — but her hand was still in his.
And he didn't let go.
When she looked up again, he was still watching her — gaze warm, unwavering.
"I love you," he said.
Her heart twisted — just a little.
"I love you too, Buck," she murmured, eyes bright.
And just when he thought she might let go — might turn and walk off with that soft smile still on her face — she didn't.
She ran the single step back into his arms instead, half-laughing as she jumped up, wrapping herself around him like she couldn't bear the space after all.
He caught her easily — like always — arms closing around her like muscle memory.
And then, as always, he spun her.
Because ever since she'd told him — breathless and blushing — that being twirled like that made her feel like a princess, Bucky had made sure to do it every time.
Whether it was her running into his arms after a long mission, or him rushing straight to her the moment he stepped off the jet.
Or whenever she ran to him like this—full of joy, full of love.
He never missed the chance.
Her laugh spilled against his shoulder, soft and golden and full of something he wanted to keep forever.
For a long, still moment, they didn't move.
Then, finally, Bucky let her go — hands trailing just a second longer than they needed to.
Like letting go still took a little convincing.
She watched him disappear into his room, bouquet and record still tucked in the crook of his arm. The door clicked shut behind him.
Y/N turned, heart light, and headed for the common room.
It didn't take long. She moved quickly, quietly, setting everything in place. Then she slipped out the side entrance of the compound.
The evening air was cool as she crossed the drive, making her way to the sleek black bike waiting just where he'd left it.
She slid on the helmet, straddled the seat, and eased the engine to life.
As she rolled down the quiet road, wind threading through her jacket, a smile tugged at her lips — the memory of the place she was heading to bloomed quietly in her mind.
The restaurant was a good hour from the compound.
Not the kind of place you stumbled across twice — unless you meant to.
And tonight, she meant to.
When they were first adjusting to life in the city, the team had done their best — restaurants, food stalls, cafés tucked into side streets — all kinds of places meant to offer new experiences.
For Y/N, it was sometimes overwhelming but manageable.
For Bucky — it was harder.
Some flavours hit too sharp. Some textures reminded him too much of rations, starvation, Hydra's food deprivation cycles.
And when that happened, it was always Y/N who noticed.
One evening, after he'd barely touched a plate, Y/N had nudged his shoulder gently.
"C'mon," she'd said simply. "We'll find you something else."
They'd been walking a while, drifting through unfamiliar streets — no plan, no destination, just following the hush of the night.
And then — Bucky stopped.
Head tilted, drawn by something.
A scent in the air — warm, rich, achingly familiar.
Without a word, he followed it.
Down a narrow alleyway to a small brick-front restaurant.
He paused just outside, staring like he wasn't sure it was real.
"Places like this still exist?" he murmured, mostly to himself.
Y/N stepped up beside him, eyes on the weathered sign.
"Looks like it's a family-run place," she said quietly. "Maybe that's why."
Y/N followed him in, and for the first time since they'd arrived, Bucky sat down, studied the menu slowly — and chose something.
Not because he had to. Not to please anyone.
Because he wanted to.
That night, he ordered pot roast — thick slices over roasted carrots and potatoes, steam curling gently from the plate.
He ate in silence, steady and slow, savouring every mouthful.
And when it was done, he leaned back, one arm on the booth, and said just four words:
"My ma made this."
It wasn't exact. But it was close enough to stir something in him.
Y/N never forgot that moment - the first that had felt like an unbroken piece of his past.
His choice.
His safety.
His moment of reclaiming a simple joy.
And tonight, she wanted him to feel that again —
Chosen. Safe. His.
Back at the compound, Bucky had showered, pulled on a soft shirt, a hoodie, and sweatpants, and padded into the common room — only to stop short.
His heart beat louder than the rain tapping against the windows.
The common room was dimly lit, warm — just right.
Their movie blanket lay draped over the couch, one of the soft pillows fluffed and placed exactly where he always leaned. His socks — the fuzzy ones — sat warm and folded, freshly out of the dryer.
She never forgot — that the nerve damage from all those years in cryo meant his feet still tingled and went cold, even in warm rooms.
On the coffee table, a steaming cup of tea. Next to it, a gift bag and a folded note in her handwriting.
Was the oldest copy I could find.
Open it and start reading till I get back.
Don't worry — I made sure Steve is safe and sound this time, so you can read in peace.
A smile tugged at his lips.
He picked up the bag, curiosity flickering.
Inside — The Hobbit. An old, worn copy. Softened at the edges, like it had passed through many hands and still survived the journey.
He sank into the couch, the blanket already pulled halfway over his lap like she'd tucked it around him without needing to be there.
The tea was exactly how he liked it. Of course it was.
And yet, for a long moment, Bucky just sat there — the book resting unopened in his hands.
Because it wasn't the tea.
It wasn't the blanket.
It wasn't even the book.
It was the fact that everything had been done before he walked in. Thought of. Prepared. Not because he earned it. Not because he asked.
But because she cared.
And that was the part that undid him.
Soldiers like him weren't used to this.
You fought. You guarded. You stood at the front and braced for impact.
You didn't come home to tea waiting. You didn't find yourself wrapped in softness someone else had laid out for you.
He'd learned to live without it. Trained himself not to want it.
Because needing it too much hurt worse than going without.
And yet here he was. Blanketed. Tea in hand. A book waiting to be read. And no war raging outside the door.
Waiting, not for it all to end, but for the woman he loved to come home to him.
For someone who'd spent decades strapped to a chair in Hydra's coldest rooms, head filled with pain, asking one question over and over:
What did I do to deserve this?
Here he was now.
Warm. Safe. Loved.
And for the first time, the same question returned — softer now.
What did I do to deserve this?
And for once, he didn't feel like running from the answer.
So he stayed.
Minutes passed.
Pages turned.
And then — faint at first, curling through the warm air — it hit him.
A scent.
Rich. Warm. Unmistakable.
Pot roast.
He froze mid-page.
Then the door swung open.
Y/N stepped inside, utterly drenched — hair plastered to her face, rain dripping from her sleeves, a takeout bag clutched tightly in her arms.
Breathless. Half-laughing. Half-shivering.
"Told you—" she started, voice bright through the downpour. "—one more surprise."
But Bucky couldn't speak.
He sat frozen — book half-forgotten in his lap — staring at her.
She'd gone.
In this weather.
On the bike.
An hour there and back.
For the meal he once called home.
Some part of him — small, stunned, disbelieving — couldn't quite make his body move.
Not until a sudden, sharp sneeze shattered the moment like glass.
His instincts kicked in hard and fast.
Book forgotten. Tea abandoned.
He was on his feet in two strides.
"Give me that," he said, gently tugging the bag from her shaking hands. "Sit down — you're soaked."
"I'm fine, Buck," she tried, voice still catching on breath. "Just got caught in—"
Another sneeze.
"Sit," he repeated — softer this time, but not up for discussion, already pulling off his hoodie — still warm from his body — and wrapping it around her shoulders.
"Buck—"
But before she could get another word out, he'd already scooped her up — bundled tight like a burrito — and was striding down the hall.
"Bucky—!"
"No arguments, doll. You did your part — now let me do mine."
She huffed, arms pinned, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.
In her room, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and set her down gently on the bed — still bundled.
Without a word, he crossed to her closet, rummaging through until he found what he needed: a towel, a hoodie, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks. The essentials.
He set them on the bed beside her, then sat down and gently began drying her hair with the towel.
When he finished, he stood.
"Just... change, yeah? You can argue with me after. I'll be right outside."
And with that, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
A few minutes later —
The door creaked open.
Bucky looked up instantly.
There she was — dressed in an oversized hoodie, sweatpants a little loose, socks pulled up over her ankles.
Cheeks pink, nose red, eyes watery from the cold —
Still the most beautiful damn thing he'd ever seen.
She sniffled, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, voice stuffy.
"This... is not how I wanted to look on our date."
He couldn't help it — a slow, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth.
"What? Beautiful?" he said softly.
She blinked — caught in his gaze — then stepped into his arms.
And he wrapped her up without hesitation, drawing her in like the warmth was something only he could give.
"You just rode through a damn storm for me," he murmured into her hair.
Her arms tightened around him.
"And I'd do it again," she whispered.
And for a moment — the warmth, the rain, her voice — it all blurred.
He saw her again — bruised on the training mat in Wakanda. The moment she stepped over the line to face the trigger words with him.
His hand trembling in his lap.
“I could’ve killed you. You shouldn’t have stepped in.”
Her voice, hoarse but unshaken:
“You didn’t. And I’d do it again.”
Now — the same words. A different storm.
His voice was barely a breath against her hair.
“I know.”
She didn’t let go for a while.
And neither did he.
But eventually, with a few more sniffles and a soft laugh, she pulled back.
"Pot roast's getting cold," she mumbled, nose still pink.
He grinned, pressing one last kiss to her hair.
"Can't let the world's most romantic dinner get cold, now can we?"
She rolled her eyes — but her smile was unmistakable.
Together, they wandered into the kitchen. Bucky ducked into the common room and came back a moment later, juggling the takeout like it was something precious.
He laid the containers carefully on the island — with the kind of care that made her heart ache a little.
They set it up together — a little clumsy, a lot cozy.
Two plates. A candle from the shelf. Their matching teacups.
Then suddenly — Bucky paused.
Without a word, he turned and took off down the hall.
"Buck?" she called after him, confused — only to blink in surprise when he returned a moment later, holding a small glass vase.
In it — the roses she'd given him.
He placed them gently between their plates, then rubbed the back of his neck like he suddenly wasn't sure where to look.
"For ambience," he mumbled.
Y/N stared at him for a beat — then whispered, "It's perfect."
And just like that, they sat down for the softest date either of them had ever had.
They ate slowly, in no rush to let the moment end — smiling like they’d never been happier to exist across from someone.
When the last of the food was gone and she reached for their plates, he stopped her with a look.
“I’ve got the dishes,” he said, gently moving her hand aside as he started stacking the cutlery and plates.
Y/N opened her mouth to protest —
and was promptly betrayed by her own nose.
A sudden sneeze ambushed the moment. She sniffled, nose starting to run.
Without a word, Bucky reached for a tissue, gently wiping her nose, then cupping her face with one hand.
“You need to stay dry and warm, pretty lady,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Then, with a faint smile, “How about you go grab the record player and the album for us?”
Her face lit up like he’d asked her to dance at prom. "Okay".
She stood, but just before turning to leave, she pointed at a glass bowl teetering at the edge of the counter — its sides streaked with a thick, reddish marinade.
“Careful with that,” she said, nodding at it. “It’s Sam’s. Some kind of pepper glaze he’s been fermenting for three days.”
Bucky squinted. “In a bowl?”
“He says it needs air.”
“Right.”
“Just don't touch it,” she said, chuckling lightly. “If it mysteriously disappears, he’s blaming you.”
Bucky raised a hand in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She smirked, already heading for the hall.
“Uh-huh. That’s what you said about his last almond milk carton too.”
“I was framed.”
“You were caught on camera,” she called back.
He just smiled to himself and went back to the dishes — humming quietly under his breath, like someone who had nothing to hide and everything to be grateful for.
A few minutes later, she returned — record player cradled in one arm, vinyl tucked under the other.
“Common room speaker’s still fried,” she said, plugging it in by the counter. “But Tony rigged the kitchen with surround sound — said Sam needed ‘culinary ambience.’”
She glanced around the open space with a small smile.
“And lucky us... it’s spacious in here.”
Bucky had just finished the dishes, drying his hands as he walked over.
“You know Steve basically gifted this to me when I told him about the date plan,” she said, crouching to set it up.
That earned a small huff of amusement from Bucky. “Of course he did.”
“He even gave me a list of songs you like.”
His brow rose, lips twitching. “Of course he did,” he repeated, softer this time.
Once the setup was ready, she straightened and handed the vinyl over.
“Here,” she said. “You do the honours.”
Bucky took it from her, still wrapped in its sleeve. He paused — eyes lingering on the cover — before slowly peeling the wrapping away.
Y/N’s gaze caught the title. Her head tilted, voice soft.
“That one’s not on Steve’s list.”
Bucky let out a quiet breath, still looking at the record.
“It wouldn’t be.”
He slipped the vinyl free and traced the cover gently with his thumb, a faraway look tugging at his expression.
Then, quietly:
“Used to watch my ma and pa dance to this,” he said, voice low.
“Late nights, after my sister was asleep.”
A pause.
“They’d put it on... just for them. Like the whole world disappeared when they held each other.”
He let the record rest against his chest.
“My pa… before he got sent off to war.”
He swallowed. “I think that’s the last time I ever saw him dance.”
Then he looked up.
And when his eyes met hers, the distance dropped away — like he’d brought himself fully back to her.
“Never really found the right partner to dance it with,” he said, voice softer now. Almost like a secret.
A beat passed — quiet, tender.
Then, steadier, warmer, he added,
“Until now.”
He placed the record gently — that warm crackle rising as the needle dropped.
The first notes drifted through the room — low, slow, a melody older than either of them could place into words.
Bucky stood still for a moment — breath catching in his chest — eyes flicking once to the floor beneath them, like he could still see old scuffed shoes on worn boards. His father’s steady hands at his mother’s waist.
Then, without a word, he turned to her — and reached out.
Took her hand gently. Brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles — soft as a secret — then dipped his head in a small, old-fashioned bow.
Just like his father used to.
When he looked up again, his gaze was steady now — sure in a way it hadn’t been when they first met.
“If you’ll have this dance with me, darling.”
She barely remembered crossing the space between them — only that one breath later, they were close. Her free hand found his shoulder as he pulled her in.
His nose brushed her hair, the space between them gone like it was never meant to exist.
For a while, there was only the soft shuffle of feet and the low crackle of the vinyl.
Then — voice low against her temple, quieter than the music itself:
"I'm glad I waited to share this with you."
She didn’t speak — just tucked herself closer, her breath soft against his neck, arms curling around him like she couldn’t quite believe she got to be here.
His grip tightened gently at her waist — as if anchoring her there, as if holding something precious he'd waited too long to touch.
And beneath it all — the faintest ghost of a memory — a little boy's wide eyes watching from the shadows, hoping one day to find someone worth giving this song to.
Now, finally, he had.
The song faded, the last notes curling into silence — but neither of them moved. His hand rubbed slow, absent circles at her back. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulder.
Then, gently, Y/N lifted her head and rose onto her toes, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“I love you, Buck,” she whispered.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment.
“I love you too, Y/N,” he murmured — and then leaned in, brushing his lips to hers.
Mid-kiss, Y/N mumbled against his mouth, a faint grin tugging at hers, “What are you smiling about?”
He pulled back a few inches, hands gently cupping her face, eyes bright.
“How’d you know I was smiling?”
She smiled back, nose almost touching his. “I could feel it on my lips.”
His grin widened — the kind that lit up his whole face.
“Care to have one more dance?”
Y/N smiled. “I'd love to. I can grab a few albums from—”
“Oh no, honey,” he cut in, smirking as he stepped back. “I’ve got this one.”
He tapped the small panel beside the speaker. “FRIDAY, connect to my phone.”
A soft beep of confirmation.
He frowned at the screen, muttering under his breath. “Where’s the damn green circle...”
And then — the opening chords of Hungry Eyes kicked in.
Y/N’s brows lifted. He just gave her a wink and reached for her hand again.
“C’mon, pretty lady. Let’s make Sam regret those speakers.”
Hungry Eyes poured through the kitchen — low, warm, the bass humming underfoot.
And Bucky — God help her — was dancing.
Stripped of nerves.
Loose. Confident. Smirking.
Eyes on her like she was the only damn thing in the world.
A shoulder shimmy. Jazz hands. Hips swaying to the beat.
And a grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
Singing loud and carefree:
"Hungry eyes... one look at you and I can't disguise..."
And then — God save her — he pulled her in.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath.
His fingers slipped just beneath the hem of her hoodie, thumb brushing warm skin, teasing.
He leaned in, voice low, still catching his breath.
“Okay if I...?”
She only nodded — eyes bright — and he guided her gently backward.
No rough press — just slow, steady steps — until her thighs touched the edge of the counter.
And before she could even think — her lips met his halfway. Deep. Hungry. A kiss that left no question who they wanted.
She bit his lower lip, grinning against him, breathless.
“Someone’s got hungry eyes,” she whispered.
He grinned back — voice molten:
"Only for you."
And then — because the universe had timing — he shifted to press closer, one hand skimming the counter—
—straight into Sam’s pepper glaze.
The bowl tipped — comically slow — right onto his metal arm.
Both of them froze — still half tangled, lips parted, eyes wide.
Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to hers.
“Swear that dish had a vendetta.”
Y/N was laughing now — doubled over, breathless against his chest.
“Well, darling,” she gasped between giggles, “looks like you’re going in the dishwasher.”
Bucky huffed, stalking over like a man betrayed.
He yanked the dishwasher open and shoved his metal arm in with a muttered curse.
When he turned back, his cheeks were flushed — lips parted, jaw tight like he was trying to keep it together.
“I didn’t mean to kill the mood,” he mumbled, words tripping over each other. “I just—damn glaze—”
Y/N didn’t let him finish.
She grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt, yanked him in, and kissed him — deep and unbothered, like none of it mattered but him.
When she pulled back, her smile was breathless. “Still hot.”
That was all it took.
He stepped in close, free hand already finding her waist.
With one easy motion, he lifted her onto the counter — then slid between her knees, lips finding hers again, hungry like he’d missed the taste.
She grinned into the kiss, voice low and teasing:
“You gonna leave your arm in there all night?”
His answering groan rumbled against her mouth.
“Right now I don’t care.”
Somehow they made it to the couch — kisses deepening — until she was in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands braced against his chest.
And then it hit him.
One arm.
One goddamn arm.
His grip tightened, trying to steady her — but the balance faltered. She shifted, and he couldn’t hold her quite right.
Frustration rose sharp and fast — a burn behind his ribs.
His jaw clenched. Breath went ragged. She felt the change instantly.
Y/N pulled back, but caught his face in both hands before he could look away.
“Bucky,” she said softly. “Come back to me.”
His eyes met hers — a flicker of something breaking through the wall.
“I should be able to—”
“Hey.”
She leaned in, her forehead brushing his.
“We do this together. That’s what partners are for.”
Her smile stayed gentle, steady. “So let me help, okay?”
He gave a slow nod, breath still catching slightly, fingers twitching at her waist.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then gently shifted her weight to guide them back.
The couch welcomed them as they sank into it together, her body easing over his.
He laid back, hand resting at her hip, still anchoring himself in the feel of her.
She hovered just above him, forehead brushing his, her voice barely above a breath. “Like this?”
His eyes closed for a moment. A soft smile tugged at his lips.
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “Just like this.”
His eyes opened — slow, unhurried.
And then, as her gaze searched his, something flickered in his own.
Without quite thinking, he reached back — tugged the shirt up and over his head, casting it aside.
Not to impress her. Not to steel himself.
Because for once, vulnerability felt like safety.
He half-expected her gaze to drop — to skim the mess of scars across his chest, the jagged lines where metal met flesh.
But she didn't.
Her eyes stayed locked on his — steady, unflinching.
Then her hand rose — slow, deliberate — fingertips ghosting over the lines along his arm.
The ones that always burned the deepest.
The ones he could still remember clawing at — nights when Hydra strapped him down and bolted their version of the arm in place.
He'd fought it then. Fought until skin split and blood ran slick down the cold steel.
And now —
Her fingers traced those same scars with a softness he couldn't have imagined.
Then, softly, as they lingered:
"You’re beautiful".
His throat caught.
“All of you,” she whispered — the words brushing his lips — and kissed him.
Then her mouth left his, trailing lower. Lips brushing the curve of his shoulder, down the ridged line of metal and skin —
And then lower still.
Soft, reverent kisses pressed to each scar along the seam.
One.
Two.
Three.
And with each one — the phantom pain that usually lingered faded away.
Replaced by the warmth of her mouth.
The weight of her touch.
A new memory where the old one had ruled.
And it didn't hurt anymore.
As her lips lifted from the last scar, she looked up — and stilled.
His eyes — shining now.
Not full tears. Not falling.
But burning there — caught in the space between breath and break.
He was staring at her like she was the first ray of sunshine after a dark winter.
For a heartbeat — maybe two — neither moved.
Then he reached — one arm curling gently around her waist, drawing her up until her head rested against his chest, just beneath his chin.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
And kept it there.
Eyes closing.
And then—like film through a projector—every moment came rushing back.
Wakanda. Ice melting from his hair.
Eyes wild. Chest heaving.
“This is Y/N,” Steve had said. “She’s… like you.”
A lake. Petals crushed in his fist.
“It’s okay to cry,” she said. “I did too.”
A mat. His grip on her. Her voice, rasping but steady:
“You are no longer the Winter Soldier. You are James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. My friend.”
And he let go.
Glass. Steel slamming into it. His breath fogging the surface.
“Bucky. Look at me. You’re not lost.”
And he stopped.
A room. Distance between them. Her voice even.
“You asked me to trust you. So trust yourself.”
And he stepped back.
His fists. Unclenching. Her voice, soft but certain:
“You’re Bucky. Someone who chooses to fight for himself now.”
And he did.
The hut. The final trigger fading.
“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.”
Rain. Tapping the roof. Scissors quiet in her hand.
“All done,” she whispered.
The tarmac. Her shoulder bumping his.
“Welcome to your new life, Barnes.”
The market. A plush wolf passed between them.
“Saw it and thought of you.”
The wheel. Him hanging mid-air.
“’Cause I love you too, Buck.”
And now — here.
Her body warm against his. Her voice, low and sure:
"You're beautiful. All of you."
Like waking up and remembering everything.
His arm tightened around her like an anchor.
And then — he felt it.
The soft shift of her fingers against his chest.
Light. Absent.
She was playing with his dog tags.
Her fingers moved without thinking, brushing over them. Light, rhythmic, like she was memorising them by touch.
He watched her — breath held, heart stilled.
Then slowly, he lifted his head. The motion made her glance up, confusion soft in her eyes.
He didn’t speak.
Just reached for one of the chains.
And before she could ask — before she could even think — he looped it over her head in one smooth motion, settling it gently against her skin.
Her hand rose instinctively, fingertips brushing the cool metal.
She looked down—then back at him.
His eyes held hers, steady and impossibly blue.
The bluest of oceans she’d drowned in.
More times than he’d ever know.
And then — his voice, barely more than breath, whispered:
“Always yours.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.
Like hearing something she’d waited her whole life to believe.
With her heart full to the brim, she whispered back — voice fierce and soft all at once:
“Always yours.”
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, and pulled her in again. This time, his lips found her temple, reverent and warm.
“Till the end of the line,” he murmured against her skin.
The first thing Y/N saw when she stirred was the bouquet of lilies on her nightstand. Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the petals.
For a moment, she simply stared at them—delicate and warm.
Then her eyes drifted to the black leather jacket draped over the back of her chair.
Bucky's jacket.
She smiled to herself, a hand gently brushing her shoulder, remembering how he'd slipped it over her at the theatre without a word. For a heartbeat, it felt like she was still there—still with him.
Pulling the blanket tighter around her, she allowed herself just a second more to smile—just to feel it.
Then—knock knock.
Y/N blinked and sat up, brushing the hair from her face. She padded over to the door and cracked it open.
There stood Natasha, already dressed, two coffees in hand, a knowing glint in her eyes.
"Morning," Nat said sweetly, holding out a cup. "I come bearing caffeine... and a safe space to tell me everything."
Y/N groaned with a smile, pulling the door open wider. "You're relentless."
"I'm Russian," Natasha replied. "Relentless is our love language."
They talked for a while—soft laughter between sips of coffee, warmth lingering like a held breath.
As Y/N recounted the night—the tenderness woven into everything he did—she found herself holding onto the feeling. Not the details themselves, but what they left behind.
Like being cared for.
Like being chosen.
Like being loved.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He's dangerous," she said.
Nat's gaze softened. "Why?"
Y/N smiled faintly, eyes lowered.
"Because he makes me believe in the impossible."
Just next door, Bucky was fast asleep, one arm slung around Wolfie, the plushie nestled against his chest.
He didn't hear the door creak open. Didn't hear the footsteps approaching.
What he did wake up to was two fully grown men standing over his bed, arms crossed, frowning.
His eyes flew open—and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"What the hell—?"
Steve raised an eyebrow. "You know," he said dryly, "I was really hoping to walk in and find you cuddling Y/N this morning... not Wolfie."
Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You people are the worst."
Sam smirked down at him, spatula in one hand, the smell of pancakes still clinging to his apron.
"Yeah, Cap even wore his quiet shoes just in case."
He let the joke hang for a second, then added with a grin,
"You even kissed her goodnight, man. That's a big step."
Bucky sat up, squinting at both of them. "How do you even know that?!"
Steve shrugged. "We have eyes."
Sam smirked. "And Redwing."
Bucky stared at them, horrified. "You weaponised Redwing for this?!"
Sam grinned. "Surveillance is surveillance, man. Don't blame the bird."
Bucky grabbed a pillow and threw it at them. "Get out!"
The pillow hit Steve square in the chest. He didn't flinch.
"You smiled in your sleep, you know," Steve said on his way out. "You never smile in your sleep."
Sam gave Wolfie a little wave. "Sorry, bud. Looks like you're getting replaced soon."
Bucky collapsed back onto the bed with a groan, dragging the blanket over his head.
God help him.
The door clicked shut behind Steve and Sam.
"Privacy's officially extinct," he muttered, flopping onto his side—Wolfie still tucked under one arm.
He had exactly thirty seconds of peace.
Then—
Knock knock.
Bucky sat up, eyebrows pinching. "Oh my god," he muttered, storming toward the door. "If this is about the kiss again, I'm moving to Wakanda".
He yanked the door open, mid-grumble. "What now, Sam? I already—"
He stopped cold.
It wasn't Sam.
It wasn't Steve.
It was Y/N.
Still in her pyjamas. Hair in a messy bun. Holding his black leather jacket in both hands, her fingers curling into the sleeves like she hadn't been sure whether to fold it... or keep it.
She blinked up at him. "...Bad time?"
Bucky stood frozen in the doorway, brain short-circuiting.
All the noise from earlier—Steve's teasing, Sam's smirking—just evaporated.
His eyes softened immediately. "No. No, not at all," he said quickly, stepping back. "Come in."
She smiled, stepping inside, the hem of her sleep pants brushing the floor.
"I figured you might want this back," she said, holding out the jacket.
Bucky looked down at it, then back at her. "Honestly? It looked better on you."
Y/N chuckled, but didn't let go of the jacket right away. "Thanks."
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. "You can keep it, if you want."
Y/N tilted her head, smiling.
Then, after a beat, she looked down—lifting the jacket slightly, like she wanted to give it but part of her didn't. "Maybe I will... one day."
Bucky gently took the jacket, their fingers met for a breath—and somehow, sparks flew.
"Sam's making pancakes, by the way," Y/N added softly. "In case you wanna join."
Bucky nodded, resting the jacket over his arm.
"Yeah. I'll be there in a minute."
Y/N gave him a soft smile, then turned and padded quietly down the hallway.
He stood there a little longer, holding the jacket like it still held the warmth she left behind.
By the time Y/N reached the kitchen, the scent of pancakes was already filling the air.
At the stove, Sam was deep in full pancake mode—wearing a white apron and flipping golden stacks with practiced flair, humming like he was hosting a cooking show only he could see.
He glanced over as she walked in, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
"Ah, there she is," he said. "Perfect timing."
He handed her a plate stacked high with pancakes, still steaming.
Sam gave a small shrug, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Only the best for you."
Y/N smiled, murmured a quiet thanks again, and took a seat at the kitchen island with the plate in hand.
Sam turned back to the stove, pouring a perfect circle of batter like he'd done it a hundred times. Then, casually—
He smirked. "So... how's the lovely garden in your room?"
Y/N paused, caught mid-syrup pour.
"Wait—how do you know about that?"
Sam raised an eyebrow, stepping back slightly as the batter sizzled. "It's not every day you see a 100-year-old assassin tiptoeing through the compound at dawn... holding a bunch of flowers like he's sneaking past enemy lines."
Before Y/N could respond, footsteps approached.
Steve walked in, two to-go cups of cocoa from their usual spot in hand. He set one in front of Y/N, then gave Sam a fond shake of his head.
"Stop interrogating her, Sam."
Then, without missing a beat, he sat beside her—calm as ever. He took a sip of his cocoa like he wasn't about to stir trouble, then turned to Y/N with a gentle smile.
"Lovely day yesterday, huh?"
Y/N immediately stuffed her mouth with pancakes, cheeks turning bright pink as she nodded a little too quickly—clearly opting for syrup over conversation.
Sam let out a laugh from the stove.
"You know, for someone who didn't say a word, that told us everything."
Y/N pointed at her full mouth like it was a legitimate legal defence.
Steve leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling. He gently tapped her cheek—just enough to draw attention to the blush spreading there. "So... is this for the flowers, or the guy who brought them?"
Y/N's blush deepened beyond possibility. She looked down so fast her hair fell into her face.
Her fork missed the pancake entirely.
And then—
Bucky walked in, pausing mid-step when he saw the three of them.
Y/N looking red as a rose. Steve sipping his cocoa like it was none of his business (it was). Sam grinning like it was exactly his business.
Bucky blinked.
"...Did I miss a briefing or something?"
Steve didn't look up—but he heard it. The subtle spike in Bucky's heartbeat. The echo of Y/N's, fluttering faster.
He smiled behind his cup.
"Nope. Just breakfast."
Then, with a grin he didn’t bother hiding, Steve stood and stretched.
"Sam, we've got that morning run, remember?"
Sam raised an eyebrow, clearly not remembering—but caught the cue. "Right. The run. Super important. Can't miss it."
With exaggerated speed, he began stacking dishes into the dishwasher—record time.
As he did, Steve leaned down toward Y/N one last time, his voice low and hushed by her ear.
"I know we're built for battle."
Y/N glanced up at him, eyes wide and uncertain.
Steve met her gaze with a soft smile. "But maybe it's time to choose something softer than armour."
Then he straightened, gave her shoulder a light squeeze, and walked toward the door.
As he passed Bucky, he clapped him on the shoulder without a word, the gesture quiet but solid.
Sam followed close behind, pausing just long enough to swat Bucky lightly on the back of the head with a casual smirk. "You're late for breakfast, Barnes."
He pressed a plate of steaming pancakes into Bucky’s hands.
"But I'm feeling generous."
And with a quick grin, he was gone—
Leaving Bucky standing there, blinking, holding pancakes and confusion in equal measure.
Bucky lingered for a second, then, slowly, he made his way to the kitchen counter.
He didn't say anything as he pulled out the chair beside Y/N and sat down, the plate of pancakes warm in his hands.
Y/N tucked her hair behind her ear, still staring at her half-eaten breakfast.
Bucky set the plate down gently, fork clinking against ceramic.
"...You okay?" he asked, voice low.
She nodded, but didn't look at him right away.
Then—
"You heard what Steve said?"
Bucky gave a small smile.
"Hard not to."
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
"Our serum perks, remember?"
Then, without waiting, he reached out and gently pulled her chair closer to his.
"My little super soldier," he breathed, in that voice he only ever used with her.
Y/N let out the tiniest laugh under her breath, eyes flicking up to him—then back to her plate.
Bucky glanced over, noticed her pancake stack already soaking up the syrup she'd poured earlier—but not nearly drowned the way she liked it.
Without a word, he reached for the syrup bottle and tipped it over her plate, adding more with the kind of quiet familiarity that said he knew exactly how she liked it.
Then, still saying nothing, he picked up his fork and cut a neat piece from the soft center of her stack.
He held it out to her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/N didn't hesitate. She leaned in, met the fork halfway, and took the bite like she'd done it a hundred times before.
Like it was just... them.
And Bucky, already watching, didn't need to see the syrup at the corner of her mouth to know it would be there.
His hand came up to her cheek right after she bit down—gentle, warm, cradling her face like it was instinct. His thumb swept over the corner of her mouth with practiced ease, brushing the syrup away like he'd done it before, like he would again.
"For what it's worth..." he said softly, his thumb now brushing the spot on her cheek where he'd kissed her the night before, the same pink dust blooming there again.
She looked up, met his gaze.
He didn't move his hand.
"...I think he's right."
His voice settled over her like warmth, slipping into the places she’d thought were still closed.
For a breath, neither of them moved.
And then—
"Okay, are we feeding each other pancakes now? Is that where we are as a team?"
They both froze.
Tony stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, brow arched to the ceiling and smirk firmly in place.
Y/N leaned back first, cheeks warm. Bucky didn’t move, just huffed out a breath.
"Don't you knock?" he muttered.
"It's a kitchen, Barnes. Not a bedroom. Or is it both now?" Tony quipped, already heading for the espresso machine like he hadn't just walked into a Hallmark moment.
Bucky rolled his eyes. Y/N hid her smile behind her mug, still warm in the cheeks.
Tony poured his coffee with a dramatic sigh, glancing around like he was disappointed not to find more witnesses.
"Anyway, I was looking for signs of life to say we're leaving for the carnival at five."
Y/N glanced up from her cup. "Steve and Sam went for a run."
Tony took a sip, made a face.
"Disgusting amount of exercise."
Another sip.
"Meet at the parking lot. Be late, ride with Steve. He worships speed limits."
Bucky didn't look at him. "We'll be there."
"Fantastic," Tony said, already halfway to the door.
He paused, glanced over his shoulder, and smirked—eyes flicking briefly to Y/N.
"You're looking bright as a lily today."
He gave a small shrug.
"Can't imagine what that's about."
And with that, he strolled off like he hadn't just outed both of them.
Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head.
Bucky stared after him for a beat, then muttered—mostly to himself, "...I thought I was being stealthy."
Y/N set her cup down, eyes warm as they flicked to him—catching a small smudge of syrup on his shirt.
Then, she reached for a napkin and gently dabbed at it.
Bucky frowned, glancing down.
"Great," he muttered, tone just a little pouty. "The one shirt I actually like."
Y/N nudged his elbow with a playful grin. "Guess you’re joining me for laundry today, Barnes."
He gave her a sidelong look, mouth twitching. "Fine. But I’m not folding. I hate folding."
"Perfect," she said, setting the napkin aside. "I’m allergic to ironing."
Bucky tipped his head, eyes glinting. "You fold, I iron?" he said softly—like he meant it.
Y/N held out a pinky. "Deal."
Bucky hooked his around hers instantly—like it was the easiest promise in the world.
The rest of the day passed in quiet rhythm—everyone drifting off to run their errands or chip away at the chores they'd been putting off. Nothing urgent. Just the kind of everyday busyness that made the Compound feel more like a home.
By late evening, that peace shattered the moment they stepped into the parking lot.
"Shotgun!" Sam yelled, already halfway to one of the cars.
Clint raised an eyebrow as he followed him into the lot.
"You can't just call it mid-sprint. There are protocols."
Tony, arms crossed, nodded toward his sleek Audi.
"None of you are driving my car. I don't care if you're Avengers, archers, or lightning-obsessed princes."
Natasha didn't even look up.
"Then why bring it, Stark?"
Thor stood beside a large van, frowning.
"Why is no one choosing the chariot with the most seats?"
Steve rubbed his temples. "Can we just pick a car like adults?"
Bruce strolled up, calm as ever, holding a reusable coffee cup.
"This is exactly why we can't have normal field trips."
Sam was now holding a door handle hostage. "I'm not moving. You can pry this seat from my cold, pancake-fed hands."
Clint was trying to climb in from the other side. "Steve! Tell him he's being unreasonable!"
"I'm not refereeing this!" Steve called out, standing a few feet away with the keys in hand, already tired and they hadn't even left yet.
Amid the chaos, Bucky quietly stepped up behind Y/N.
Before she could turn, his hand settled lightly at her waist, pulling her back against his chest—effortless, instinctive.
He leaned down, voice low against her ear.
"Wanna take the bike with me?"
Y/N smiled, her head tilting just enough to glance up at him.
"Only if I drive."
Bucky blinked.
Then a slow smirk crept across his face.
"Deal."
Just as Natasha opened her mouth to deliver what was surely going to be a scathing, effective takedown—
VROOOOM.
Everyone froze.
A sudden, clean rev of an engine cut through the chaos like thunder. All heads turned to the edge of the lot, where Bucky's bike now purred to life.
And on it sat Y/N, already in position on the driver's seat, helmet on, wind tugging at her sweater sleeves. Bucky sat behind her, one arm draped casually around her waist, smirking beneath his helmet.
Y/N looked over at the bickering group and called out, loud and clear—
"The last one to reach buys us all cotton candy!"
She revved the engine again—with a grin, pure mischief.
And they were off, tires squealing slightly as they peeled smoothly out of the car park.
There was a stunned silence for a beat.
Then—
"GO GO GO!" Sam yelled, clutching the front seat like his life depended on it, fuming as Steve slid into the driver's seat, calmly adjusting the mirrors before starting the engine.
"WHY DID WE LET THEM LEAVE FIRST?!" Tony shouted, jabbing at his keys like the car was to blame.
"To battle! And sugar!" Thor bellowed, charging toward the van as Bruce climbed into the passenger seat beside him.
Natasha jogged past the van, keys spinning on one finger.
"Only way we're winning is if I drive. Clint, you in?"
Clint peeled off after her without hesitation.
"Wasn't planning on losing."
Inside the car, Steve muttered as he started the engine,
"Should've taken the bike when I had the chance."
Then he pressed the gas and pulled out behind the others.
Out front, the world had narrowed to two people and one steady engine.
The city blurred around them—neon lights flickering against the curve of Y/N's helmet, wind rushing past like laughter in motion.
Bucky held her closer, arms wrapped securely around her waist, chin tucked near her shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut for just a moment, letting it all sink in.
This.
This felt like peace.
By the time they reached the carnival parking lot, the world had slowed again.
They parked and leaned gently against the bike, helmets off, quiet smiles traded between easy words and softer glances—tucked inside the little bubble they'd made together.
And then—
Chaos arrived.
The first SUV screeched into the lot, jolting slightly as Clint and Natasha jumped out mid-roll like they were storming a base.
Tony pulled in right behind them, muttering something about "brake pads and betrayal" as he slammed the door and checked his hair in the reflection.
Then came the van.
Thor rolled into the lot with the energy of a man steering a warship through battle—making three unnecessary loops before parking diagonally across two spots.
Bruce didn't move at first.
He sat in the passenger seat, wide-eyed, one hand still braced against the dash.
"I've never feared for my life in a minivan until today," he muttered, then stumbled out, gripping the door like the ground might still be swaying.
Thor leapt out right after, grinning like he'd just won a race. "Flawless landing."
Moments later, the final vehicle cruised into the lot—
much slower.
Steve's car rolled to a halt with all the dramatic weight of a diplomatic convoy.
He stepped out first, hands already raised in surrender.
"I know, I know. Cotton candy's on me."
From the passenger side, Sam launched out like a man personally wronged by fate.
"He stopped. For a pigeon. You know they can fly, right?"
Bucky snorted, unable to hold back the laugh.
Sam turned toward him, fully exasperated.
"Oh, shut the hell up, Barnes."
Steve didn't miss a beat.
"Language."
That broke them.
The group dissolved into laughter—easy, unguarded, like something old and familiar. They began walking toward the carnival entrance together, civilian clothes blending them into the crowd.
The carnival burst around them in neon and noise—cotton candy spinning in stalls, lights blinking like confetti, and music from every corner clashing in the best possible way.
They moved together at first, then drifted naturally into the evening, drawn in different directions by games, lights, and the quiet thrill of freedom.
Bruce and Tony veered toward the game booths, already arguing about trajectory angles of the ring toss.
Clint vanished without a word the moment he saw the dunk tank.
A second later, they heard: "Hey! That guy's arm's too good—he's not supposed to win!"
Thor, drawn to the flashing chaos of a ride called The Vortex, bellowed, "I wish to be spun!" before dragging a reluctant carnival worker behind him.
Natasha walked beside the group for another minute—then saw the bumper cars. She glanced at Steve, who raised a brow.
She just smirked.
"I feel like hitting things."
And veered off like she was born for it.
That left Sam, Steve, Bucky, and Y/N standing near a row of rides glowing under pink and gold bulbs.
A little quieter. A little slower.
And then Steve's eyes narrowed at something across the lot.
"Is Thor... trying to convince the operator to let him control The Vortex himself?
Sam turned to look. "Yup. And judging by the hand waving, he's quoting Odin."
Steve sighed, already walking.
"I'll be back. I gotta take care of that before Thor rewrites carnival safety regulations."
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving the last three to wander — passing popcorn carts and glowing prize booths.
And then they saw it.
The Ferris wheel.
Lit up in soft gold and blue, its open carriages turned slow and steady against the evening sky—like something pulled out of a dream.
Sam jolted.
"Oh, we're doing that. Come on."
He took off toward the line without looking back.
Y/N laughed, eyes brightening instantly.
She took a step forward—hand still laced with Bucky's.
And then she stopped.
Just one step.
She felt the weight in his grip before she even turned around.
When she did, he was still standing there.
His smile was trying its best to hold—but his eyes had slipped somewhere far away.
Somewhere snowy.
Somewhere falling.
And suddenly she understood.
The Ferris wheel. The height. The fear.
The train.
He didn't say anything. Didn't have to.
Y/N stepped back toward him and squeezed his hand gently.
"Hey," she said softly.
"It's okay. We don't have to."
He looked at her—grateful and guilty all at once.
"You should go," he said, voice low. "I know it's on your list of new things to try. You and Sam—go. I'll be right here."
She hesitated.
"Buck..."
But he shook his head with the smallest smile.
"I'll be right here," he repeated. "Promise."
She bit her lip, torn. Her eyes flicked to the ride, then back to him.
He smiled again—really smiled, this time. Soft. Just for her.
"Do it for me."
She stared at him for a long second and gave a small nod.
Then—without thinking—she leaned in and pressed a quick, joyful kiss to his cheek.
Soft and warm. Certain.
And with that, she turned and ran after Sam, her laughter trailing behind her like wind.
Bucky stood there, one hand on his cheek, watching her go—
heart thudding hard and uneven,
but not because of the Ferris wheel anymore.
The moment held him still.
His eyes stayed on her.
She and Sam stood at the front of the line, laughing—Sam all wild gestures and exaggerated flair. Y/N tried (and failed) not to double over, her eyes bright beneath the lights, cheeks flushed with a joy that made Bucky's heart swell.
Childlike. Open. Light.
He watched them climb into one of the carriages. Sam peered around like he didn't trust the engineering. Y/N rolled her eyes and gave his shoulder a shove. The carriage rocked slightly, then began to rise.
Bucky followed it with his eyes, slow and quiet, until it faded into a silhouette against the sky.
A familiar presence stepped up beside him.
"You're thinking too much," Steve said, voice low.
Bucky didn't turn—just kept his gaze on the sky.
"Are you implying I should think less?"
Steve exhaled softly.
"I'm implying you think too much when it comes to her."
Bucky frowned slightly but said nothing.
Steve continued, voice steady.
"About how to protect her. Keep her safe. Shield her from everything."
He let the words settle in the quiet.
"But in doing that... you miss the point."
Bucky turned slightly, not defensive—just listening.
Steve's tone softened.
"Y/N's not like everyone else who leaned on you without ever seeing how much you were holding."
He let that sit, giving Bucky space to absorb it.
"She never expected you to protect her the way the rest of the world does."
A beat.
"She's always facing it—with you."
He blinked slowly, a breath catching at the edge of his ribs.
"That's the part I don't know how to live in," he said softly.
Bucky's admission didn't echo—it just lingered, low and unguarded.
Steve's voice came gently through the quiet.
"Maybe it's time you try."
The Ferris wheel creaked on in its rhythm as they stood in silence, watching it turn—its lights blinking against the sky like slow, steady stars.
Then Steve spoke again, more softly this time.
"She looks happy."
Bucky's lips tugged at a soft smile—more breath than expression.
"Yeah... she does."
Steve's gaze followed the rise and fall of each carriage, steady as a heartbeat.
"You know," he began, "ever since we found her in the wreckage... brought her back to the compound—I've watched her rewire herself."
He paused, quieter now.
"From trauma to survival."
Bucky didn't respond, but his jaw tightened.
Steve glanced over.
"But she never really surrendered to safety."
There was a pause.
"The way she is now," Steve said gently, "that's the softest I've seen her since the rescue."
He gave a small nod. "That was you."
Bucky looked at him, expression calm but intent.
Steve went on, his voice lower now.
"And the lightest I've seen you be since we were kids?"
His expression softened. "That's her."
A quiet breath of a smile escaped him.
"You meet each other in a way no one else ever could."
A pause.
Then—
"If anyone's going to make her believe in love," Steve said, "it's going to be you."
Bucky held his gaze, voice low.
"Why?"
Steve didn't look away—there was no hesitation in his answer.
"Because she believed in you first," he said. "Even when the whole damn world—including you—didn't think you'd be standing here today."
A quiet moment passed.
Bucky's eyes returned to the Ferris wheel—returned to her.
Steve watched him for a second longer, noting the softness that had settled in his features—rare, but real.
Then his gaze drifted across the fairground. In the distance—just past the ride and glowing food stalls—he spotted a familiar cluster of chaos: Tony, Bruce, Nat, Clint, and Thor, all huddled near a towering cotton candy cart.
They were waving exaggeratedly at him, Nat pointing smugly while Tony mimed checking a nonexistent watch.
Steve groaned under his breath.
He sighed. "Of course they'd hold me to it."
Bucky smirked, following his gaze.
"Y/N wants the pink one—the extra fluffy kind. And I'll take blue".
Steve shook his head, amused."Noted. Sam said if his doesn't look like a cloud, don't bother."
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Steve turned back to him, pausing for a beat. "You'll be alright here?"
Bucky nodded, just once. "Yeah."
Steve clapped his shoulder lightly before stepping back.
"Don't do anything stupid until I get back."
Without missing a beat, Bucky smirked faintly.
"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."
Steve chuckled, shaking his head as he jogged off toward the group.
Bucky turned back toward the glowing wheel, eyes finding the carriage near the top—hers.
She looked gentle, bathed in twilight and carnival light, her gaze drifting across the view below like she didn't want to miss a second of it.
His heart kicked against his ribs. Like it was seeing magic for the first time—and realising it had a name.
And then the distance hit him.
She was up there.
And he was still down here.
Still afraid.
Still waiting.
And suddenly—without thinking—he ran.
Toward the spinning Ferris wheel.
The ride operator barely blinked before Bucky had already climbed the barrier.
"Hey! Sir—you can't—!"
But he was already halfway up the metal bars, climbing like a man possessed. The wind whipped against his face, the metal cold against his hands—but he didn't stop.
He didn't look down.
He didn't need to.
He only needed to see her.
Meanwhile, in Carriage #7—currently suspended several stories above the fairgrounds—Sam Wilson was already in full crisis mode.
"WHY are you like this?" he groaned, gripping the edge of the carriage with both hands. "WHY did I get in this death bucket with you two?"
Y/N leaned slightly over the edge, squinting downward.
"Is that—oh my god, that's Bucky—"
"OF COURSE IT'S BUCKY," Sam hissed. "Because this ride wasn't dangerous enough, now we've got a man with a METAL ARM dangling from the side like Spider-Man's emotionally repressed cousin!"
Y/N blinked, heart stuttering as her eyes caught him—jaw tight, eyes steady, hair tousled in the wind like some ridiculous fairytale gone rogue.
"BUCKY!" she shouted, somewhere between stunned and breathless. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Sam groaned and thumped his head against the side of the carriage. "I swear to God, if he falls and I have to write the eulogy—"
"Y/N!" Bucky called, his voice sharp with urgency as he climbed higher—metal fingers gripping the frame, boots finding any hold they could.
And then—
With one last swing, he hoisted himself up, arms locking over the top bar—dangling right in front of her carriage.
Steady. Stupidly, recklessly steady.
Like some war-worn version of The Notebook—grit instead of poetry, but all heart just the same.
He met her eyes, breathless but grinning.
"Hi," he said, like he wasn't several stories off the ground, hanging like a lunatic in love.
Y/N just stared at him.
One second. Two.
Then turned to Sam.
"Hold my purse."
"WHAT?!" Sam shrieked.
But she was already shoving the bag into his arms and leaning halfway out of the carriage, eyes locked on the man dangling outside it.
"Hi?" she echoed, wide-eyed. "You climb a Ferris wheel mid-rotation, and that's what you go with?!"
Her voice rose, exasperation boiling over.
"JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, I SWEAR ON EVERYTHING IF YOU DO NOT GET YOUR ASS IN THIS CARRIAGE I WILL—"
"Not until you hear me out!" he yelled back, grinning like the completely feral man he was.
Y/N looked one second away from combusting. "I AM NOT BARGAINING WITH YOU WHILE YOU'RE CLINGING TO A FAIRGROUND RIDE!"
"I—I'm sorry!" he said, breathless, laughing like someone who knew he was pushing his luck and doing it anyway. "I know this is insane and dangerous and you're probably going to kill me the second I climb in—but I need you to know!"
"KNOW WHAT, EXACTLY?!"
His grip tightened. His eyes softened.
"I love you."
Silence.
Just for a second.
Long enough for his voice to echo out into the lights and music and night air.
Y/N stared at him, mouth parted in shock. Eyes wide. Wind tangled in her hair.
He clung to the bar like a lunatic with nothing to lose and everything to say.
The world held its breath.
And then—soft, uncertain:
"Y-you... you do?"
Bucky's breath hitched—but his answer came without hesitation.
"I do," he said, nodding once. "God, I do. With every damn part of me."
He didn't give her time to look away.
"And if that beautiful mind of yours still thinks love's not meant for you..."
He gave the faintest smile.
"Too late. You've already got mine."
His voice dropped, lower now—gentler.
"And if that fierce heart of yours is still beating like it doesn't deserve to be loved—"
He shook his head slowly.
"Not again. Not when I'm right here, loving you anyway."
A beat passed.
The wind rushed between them.
"And if you still believe no one could love you..."
His eyes never left hers.
"Then watch me try. Every day. For the rest of my life."
The words hit like a tide—soft, steady, and already carving themselves into her.
Y/N blinked, breath trembling.
For a moment, her mouth opened—but no words came.
Her heart was too loud. Too full.
Then—soft, certain—her voice rose, smaller than she meant it to, but truer than anything she'd ever said.
"Only if... if you let me do the same."
The smallest smile broke through, like something inside her finally exhaled.
"Cause I love you too, Buck."
The world stilled again.
Bucky's heart thundered—so fast, so loud, he was honestly surprised it hadn't given out on the spot.
"What—what?" he breathed, like the air had been punched from his lungs.
He stared at her, stunned—like gravity had shifted and no one warned him.
The climb, the chaos, the confession? That he could handle.
But this—her saying it back?
That wasn't something he ever really let himself believe.
He'd imagined it, sure. Late at night. Half-asleep. In moments he barely admitted to himself.
But hearing it now, in her voice, in real time—
It hit home.
Y/N's smile trembled at the edges, soft and real, a hint of pink warming her cheeks.
"I said I love you," she repeated—soft as breath, like the words had been waiting their whole life to be heard by him.
Bucky's lips parted, but no words came out—just the smallest, stunned laugh as a smile tugged helplessly at his mouth.
He looked at her like she'd just handed him the entire universe in a ribbon-wrapped box.
His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, heart somewhere up in his throat.
And still, somehow, that silly, lovesick smile stayed right there on his face.
Y/N bit her lip, her own smile blooming wide and pink-cheeked, eyes shining like she couldn't believe herself either.
Then—softly, almost bashfully—she said,
"Can you... can you please come here to me now?"
Bucky's breath hitched—then he nodded, slow and shy, eyes never leaving hers.
"Yeah," he said, voice warm and edged with wonder.
A breath, a pause—then softer, like he was tasting the words for the first time:
"Yeah. I'm coming, my love."
Hands a little unsteady, heart even more so—he climbed in.
Stumbled a little. Almost slipped. She caught his wrist with both hands and dragged him in with more strength than she meant to.
"Don't fall," she whispered. "I've got you."
He landed with a soft thud, nearly in her lap.
And suddenly, they were face to face.
Rosy-cheeked. Dazed.
Spinning, slowly, at the top of the world.
The lights of the city below them blurred like stars falling in reverse.
Time softened its grip—just enough for them to breathe.
Sitting in stillness, they leaned in—foreheads pressed, breath to breath, eyes closed.
Smiles lingered on their lips—trembling, radiant, impossibly soft.
And in the hush between heartbeats, they glowed.
She tugged him closer, and he came easily, almost shy in how close he wanted to be.
A beat passed.
Then—slowly—they opened their eyes, like neither wanted to be the first to break the spell.
Bucky's lips curved into a grin - all boyish charm and wonder he couldn't quite hide.
"So..." he whispered, voice low and warm,
"Does this mean I'm officially your man now?"
Y/N let out a soft laugh, her eyes still shining.
"You climbed a Ferris wheel like a feral raccoon just to yell your feelings."
She cupped his cheek, thumb brushing slow and sure.
"Yeah. I think that makes it official."
His grin only deepened—hopeless, smitten, entirely hers.
"I'd climb it again."
"Please don't," Sam muttered from the corner, eyes closed like he was trying to manifest peace. "I just got my blood pressure under control."
Bucky looked over, startled. "Wait—you're still in here?"
"YEAH, I'M STILL IN HERE!" Sam exclaimed, eyes snapping open. "Trapped in your love story while I'm over here having a heart attack."
Y/N leaned over and patted his shoulder sympathetically. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."
Sam gave her a look—half glare, half barely-contained smile.
"Y'all are insane. Absolutely unhinged."
Bucky just grinned—way too pleased with himself—then looped his arm around Y/N and tucked her in like she belonged there.
She leaned in like she'd never known a more perfect spot.
Then Bucky—ever the menace—stuck his tongue out at Sam.
Sam stared at them, deadpan.
"I want off this ride."
He threw his arms up.
"I want off this planet."
Down below, Steve stood frozen, cotton candies in hand, mouth agape.
He’d only just returned to find Bucky missing—only to look up and catch him hanging from the Ferris wheel’s bar like a barnacle, shouting “I love you” into the night.
And Y/N’s answer—soft but sure—had carried down clear enough for him to hear.
A grin spread wider than the moon as Steve watched their carriage descend.
Through the dusk-lit crowd, he easily caught sight of them—Bucky already guiding Y/N through the next swarm lining up for the ride with one arm around her, steering her toward a quieter corner.
Then—Steve saw it.
With a breathless laugh, Bucky swept her off her feet in a delighted spin. Her giggle rose above the fairground noise as she clung to him, arms tight around his neck. He set her down gently, but neither let go. Not even a little.
Steve stood there, lost in the moment—until a thundercloud in the form of Sam Wilson barrelled toward him.
"STEVE."
Steve blinked. "Sam."
"YOU LEFT HIM ALONE. IN PUBLIC."
"You'll have to be more specific."
"Your metal-armed trauma gremlin! He climbed the Ferris wheel."
"I saw," Steve replied mildly. "Was it romantic?"
Sam gaped. "Was it—STEVE. He could've DIED. Or short-circuited a power grid. Or accidentally launched himself into orbit. FOR LOVE!"
Steve nodded serenely. "At least he finally told her."
Sam sputtered. "YES. ON A FERRIS WHEEL. IN FRONT OF A CROWD. SHOUTED it like he was auditioning for a musical!"
Steve chuckled, utterly unfazed. "That’s my boy."
"NO. Your boy traumatised an entire Ferris wheel full of people. And turned ME into an unwilling therapist in a slowly rotating DEATH BUBBLE."
Steve’s eyes twinkled. "And Y/N finally said it back."
Sam threw up his hands. "Yes. Of course she did. Because apparently insane declarations of love work! And I'm the idiot who thought communication was supposed to be healthy and low-risk."
Steve gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. "You’re just mad you third-wheeled a cinematic love confession."
"I was trapped," Sam hissed. "While they were cuddling and nibbling like a pair of mice who finally found cheese."
Steve lost it—doubling over, wheezing with laughter.
Eventually, he wiped his eyes, still grinning. "Well... at least they're not running from it anymore."
Sam muttered under his breath, took his cotton candy, and begrudgingly started eating it.
"...It was kinda beautiful," he admitted a moment later. "In a deranged, Bucky-Barnes-should-come-with-a-warning-label kind of way."
Just then, they both spotted Bucky and Y/N approaching—hand in hand, faces flushed, eyes bright.
Steve stared at them in awe, smiling before he could help it, as the pair wove through the crowd and finally reached where they stood.
There was a glow about them—one that made the fairground lights seem pale in comparison.
Beside him, Sam shifted with a loud sigh.
"Oh, would you stop grinning and say something," he muttered around a mouthful of cotton candy.
Steve blinked out of his daze. "Right. So—" he lifted one of the cones with a soft smile. "Looks like I didn’t need to bring the extra-fluffy stuff. You two’ve got plenty of sweetness already."
Y/N laughed softly. "He climbed the Ferris wheel, Steve," she said, eyes wide.
Steve arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I saw."
Then he turned to Bucky. "What did I tell you?"
Bucky scratched the back of his neck. "Don’t do anything stupid."
Steve tilted his head. "And?"
Bucky gave a sheepish grin. "You were taking too long."
Steve chuckled, handing him the blue cotton candy and passing the pink one to Y/N. Then he pulled them both into a warm, steady hug.
"I’m really happy for you both," he murmured.
Steve pulled back with a smile, and for a moment, they simply stood there—light in their eyes, as if they’d never known war.
Before the moment could settle, a voice broke through.
"So," Tony said, striding over, "I leave for ten minutes to bribe a ride operator into letting Thor onto the teacup ride, and I find Barnes starring in a one-man rom-com stunt reel."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "That ride’s on the other end of the fair. How’d you even see it?"
Tony smirked, pulling out his phone. "Pepper sent me a video. Some genius filmed the whole thing and posted it. Zoom’s trash, audio’s gold".
Bucky and Y/N's eyes widened in horror.
"Relax," Tony added, already scrolling through his gallery. "I had FRIDAY pull it all down. This one’s just for me. And, you know… future wedding slideshow content. You’re welcome."
Both Bucky and Y/N turned crimson.
"Oh, please," Tony added with a grin. "You confessed your love dangling from a Ferris wheel. That’s ending with an 'I do.' "
Before either could reply, a new voice cut in.
"Please tell me I didn’t hallucinate Barnes hanging from a Ferris wheel?" Clint asked, appearing with arms full of stuffed animals he’d clearly won at the arcade with sniper-level precision.
A beat later, Natasha strolled up beside him, a faint smirk playing at her lips—her own collection of plushies in hand. "You two really know how to put on a show."
Y/N buried her face in Bucky’s shoulder. He huffed a quiet laugh, his ears burning red.
"The three of us saw it from the other side of the wheel," Bruce chimed in gently, an amused smile tugging at his mouth.
"Thor almost summoned lightning in a teacup," Tony added dryly. "Note to self: don’t show him confession videos mid-spin."
"Where is Thor?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.
Before anyone could answer—
"Ah! The lovebirds!" Thor’s voice boomed as he arrived, clapping Bucky hard on the back—nearly knocking him straight into Y/N’s arms (not that he minded).
"How fare thee two? Have you merged souls yet? Is there a binding ceremony I must attend?"
"Not yet, Thor," Y/N said sweetly, laughing. "...One day," she murmured, the thought catching her off guard even as it left her lips.
For a beat, Bucky could only look at her — eyes softer than she’d ever seen.
"Whenever you’re ready," he said quietly, the words slipping out like a promise.
Y/N blinked, heart stuttering, and tucked herself just a little closer to his side.
There was a brief pause — just long enough for a few knowing smiles to flicker across the group.
A beat later, Tony clapped his hands. "Alright! Group selfie. To commemorate the first time Barnes was the one causing chaos on a family outing."
"Ferris wheel backdrop," Clint said instantly, grinning. "Full circle."
Tony smirked. "Pretty sure it’s the new team landmark."
They made their way to the front of the Ferris wheel, laughing and jostling into place.
Tony handed his phone to Steve. "You're tall. Get everyone in."
Steve squinted at the screen. "How do I flip it to selfie mode again?"
Sam groaned. "Oh my God. Cap, it's the button with the little camera icon—no, the other one. You're taking a picture of the ground—STEVE—"
Clint tried to help from behind, Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, folding his arms, and Tony dramatically mimed throwing himself into the Ferris wheel.
Meanwhile, Natasha leaned over to Y/N and nudged her gently.
"Am I allowed to say I told you so now?"
Y/N chuckled. "Only if I'm allowed to say thank you... for never giving up on me."
Nat smiled softly, pulling her into a quick side hug before clapping Bucky on the shoulder. She narrowed her eyes playfully. "I’m watching you, Barnes. You better take care of my girl."
"Yes, ma'am," Bucky said instantly.
With a satisfied nod, Nat moved to Steve’s side. He wrapped an arm around her—plushies and all—and finally, finally, lifted the phone high above to frame the group.
Just as he was about to take the picture—
Tony, sipping from a fizzy drink, snorted so hard it sprayed. "Wait, hold up—SAM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WERE IN THE CARRIAGE?!"
Snap.
The picture caught the exact moment:
Tony mid-gasp, Sam mid-rant, Steve laughing with the phone held high, Clint and Bruce cracking up, Natasha knowing smile, Thor doing a dramatic pose, and Bucky and Y/N—leaning into each other, laughing like no one else existed.
There couldn't have been a happier photo in existence.
As the night wound down, the team ambled toward their cars—laughing, yawning, someone arguing about who had won the most plushies—while Y/N and Bucky quietly drifted toward the bike.
Y/N swung her leg over it, settling into the seat like she belonged there. Bucky came up beside her, wordlessly handing her the helmet.
She turned on the engine and gave it one teasing rev.
"You sure you don’t want to drive?"
Bucky shook his head, tugging on his helmet. As he swung a leg over and settled in behind her, he murmured, "As long as you’re happy, I don’t mind following your lead."
A beat. Then, softer—
"And you know I’m right here. If you ever don’t want to."
Her eyes softened, and for a second, he thought she might kiss him again right then and there.
Instead, she grinned and pulled her helmet on.
The ride back was quiet in the best way—wind in their ears, her shoulders pressed to his chest, the hum of the road beneath them.
By the time they pulled into the compound’s parking lot, night had fully settled in, headlights cutting through the dark as the team pulled in behind them.
Doors opened. Groans of contentment. Laughter lingered in the air.
Someone—probably Clint—asked what was for dinner.
Someone else—definitely Tony—declared they were ordering pizza.
That, naturally, sparked the great pineapple-on-pizza debate of the night, voices rising in playful argument as the group began making their way inside.
But Steve? Steve noticed what the others didn't.
He slowed his pace and turned just in time to see Bucky still seated on the bike, Y/N in front of him, both helmets still on.
Their heads were tilted toward each other, like they were suspended in a moment that didn't quite belong to anyone else.
Steve smiled softly, then turned and followed the others inside, letting the moment be.
The low click of helmet clasps broke the stillness as Bucky and Y/N pulled theirs off. Y/N laughed softly and hooked both helmets onto the handlebar.
She made a move to swing her leg off the bike—
But his arms were suddenly around her waist again, holding her in place.
She stilled, her breath catching as she felt his lips brush the edge of her ear.
"Turn around, baby girl," he murmured, voice low, breath warm against her skin.
Her blush bloomed instantly, but she didn't hesitate.
Wordlessly, she slid her legs to one side, then swung one over again—until she was facing him now, knees bracketing his thighs.
Bucky’s metal hand came to rest lightly on her thigh, the other finding her waist, drawing her just a little closer.
In the hush between heartbeats, nothing else existed.
The wind brushed her hair against her cheek, and without thinking, Bucky lifted a hand to gently tuck it behind her ear. His fingers lingered just a second too long.
Y/N’s heart fluttered, her smile breaking through before she could stop it.
"I still can’t believe you actually did that," she whispered.
A soft laugh slipped from her. "You know they’re going to bring this up forever, right?" she added, nudging his knee gently with hers.
Bucky shrugged, eyes soft as they stayed fixed on hers.
"I know," he said. "And I'd still do it again".
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And Bucky felt it—felt the glow of her beneath his touch, the quiet warmth of her presence sinking into him.
Something in him leaned toward it instinctively, drawn to the light she seemed to radiate without even trying.
His next words came softer, closer—woven with the faintest trace of melody, like a secret meant only for her.
"If the whole world was watching," Bucky murmured, voice following the familiar tune, "I’d still dance with you."
Y/N's lips parted in surprise, eyes wide with a soft kind of disbelief.
"Bucky Barnes..." she whispered, a smile tugging at her lips.
"You know the lyrics to my favourite song?"
Bucky gave a quiet laugh, eyes still fixed on hers.
"Every time I missed you when you were away on missions..."
He paused, just for a second—then added, voice even lower,
"I'd hear your voice humming it. Just like you do when you're next to me."
Y/N blinked, her heart thudding a little harder.
"So one day," Bucky continued, almost shy now, "I looked it up—on that music app Peter set up for us. The one with the green circle."
He gave a small, sheepish shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Took me a while to get it working."
His voice softened. "But I listened to it. Then again. And again."
He looked down for a beat, then back at her—completely open.
"Until the ache of missing you stopped feeling like pain...and started sounding like you."
Y/N's voice was barely above a whisper, something tender breaking across her face.
"So we were listening to the same song..."
She looked at him, eyes shining, smile soft and full.
"...just on opposite sides of missing each other."
Bucky’s gaze held hers, steady.
"I'm here now," he said softly, like a promise.
She gave a small nod.
Paused—then added, quieter still:
"If you ever feel that ache again, Buck..."
Her hand rose and rested on his chest, right over his heart.
His pulse stuttered under her fingers.
"You don't have to carry it by yourself."
She drew in a soft breath.
A heartbeat passed.
"Tell me."
And then, softer—like a promise wrapped in breath and melody—she whispered:
"I’d drive highways and byways… to be there with you."
The tune threaded softly through her words, familiar, tender.
Bucky gave a small nod, a breath leaving him like he’d been holding it for far too long.
Then—soft, careful—
His forehead dipped forward, resting against hers.
He didn't close the space. Not all the way.
He waited.
For her.
Her hands slid to the open edges of his jacket, fingers curling gently against the fabric—not pulling, not yet. Just holding.
The words rose easy now, carried by her touch.
"Over and over..." he echoed softly—voice holding the faint rhythm of the song between them. "The only truth."
Y/N’s smile softened, eyes shining.
Her next words came like the faintest hum, slipping into the tune between them:
"Everything comes back to you."
Her nose brushed his, feather-light.
Her lips parted just a little.
His hand lifted to cradle her face.
His face tilting to the side.
Her eyes fluttered shut—
Then he kissed her.
Slow. Steady.
Like every second that led to it mattered.
Because it did.
The kiss stretched through a lifetime stolen—slow, sacred, theirs to keep.
For Bucky, the tender press of her mouth undid him more than any battle ever had.
For Y/N, it was surrender, pure and complete—an undoing of every wall she'd ever built.
In the quiet that followed, only the hush of the moment remained between them.
And when they did finally pull apart, it was barely at all—their breath still mingling in the sliver of space between them.
Neither opened their eyes.
Then he felt her—drawn to him, soft and trusting—and his heart almost broke for it.
She leaned into his hand—slow, shy—letting her cheek press deeper into his palm, as if releasing a breath she’d been holding her whole life.
For once, she let herself want it.
And in that breath, his smile came slow—soft, like he didn’t know a heart could feel this full.
They stayed like that—foreheads touching, breath shared, eyes closed.
Then Y/N nudged her nose against his—softly, playfully—barely a brush, light as a whisper.
And Bucky—
Bucky giggled.
It was quiet, airy, almost surprised—like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it.
Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, a smile blooming slow and soft.
And that smile—so unguarded, so meant just for him—made his chest ache in the best way.
And in that ache, he felt it—what they both had chosen at last.
The next three days were a blur of planning for Bucky, each moment spent making sure everything was perfect for Y/N. He’d thought of every detail—nothing could go wrong, and above all, it had to remain a surprise.
He started by securing Friday off for Y/N. Walking into the lab, he approached Bruce and Tony, asking them to give her the day off without revealing why. To his surprise, they didn’t pry.
When he raised an eyebrow and asked, “Don’t you want to know what it’s for?” Tony and Bruce exchanged a knowing glance before answering in unison, “We respect your privacy.”
It was ironic, though, considering they’d both tried to sneak a peek at his journal just days ago—something he hadn’t found out about... yet.
Steve made sure that no missions were scheduled for either Bucky or Y/N on Friday. With a quick word the day was cleared. "You deserve some downtime," Steve said, smiling warmly at Y/N, who was staring at him with confusion while he tried to hide his excitement.
Y/N walked into the kitchen, still trying to wrap her mind around what Steve, Bruce, and Tony had told her in the past hour. “I was given my Friday off from work,” she said, glancing at Sam and Natasha, who were casually hanging around. “Apparently, I’ve been overworking.”
“I’m not really sure what to do with a random work-free day,” Y/N sighed, sitting next to Natasha at the counter.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s a classic sign of overworking, Y/N. I’m sure you can find something to do.”
Y/N frowned. “Well, I guess I have some errands to run out of the compound. You know, like grocery shopping.”
Both Sam and Natasha immediately chimed in, “NO,” in perfect unison, their voices oddly synchronised.
Y/N blinked, more confused than ever. “Why? I was even going to get your almond milk, Sam. I noticed it’s almost over.”
Sam hesitated for a moment, shifting nervously on his feet. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll grab it later.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Last time you ran out of almond milk, you had a tantrum.”
Sam suddenly froze, trying to act casual. “I don’t tantrum—I express frustration in creative ways!”
Natasha snapped back to reality, her voice calm but firm. “Y/N, why don’t you relax inside? Take it easy.”
Sam, looking like he was on the verge of breaking into a sweat, added, his voice a little too high-pitched, “Yeah, I’m sure you can find someone to do—".
The words barely left his mouth before he immediately started frantically waving his hands, as if trying to recover. "SOMETHING..something to do".
Just as Y/N was about to respond, Bucky walked in, casually glancing between Sam and Natasha, both looking unusually flustered. Sam was wiping sweat from his forehead, and Natasha had that "I'm trying not to laugh" expression on her face.
Sam, looking like he’d been caught in a scandal, quickly grabbed his coffee and shot Natasha a look. "Uh, you know what, Nat? I think I left something in the gym. You good here?"
Natasha nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah, definitely. I, uh, need to check in with Clint. You know how it is." She grabbed her own cup, giving Bucky a quick wave before both of them hurried out of the kitchen, trying to cover up their awkwardness with overly casual excuses.
Bucky watched them leave, raising an eyebrow as he turned to Y/N. "What was that about?"
Y/N shook her head with a smile. “I have no idea.”
Bucky leaned against the counter, trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes betrayed the slightest twinkle of amusement. “Well, now that they’re gone, what’s going on with you?”
Y/N paused for a moment, unsure whether to give in to her curiosity. "I have this Friday off, and I was just wondering what to do. Apparently, I need to not be working".
Bucky’s lips curled slightly, and he tried hard to suppress the smile threatening to break through. All the planning and preparation he’d done for this moment rushed to the forefront of his mind.
Keeping his voice casual, he shrugged as if the idea was no big deal. "Well, if you aren't busy... why don’t we have a day out?"
Y/N’s eyes flickered with surprise, and she considered it for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure. That sounds good.”
Bucky’s smile grew, but he kept his cool. “Great. How about we meet at 3?”
Y/N smiled back, her curiosity piqued. “I'm in”
As Bucky turned to leave, he couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. It was finally happening, and despite keeping his calm, he couldn’t deny the excitement bubbling up inside him.
Next, Bucky set off on a mission: to find the perfect flowers. After scouring every flower shop in the city, he finally found a store that had orange lilies in stock. The florist, a sweet old lady, agreed to pre-order one for him, and he promised to pick it up Friday morning. He couldn’t help the lovesick grin that spread across his face as he paid for the order, already imagining Y/N’s reaction.
As he paid, the old lady’s eyes twinkled. “For a special lady, I assume?”
Bucky’s cheeks flushed as he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly.
She smiled knowingly, her gaze softening. “My husband smiled at me like that on our first date. Forty years later, I still get butterflies every time I see him.”
Bucky’s heart swelled with a warmth as he left the shop, clutching the receipt. The words from the old lady echoed in his mind, deepening the smile on his face.
With the flowers sorted, Bucky quickly moved on to the next step: securing a reservation at Y/N’s favourite restaurant.
He dialled the number for Nando's, feeling a bit nervous as he waited for someone to pick up. When the hostess answered, he cleared his throat, trying to sound confident. "Hi, I’d like to make a reservation for two, please. For this Friday evening... around 7?".
He paused, then added, "Could we get a corner table? Somewhere quiet, if possible." As the hostess confirmed the reservation, Bucky’s heart gave a little leap. He could already picture Y/N adorably munching on her favourite peri-peri chicken. He hung up, a smile tugging at his lips.
Lastly, it was time for the movie tickets. Bucky had planned to book them the old-fashioned way, going to the theatre in person, but Sam had quickly informed him that online booking existed.
Sitting at the laptop, Bucky stared at the screen in confusion. “What’s this ‘select a seat’ business?” he muttered, clearly baffled by the whole process.
Sam, leaning over Bucky’s shoulder, chuckled. “It’s not that complicated, man. You just pick a seat.”
“I don’t get it. Why is there so much choice? Isn’t there a ‘just sit anywhere’ option?” Bucky grumbled.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “If you pick the wrong seat, you’re gonna end up next to some random person who’ll judge you for eating popcorn too loudly.”
Bucky blinked, clearly overwhelmed. “I’m just trying to make sure she’s comfortable, Sam.”
Sam smirked. “Well, you’ll have to master this whole ‘assigned seating’ thing first. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you.” He clicked a few buttons, bringing up the seating options and letting Bucky search for the perfect spot.
As Bucky squinted at the screen, Sam hovered behind him. “You know, most people do the movie after dinner,” Sam said casually, leaning over Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky shrugged nonchalantly. “Y/N gets sleepy on a full tummy,” he said with a grin, his thoughts drifting to a memory of when they’d ordered in and watched a movie together at home.
Y/N had eaten her fill and, without even realising it, had fallen asleep in his arms in the middle of the movie. He remembered not moving from the couch, just staying there, holding her as she snored softly, mumbled in her sleep, and even drooled a little on his shirt. To Bucky, it was the most adorable sight—one he wished he could relive for the rest of his life.
“That’s how my nephews were,” Sam teased, smirking at Bucky. “When they were babies.”
Bucky didn’t even look up from the screen, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, she’s my little baby,” he said with a teasing grin, barely holding back a chuckle. “So shut up and book the tickets, alright?”
Sam threw his hands up in mock surrender, muttering, “You’re impossible,” as he clicked away at the screen.
Friday – The Date
Y/N woke up late in the afternoon, taking her time as she sipped her tea in her PJs. After a relaxing shower, she got dressed, completely unaware that today wasn’t just another casual outing with her friend. She pulled on her usual blue denim jeans, her favourite sweater, and let her hair fall loosely around her shoulders. Finishing the look with her comfy sneakers, she felt ready for whatever the day would bring—never suspecting the surprise waiting for her.
On the other hand, Bucky had been up early. He’d gone to the flower shop to pick up the bouquet of lilies and then sat through one of Steve’s "you can do this" pep talks, which lasted longer than expected. Now, he stood in front of the mirror, fixing his hair and adjusting his jacket for what seemed like the hundredth time.
He wore Y/N’s favourite blue henley shirt—the one she’d commented on several times—and slipped his black leather jacket over it. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. You’ve got this, Barnes, he told himself.
After one last look at his reflection, Bucky walked over to the bed and gently picked up the bouquet of lilies resting next to his plushie—Wolfie. Smiling down at the soft toy, he gave Wolfie a gentle pat on the head. "Wish me luck, little guy," he whispered.
Grabbing his helmet, he took one final deep breath, his nerves a mix of excitement and uncertainty. He made his way to Y/N’s door, his heart pounding as it raced faster than his mind could keep up with.
Today was the day.
With one last glance at the hallway, he knocked on her door.
A moment later.
Y/N opened the door, surprised to see Bucky standing there, holding a bouquet of lilies in his hands. For a moment, she just blinked, trying to process the sight.
Why is he standing here with flowers? she thought, her heart skipping a beat. She noticed how his hair was slightly tousled and the way he was holding the flowers—nervously, yet with a sweetness that made her heart flutter.
She couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected gesture, but her mind raced. What did this mean? Is this a random gift?
Bucky, too, stood frozen for a moment, taking in the sight of her in her usual comfortable clothes, looking effortlessly beautiful. She looks amazing, even in her jeans and sweater, he thought, his heart racing even faster than before.
He swallowed hard, trying to calm his nerves, but he couldn’t stop the warmth spreading in his chest. This is it, Bucky. Don’t mess this up.
Finally, Y/N found her voice, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Hey, Buck. What’s this for?”
Bucky took a deep breath, smiling shyly. “Hi. Uh, these are for you,” he said, offering her the bouquet.
Y/N’s curiosity piqued, she reached out to take the flowers, her fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. "They’re so beautiful," she said softly, glancing up at Bucky.
“You didn’t have to, Buck,” she added, trying to find the right words to express the surprise and warmth she felt.
“I, uh, thought they’d brighten up your day,” Bucky replied, his voice a little unsure, but his smile genuine.
Y/N smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered shyly, her gaze lingering on the flowers as she added quietly, almost to herself, "You always brighten my day."
After Y/N carefully placed the flowers in a vase and set it on her bedside table, she grabbed her helmet as they made their way outside. The sun hung low, casting a warm glow as the cool afternoon air hinted at an exciting evening ahead.
"So, what's the plan for today?" Y/N asked, pulling her helmet on as Bucky did the same.
"I’ve got a few surprises planned," Bucky replied with a grin, his voice holding a playful note.
"Surprises?" Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, her tone both amused and baffled.
Bucky chuckled softly, stepping closer to her and making sure the buckle on her helmet was secure. He didn’t doubt she could do it herself, but he never took the chance of leaving a door open for her to get hurt, even by accident. "Thought it might keep the day exciting," he said, his smile warm.
"I’m intrigued," Y/N said, her voice light as she climbed onto the bike behind him. As per their usual rides, she wrapped her arms around him, her fingers brushing the warmth of his jacket. She melted into him, like ice cream on a hot day, her presence wrapping around him in the most comforting way.
With a soft hum of the engine, Bucky started the bike, ready to take them on the adventures he had planned for today.
They arrived at the movie theatre first, and as they approached the entrance, Y/N’s eyes immediately landed on the poster for a film she had been eagerly waiting to watch.
Her excitement was immediate, her face lighting up as she read the title. She hadn’t realised it was already out, too caught up with work lately to notice.
Bucky couldn’t help but smile at her reaction, watching her enthusiasm with amusement. He pulled out his phone and showed her the movie tickets, the realisation dawning on her face.
Y/N’s mouth dropped open in surprise. "How did you know?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Because I know you," he said with a soft smile, showing the tickets to the guy at the entrance before leading her toward the snacks counter, the sound of the theatre buzzing around them.
Y/N felt a rush of warmth in her cheeks, her excitement suddenly giving way to a wave of embarrassment. She glanced down, avoiding his gaze. "I’ve been talking too much about it, haven’t I? I’m sorry," she murmured, feeling a little self-conscious.
Bucky stopped and turned to her, gently lifting her chin with two fingers to meet her eyes. "Y/N," he said softly, his voice full of warmth, "hearing you talk about a raccoon and a talking tree fighting aliens is one of my favourite things."
Y/N averted her eyes, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "But I’m such a dork," she mumbled, still avoiding his gaze.
Bucky smiled, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "And that’s one of my favourite things about you. So don’t you ever apologise for it again."
He paused, his grin widening as he leaned in just a little closer. "Besides, who else would put up with my dorky side, huh?"
Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "You’re crazy."
"You make me crazy," Bucky replied with a wink.
"Hey! Don’t blame me for your psychosis," she teased, playfully nudging him.
Without missing a beat, Bucky wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "You are my psychosis," he whispered.
Y/N's breath caught, her heart fluttering as she met his gaze, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "I think you might be mine too," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his smile widening in surprise, a spark of warmth flickering in his eyes. The admission caught him off guard.
The moment hung between them before Y/N’s grin returned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Plus, I’m pretty sure my level of dork can outmatch yours."
"Oh yeah?" Bucky challenged, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You sure you can handle this?"
Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "Try me."
Bucky’s grin grew wider. "I read The Hobbit in 1937 when it first came out."
Y/N blinked in surprise. "You did?"
"Yep," Bucky said with a nostalgic glint in his eye. "Stood in line for hours to get it, sat down at a bar to read it, and didn’t get past the first two pages before someone told me Steve was getting his ass beaten in an alley again." He chuckled at the memory.
Y/N laughed, her heart light and full. "Okay, okay. You win this round."
When they reached the snacks stand, they browsed the menu before settling on their usual—salted popcorn and extra-large fizzy drinks.
Bucky, knowing Y/N always finished one bucket of popcorn during the previews, made sure to get her two. Y/N giggled as they tried to juggle all the snacks on their way to their seats.
The movie played on, the theatre dim and quiet, and without realising it, both Bucky and Y/N had slowly leaned closer to each other as the film unfolded.
At one point, Bucky noticed Y/N shiver, her shoulders slightly tense. Without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over her, the fabric settling gently around her.
Y/N looked up, surprised but touched, a soft smile crossing her lips as she adjusted the jacket. “Thanks,” she whispered, warmth spreading through her at the simple gesture.
Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes softening as he watched her, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, feeling a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the jacket.
For most of the movie, Bucky found himself watching Y/N more than the screen. Her reactions, the way her eyes lit up with excitement, the little frowns when she was deep in thought, the soft giggles that made his heart skip—he was completely mesmerised by every single moment.
Somewhere during the movie, Y/N noticed Bucky staring at her, his gaze soft and intense. She looked up, catching his eye, and he quickly looked away, trying to play it off as he casually reached for the popcorn.
But just as he popped a piece into his mouth, he suddenly choked, his eyes widening in panic as he sputtered, struggling to clear his throat, but the popcorn stubbornly refused to go down.
Y/N shot up and instinctively reaches over, her hand patting his back in a frantic attempt to help. She’s half-laughing, half-panicking, her voice a mix of concern and amusement.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her hand still firmly on his back, trying to calm him.
Bucky, still gasping for air, tries to wave her off, his face turning redder than before. "I’m fine! Just... need to breathe," he muttered, trying to steady himself.
After a few moments, the popcorn finally made its escape, and he finally leaned forward, still catching his breath. Y/N's hand remained on his back, gently rubbing to help him relax.
She placed her other hand on his chest, right where his heart was, her touch delicate but steady, and asked softly, "How are you feeling?"
Bucky’s breath hitched at the warmth of her hand against his chest. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, feeling as though it might leap right out of his chest into her touch.
He took a slow breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "Better," he murmured, his gaze soft yet intense. "A lot better."
They settled back into their seats, the movie continuing, but the world around them seemed to fade away. Bucky leaned in closer to Y/N, and without a second thought, she naturally placed her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head, resting it gently on top of hers, feeling the soft warmth of her hair against his cheek.
Y/N, content in the quiet comfort of the moment, entwined her fingers with his metal ones as he gently closed his hand around hers, still amazed at how she never treated his metal arm any differently. It always stirred a warmth in him he could never fully express.
Bucky pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering just for a moment. He felt her smile against his shoulder sending a wave of affection through him. With a gentle sigh, he leaned his head back onto hers, the two of them perfectly in sync as they sat there, enjoying the movie in comfortable silence.
As the credits rolled, they stood up together, both reluctantly leaving the warmth of the theatre. Bucky grabbed her hand, a familiar spark igniting between them as they walked toward the exit.
"You hungry?" he asked, his voice light and playful.
Y/N smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Always," she replied. "What do you have in mind?"
"Nando's?" Bucky suggested, his tone casual, but with a hint of excitement.
Y/N chuckled. "You can never go wrong with a good peri-peri chicken."
"Great," Bucky said, a grin spreading across his face. "I already made reservations."
"Wait, what?" Y/N said, surprised. "You did not."
Bucky shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "What can I say?"
He paused for a moment, giving her a teasing grin. "I listen when you talk about food. You’ve made it clear, Nando’s is your happy place."
They made their way back to the bike, the evening chill surrounding them. Bucky helped Y/N onto the bike before getting on himself, the engine humming to life.
As he revved it up, he glanced over at her, a grin tugging at his lips. "Ready for some peri-peri?" he teased, and with a soft laugh, she nodded.
The night stretched ahead, the excitement of their evening still buzzing between them.
They pulled up at Nando's and walked in, the familiar scent of grilled spice greeting them. At the front, a waiter checked the reservation list. “Reservation under Mr. Barnes?” he asked, looking up.
Bucky nodded, and the waiter glanced back at the list before saying, "Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes."
Both of them froze, eyes wide in surprise. Y/N shot a quick glance at Bucky, her face flushed. Bucky, equally stunned, let out a nervous laugh, "Well, this escalated quickly" he joked, trying to brush it off, though his heart skipped a beat.
The waiter, clearly amused, led them through the restaurant, weaving between tables until they reached a quiet corner, just as Bucky had requested. After placing the menus on the table, he was quickly called away by a shout from the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Bucky, ever the gentleman, pulled out Y/N’s chair. She sat down with a smile, and he gently pushed her toward the table before taking his seat across from her.
As they looked through the menu, Bucky noticed Y/N hesitating between her favourite peri-peri fries and her beloved garlic pita bread. With a playful grin, he said, “You should get both.”
Y/N looked up at him from the menu, a hint of shyness in her eyes. “I’ll be in a food coma if I go overboard,” she said softly, half-smiling, her tone carrying a touch of self-consciousness.
Bucky leaned in slightly, his smile widening. "Well I'd be disappointed if you aren't gonna be so full and so filled with everything you want to eat tonight" he said with a grin.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, laughing. "So you want me to be fulfilled?"
Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "To the brim," he said, laughing along with her.
His gaze softened, and his tone turned reassuring. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get home safe. No sleepyhead left behind.”
Y/N smiled softly, her eyes sparkling as she glanced at Bucky, her voice a little shy. "You're a keeper, Buck, you know that?".
Bucky’s cheeks flushed, his gaze dropping briefly as her words sank in. For someone who had spent so long feeling like a villain, a monster, the idea of someone wanting to keep him was beyond imagining.
And now, sitting in front of her, all he wanted was to be hers.
After a while, the waiter brought their food, and they dove into their Nando’s feast, laughing and talking like they hadn’t run out of things to say, even after spending all day, every day, together.
Bucky looked at Y/N, still wearing his jacket, oblivious to how adorable she looked. It was too big for her, yet she wore it so effortlessly, like it was made just for her. Her hair was a little messy from the helmet, a dab of sauce on her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with that playful, carefree energy that made him feel utterly lovesick.
As they chatted away, Bucky kept happily tossing fries from his plate into his mouth, savouring each bite. Y/N noticed how quickly he was finishing them, and before long, his plate was empty. He frowned slightly, looking at the empty space in front of him.
Y/N smiled softly, noticing the look on his face. Without saying a word, she pushed her side of fries toward him. “Here, take mine,” she offered, nudging the plate closer to him.
Bucky raised an eyebrow, hesitant. “But you love your peri-peri fries,” he said, glancing down at the plate she had so kindly offered.
Y/N shrugged, a teasing smile on her lips. “I do, but you’re my favourite just as much.” She picked up a fry, dipping it in sauce, and held it out toward him.
Instead of reaching for it with his hand, Bucky leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers as he gently munched the fry straight from her fingers. Y/N giggled, her heart fluttering at the closeness.
Bucky pulled back slightly, a mischievous grin on his face. “Just so you know,” he said softly, “you’re my favourite too.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Guess we’re even then, Mr. Barnes,” she teased, her cheeks tinged with a shy glow.
Bucky felt his own cheeks warm, the words "Mr. and Mrs. Barnes" still echoing in his mind. He shook his head slightly, trying to shake off the unexpected flutter in his chest.
As their plates cleared and the restaurant neared closing time, they realised how quickly the evening had passed.
The waiter placed the bill in a check holder on the table, and Y/N reached for it, ready to pay.
Bucky’s hand gently rested over hers, stopping her. “I’ve got this, Y/N” he said, his tone firm but soft.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, smiling a little. “This is on me, Buck,” she insisted.
Bucky shook his head, his expression serious. “No, Y/N.”
She sighed, her eyes softening. “Buck, you’ve done so much for me today.”
He gently lifted her hand, leaning in to kiss it softly. “I’m not keeping count,” he whispered.
With that, he took the check holder from under her hand, flipping it open. Without missing a beat, he placed his card on the holder and handed it to the waiter. "For tonight, it's on me," he said, giving her a small, affectionate smile.
As they walked back outside, the cool night air greeted them. Bucky grabbed their helmets, handing one to Y/N. She let out a sleepy yawn, a soft tiredness in her eyes, and Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the sight.
With a soft chuckle, he set his own helmet aside and gently placed hers on her head. “I’ve got you, sleepyhead,” he murmured, carefully buckling it before putting on his own.
They climbed onto the bike, and Y/N settled herself behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist, fingers intertwining in front of his chest.
Bucky revved the engine, glancing over his shoulder before pulling out. The ride was peaceful, the hum of the engine filling the space between them.
Halfway through the ride, Bucky felt her body shift slightly against his back. A soft sigh followed, and he realised she was falling asleep, her head gently resting against him.
A soft smile tugged at his lips as he loosened his grip on the handlebar with one hand, reaching back to firmly hold her intertwined fingers at his chest. His other hand tightened slightly, steadying the bike beneath them.
He eased off the throttle, riding slower now—his protective instincts kicking in, making sure she was safe and comfortable, every mile of the way.
When they reached the compound, Bucky slowly pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. The sudden silence made Y/N stir, her head lifting slightly from his back, still caught in a sleepy haze.
Bucky didn’t move right away, giving her time to fully wake up. His hand remained gently on hers, still intertwined against his chest, holding her close for a little while longer before they both got off the bike.
He gently removed her helmet first, then his, carrying both in one hand. With his other hand, he reached for hers, and Y/N, smiling softly, interlaced her fingers with his at the same time.
A subtle pinkness coloured their cheeks as they walked back inside the compound, hand in hand, the warmth between them glowing.
The compound was quiet, the only sound being the soft rhythm of their footsteps as they made their way down the hallway.
When they reached Y/N’s door, they paused, still holding hands, their eyes locked in a silent exchange, neither of them willing to break the moment.
Y/N, feeling the weight of his gaze, shyly looked down, her cheeks warming as she glanced away.
Seeing the delicate rose-tint stain her cheeks, Bucky’s heart swelled, and he couldn’t resist. Slowly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against her cheek in a tender kiss, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He could feel the gentle warmth of her skin beneath his lips, soft and delicate, and the way her breath hitched as he stayed there, close enough to feel the tremble of her pulse.
As he pulled away, their eyes met again, and already, he yearned for the warmth of her skin beneath his lips, a sensation too beautiful to release.
He could’ve said it then. Could’ve told her everything.
But when he looked at her in that moment—so peaceful, so unguarded—her gaze soft, full of joy, completely at ease in the quiet of the night...
He couldn’t bring himself to put the weight of his heart in her hands and risk stealing the light from hers.
Not now.
Tonight was hers.
Y/N noticed the way his hand twitched slightly at his side, still gripping the helmets, his fingers flexing as though he wanted to say something.
For the briefest of moments, a flicker of hope stirred in her heart, daring her to believe that what she secretly longed for might someday be true.
But he held back.
Instead, he simply smiled—shy and tender, his expression soft and quiet, as if holding onto something just beyond reach.
Y/N didn’t press him.
She could tell, in that moment, that whatever he was processing, he wasn’t ready to voice it.
And that was okay.
She could wait.
Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his cheek—gentle, soft, barely there. A whisper of a touch, but it sent a warmth through him that lingered longer than the moment itself.
“Goodnight, Buck,” she whispered, her voice soft—her lips so close he could feel the warmth of her breath before she pulled away.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low, holding her hand a moment longer before they gently parted.
As she disappeared into her room, he knew that when the time came, he’d find a way to say it all.
But tonight, he’d let her carry this memory—untouched, unburdened by anything heavy.
When the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against it, heart pounding, breath caught in the silence.
An ache bloomed in his chest—the kind that only comes from loving her so deeply it consumed him, from feeling everything he couldn’t yet say.
What he didn’t know was that on the other side of the door, Y/N was leaning too—feeling the same ache, the same love, echoing his own.
It had been a couple of months since Bucky and Y/N first stepped into the compound, both uncertain of what their future would hold. And in that time, more had changed than they had ever expected.
Slowly but surely, they had found their way back to something resembling a normal life.
Y/N split her time between the lab and the medical bay, assisting with research when she could, and stepping in on missions when the need arose. Her expertise in trauma and psychiatry proved invaluable, and her presence in the field became a reassuring anchor for the team.
Bucky, too, had gradually returned to work—on his own terms. No one pushed him. The decision to rejoin missions was his alone, made when he finally felt ready. At first, he was cautious, hesitant even. But with each mission, he gained a little more confidence, knowing he was not defined by his past but by the man he was becoming.
The compound had become their home—a place where Bucky and Y/N could be together, growing alongside the team while working toward a common purpose.
The Avengers, too, had grown closer, stronger—as much a family as a force. They’d found a rhythm between duty and downtime, lifting each other through the hardest days and celebrating even the smallest victories along the way.
The team had even gone from movie nights inside the compound to making memories beyond it—trying to feel a little more like the world they were protecting.
And now, here they were, gathered around the kitchen counter—some lounging, some spirited—debating what their next end-of-week outing was going to be.
The vote was in, and it was unanimous: a carnival.
Thor, of course, had been the main culprit behind the idea.
It started when Tony casually suggested they all vote on the "ordinary" activity —something that didn't involve aliens, explosions, or deep-rooted trauma.
Thor, with the unfiltered joy of a child on Christmas morning, raised Mjolnir high and bellowed, “Earth merriment!”
Tony listed off a few options—hiking, bowling—but the second he mentioned the carnival at the pier, Thor's face lit up like a kid who'd just discovered candy.
"An Earth party!" he gasped. "I've always wanted to go on that big spinning thing and the fast ground-train that loops upside down!".
"You mean the Ferris wheel and a rollercoaster?" Sam asked, not even trying to hide his disbelief.
"Yes, Bird Man. Those are the words".
Thor was practically glowing, his grin so radiant it looked like he’d swallowed the light of a thousand suns.
That was the moment everyone collectively understood—resistance was futile. As if choreographed, they all nodded in agreement like a row of bobbleheads.
They were going to the carnival.
No saving the world. No debriefings. No missions.
Just something normal.
Something good.
As the others went about their morning, the quiet hum of the kitchen filled the air. Y/N lingered behind, carefully measuring loose tea leaves with practiced precision. Her workday was starting later than usual.
Bruce had all but ordered her to take it slow after she’d stayed far too late in the lab the night before. Meanwhile, Bucky—who’d gotten into the habit of waiting up for her—was still fast asleep, following Steve’s orders to catch up on some much-needed rest.
Apparently, Steve had figured Bucky was getting "extra broody" after being both sleep-deprived and Y/N-deprived, so a nap was essential to avoid a full-blown grumpy soldier-meltdown.
Getting Bucky to agree to a carnival outing—a setting that was, frankly, a bit too people-y for him—wasn’t going to be easy. Sam had taken it upon himself to fix that. His plan? Have Redwing follow Bucky around nonstop until he agrees.
Meanwhile, Natasha, ever perceptive, had noticed Y/N trying to hide her reluctance behind the sea of nodding bobbleheads. She knew Y/N well enough to see that a crowded carnival wasn’t exactly her idea of fun either.
And if Natasha's mission was to get Y/N on board, she wasn't backing down.
“You’re not seriously going to miss all the fun, are you?” Natasha asked, propping herself up on the counter. Her tone was light, but there was an unmistakable persistence beneath it.
“Come on, it’s part of the plan. We’re all going to the carnival, and you're going with us."
Y/N paused, her spoon stilled mid-stir.
“I don’t know, Nat,” she said quietly, eyes following the soft swirl of steam rising from her cup. “Crowds... it's just too much sometimes."
Natasha’s gaze softened, but she didn't back down.
“I get it. The noise, the people… it can be a lot. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? To do something normal. Something that has nothing to do with saving the world. Just... being human. For a change".
Y/N exhaled slowly, her hands curling around the warm mug. She stared into it for a long moment, as if the quiet might offer an answer.
“It’s not just the crowds,” she said, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "It's people. It's a lot being watched. And I don't do well when I feel like I have to perform."
A brief silence settled between them as Natasha watched her, letting the weight of Y/N’s words sink in.
Y/N wasn't antisocial. She was just... private. Quiet. Careful. Natasha had seen it before—how she carefully chose when to let people in, when to show any vulnerability. But when she did—when she was comfortable—God, she was vibrant. Fierce in her own gentle way.
She loved fiercely too. That part was still a mission in progress—months of gentle nudging to get Y/N to admit that someone on this team meant more to her than she was willing to say aloud.
“Y/N,” Natasha said gently, her voice soft but sure, “you don’t have to perform. Not with us.”
Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting Natasha’s.
“We don’t care how you show up,” Natasha added with a small smile, hoping to ease the tension. “We’re just glad when you do.”
Her tone was light, but her eyes were warm—steady with understanding.
“It’s not the same without you.”
Y/N smiled softly—a small, shy curl at the corners of her lips—but it was the warmth in her eyes that gave her away.
“All right,” she murmured, quiet but sincere. “But no rollercoasters for me.”
A flicker of pride rose in Natasha’s chest. With a satisfied nod and a chuckle, she returned to her coffee, the warmth of Y/N’sagreement settling comfortably in her chest.
But it didn’t take long for that playful glint to return. Natasha set her cup down, smirking. "And hey, if a cute guy offers you cotton candy," she teased, "It might just turn into a meet-cute."
Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her tea. “You’re ridiculous.”
Natasha grinned but didn’t let up. She hopped down from the counter, leaning against it with a casual air. “What? You think you can’t have a little adventure with a touch of romance? Everyone deserves a bit of sweetness, Y/N.”
Y/N shot her a glance but didn't reply immediately, letting the silence stretch. She was focused on the tea, her hands busy but tense.
Nat took a step closer, sensing the shift.
“Y/N…” Her voice softened, the teasing edge falling away. “You don’t have to shut yourself off like this. You know it's okay to let someone care about you, right?"
Y/N looked down at her mug, fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic.
“Nat… we’ve been over this,” she said softly, her voice threaded with hesitation.
“You know how I feel about… the possibility of someone caring for me like that.”
Natasha studied her for a long moment, her gaze steady, but gentle.
“I know we’ve talked about it,” she said quietly, “but I still don’t understand why you think it’s impossible.”
Her voice softened, full of quiet warmth. “Why do you believe you can’t be loved?”
“Because I’m not…” Y/N’s voice barely rose above a whisper before it faltered.
She didn’t finish.
The words felt too heavy—she wasn't ready to admit how much of that belief she still carried.
Natasha leaned beside her, resting casually against the counter. Her expression was soft, but her eyes held concern. “You’re not what, Y/N?” she asked gently. “Not lovable?”
Silence settled between them, thick with the weight of what hadn’t been said.
Natasha could see the conflict in her eyes—the resistance, the self-doubt that kept her from truly believing it.
With a soft sigh, Natasha shifted her stance, letting the moment breathe before speaking again.
“Y/N,” she said, her voice low, steady. “This isn’t just about being cared for as a friend.”
She paused, not to hesitate—but to let the truth land gently.
“You're lovable in more ways than you know. And yes, romantically too. You don’t have to earn it. Or perform for it. You just… are.”
She let the silence stretch, not filling it with more than it needed.
“Just because it feels complicated doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
Y/N’s eyes welled slightly, but she didn’t let the tears fall. She stayed turned away, shoulders still, hands tight around the mug.
“I just don’t…” she whispered, her voice shaky.
“I just don’t know how to believe that.”
Natasha watched her for a long moment, heart aching.
“Why?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper—like she was giving Y/N the space to finally say what had gone unsaid for far too long.
Y/N hesitated. She’d known this conversation would circle back eventually, but never expected to say it out loud.
She’d always kept these thoughts buried—too messy, too much.
But something in Natasha’s voice—soft, persistent—finally coaxed the truth out of her.
Y/N took a slow breath, her voice trembling slightly.
“I’m a lot to handle, Nat… and I'm okay with that. But for someone else? I know I’d be too much. The idea of someone catching feelings for me sounds... absurd."
Her breath hitched, and she shifted, grounding herself.
Vulnerability pressed down like weight across her chest.
She bit her lip, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Let alone wanting to stay. To choose me again and again. To not wake up one day and realise it’d be easier to love someone else.”
Her voice dropped—softer now, but steady. “I know who I am. I love the version of me standing here right now. And I’ve accepted her.”
Y/N shook her head, the distance in her gaze growing.
“But for someone else to love me the same way? That feels like a fairytale. And I don’t want to hope for something that could never be.”
Natasha’s eyes softened, the weight of Y/N’s words settling into the stillness between them. She stepped closer, her voice tender but unwavering.
“I know it hurts, Y/N,” she said, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. The touch was grounding—comfort without pressure. “Living with those thoughts… it drains you in ways no one sees.”
Y/N looked down, her fingers trembling slightly around the mug. Natasha’s words cracked something open—made her feel, all at once, the full weight of what she’d been carrying in silence.
"But you have to remember," Natasha continued, her voice steady and low, "your mind is not speaking the truth".
She gave Y/N’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“You are lovable. In every way. You are—” a small smile tugged at her lips, “as Thor would say—‘magical.’”
Y/N smiled faintly, the corners of her lips twitching despite herself.
“The darkness inside your mind doesn’t erase the light you carry in your heart,” Natasha said, her voice steady, comforting. “And sometimes, hope—against all odds—is exactly what makes miracles happen.”
The words lingered in the air, and for a moment, they both sat with the weight of them. Quiet understanding stretched between them like an invisible thread.
After a beat, Natasha spoke again—still soft, but with a flicker of something brighter.
“One day, when someone who truly loves you says it… you’ll see that the love you deserve was never too much to ask for—not from the right person.”
Her eyes brightened just a little, like she was already imagining a certain brooding someone finally saying what the rest of them had known all along—even if Y/N couldn’t see it yet.
But then Y/N spoke—and the words broke her heart.
“I don’t know if I can believe that,” she whispered.
Natasha’s heart sank.
“How come?” she asked gently, her voice laced with quiet worry.
Y/N finally looked up, and Natasha saw it—the kind of heartbreak that ran deeper than scars. Not the kind Hydra left behind. Not the kind you could see.
It was the kind that taught you were hard to love.
And even harder to keep.
“Because I’ve been through too much,” Y/N said, her voice trembling.
“To let myself believe that something so gentle could survive with me.”
The words settled like a heavy sigh in the stillness.
She looked back down, gaze fixed on her tea, the steam curling upward like the parts of her she wasn’t ready to let go.
Natasha’s heart ached for her—but before she could respond, a flicker of movement in the doorway caught her eye.
And then she saw him.
Bucky stood just beyond the hallway, frozen.
Y/N hadn’t noticed—her back was to the door as she stood at the counter—but Natasha had a clear view of him.
He must've come in unnoticed—maybe to grab coffee, maybe to find Y/N—but instead, he'd overheard everything.
And the look on his face—
It wasn’t horror.
It wasn’t pity.
It was pain.
Because the girl standing next to Natasha—the one who believed she was too much to love—was everything he had ever let himself hope for.
Natasha opened her mouth, a breath caught between thought and action—but before she could speak, Bucky turned.
He walked away, his footsteps quick and heavy, echoing down the hall.
Gone, before she could stop him.
Before she could explain.
Before anything could be made right.
The air felt heavier in his absence, thick with what hadn’t been said.
Natasha stood still, staring at the now-empty doorway, her chest tight.
Her mind raced, trying to process the weight of what had just passed between them—what had almost been seen.
Y/N, sensing a shift in Natasha’s energy, turned to look at her, confusion flickering in her eyes.
She watched Natasha standing still, caught in thought, something unreadable in her expression.
Concern stirred in Y/N’s chest. Quietly, she stepped closer.
Noticing Y/N’s gaze, Natasha blinked—like she’d just been pulled back into the room.
Without a word, she reached out and gently pulled Y/N into an embrace.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Natasha’s warmth wrapped around her like a shield, and Y/N leaned in, letting the closeness settle some of the ache in her chest.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was grounding.
Finally, Natasha spoke—her voice steady, but low with quiet understanding.
“I know that feeling, Y/N. I really do. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay locked away forever. You deserve more than to keep your heart hidden.”
Y/N’s arms tightened around her, the words sinking deeper than she expected.
Vulnerability rose—but she pressed it down before it could reach the surface.
She exhaled, slow and shaky. Her voice came out barely above a whisper, laced with sorrow.
“It’s safer for me to keep that door closed,” she murmured.
“It’s the only way I stop setting myself on fire just to feel warm.”
The weight of Y/N’s words lingered, the silence between them rich with unspoken emotion.
Natasha held her for a moment longer before gently pulling back, her arms loosening with care.
“I hear you,” she said softly, her eyes warm with understanding.
She paused, gaze steady—like she was choosing her next words carefully.
“But there’s just one more thing I need to ask.”
Y/N nodded, eyes still lowered, a flicker of uncertainty in her expression.
“Yeah?”
Natasha offered a small, knowing smile. Her tone softened, but her aim was precise.
“When you closed that door… did you happen to lock Barnes inside your heart?”
Y/N froze. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened as her face flushed scarlet.
She nearly dropped her mug.
“What—no. No way! I—What… how?”
Natasha laughed gently, her grin widening.
“Don’t even try to deny it. I’ve seen it for months.”
Y/N blinked, stunned. Then groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“I thought I was being so subtle…”
“Oh, honey,” Natasha said, leaning back against the counter, eyes sparkling with amusement, “You’ve got the subtlety of a truck on a foggy day.”
Y/N peeked through her fingers, a reluctant smirk tugging at her lips.
“So you’ve just been watching this emotional train wreck unfold from the sidelines?”
They shared a quiet laugh before Natasha’s smile softened again, her gaze turning earnest.
“But seriously, Y/N… if the only reason you haven’t told him is because you think he doesn’t feel the same way—then you’ve got it all wrong.”
She held Y/N’s gaze now, her voice dipping just slightly. “Because Barnes—”
“Does not feel the same,” Y/N cut in, her voice firm, though a flicker of vulnerability lingered beneath the surface.
She took a breath, steadying herself, her eyes drifting to the floor.
“And that will hurt him. He’ll see it in my eyes—feel how much it guts me, no matter how hard I try to hide it—and he’ll carry that pain like it’s his fault.”
“It was never about the fear of rejection, Nat,” she added, quieter now, the weight of her words thick in the air. “That pain, I can handle. But not being the reason he hurts.”
Natasha’s expression softened. She stepped forward, resting a hand gently on Y/N’s shoulder. “Y/N…” Her voice was quiet, full of understanding. “I get it. I do. But you can’t carry all of that alone.”
Y/N shook her head slowly, her posture marked by a quiet weariness. “I won’t do that to him. Not after everything he’s been through. I won’t be another weight on his back.”
“Y/N…” Natasha said again, firmer now, her voice laced with emotion. “You are not a weight. Not to anyone. Ever.”
She paused, letting that sink in. Her expression softened further as a smile tugged gently at her lips. “You’re the reason we have weights lifted off our shoulders.”
Her tone warmed. “You talked to Steve about the mental toll of waking up in a world that moved on—something no one ever asked him to unpack before.”
Her smile faded slightly, her voice growing more serious. “You helped Tony face the guilt he carried about his parents.”
Then her expression lifted again, a teasing glint in her eye. “And don’t even get me started on Bruce—he still calls you his emotional Yoda.”
Y/N chuckled softly, but Natasha’s expression didn’t change—if anything, it softened further. When she spoke again, the affection in her voice was unmistakable.
“You’re the reason half of us even believe in love,” she said, her tone full of quiet fondness. “You got me and Steve together. You helped Tony and Pepper talk about a future. You've done more for love than you realise.”
Her gaze grew more serious as she gave Y/N’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “I just wish you believed in love as much as you make everyone else feel it.”
Y/N sighed, her voice low, tinged with resignation.
“I believe it exists, Nat. I see it in you and Steve, in Tony and Pepper. I see it in every airport, every flower stand. It’s real. It’s beautiful.”
She paused, eyes drifting off as if searching for something just out of reach. “I just don’t believe it’s meant for me.”
Natasha studied her for a long moment, the silence between them filled with quiet understanding. Then she stepped closer, wrapping an arm gently around Y/N’s shoulders in a side hug—offering the kind of comfort that didn’t need words.
The kind only someone who truly understood could give.
“Y/N,” Natasha said softly, her voice steady and full of certainty, “You’re the kind of person who makes the world better just by being in it. That’s exactly why someone would love you.”
She paused, letting the truth settle before continuing.
"The kind of love you're meant to have? It’s not for people who have everything figured out—or who don't have scars. It's for people who make the world feel safer, warmer, and brighter just by showing up".
Y/N looked up, eyes a little damp, but something lighter flickered behind them—something softer, more open.
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Natasha added, offering a warm, reassuring smile. “But don’t shut yourself off from the possibility. You deserve it, Y/N. And one day… you’ll see it too.”
For a long moment, Y/N didn’t speak.
But the way she met Natasha’s eyes—and the quiet softening in her expression—said more than words ever could.
-
A few days later.
Steve returned from his solo mission later than expected, the weight of it still clinging to him. He dropped his bag by the door, shoulders sagging with exhaustion as he peeled off his tactical gear.
He sighed, the quiet settling over him as he made his way to the kitchen, craving nothing more than a hot coffee and a moment of peace.
He perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around the warm mug, savouring the quiet—his calm before the inevitable storm.
Just as he raised the cup to his lips, the stillness broke.
"Well, well, well," Tony said as he strolled in, looking entirely too pleased. "You just missed Barnes walking into yet another door during the briefing."
Steve let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "Not again..."
Tony grinned wider, mischief lighting up his face. "He was too mesmerised by an adorably caffeine-deprived Y/N to care about a little thing like, you know, doors".
Before Steve could respond, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Sam, Clint, and Bruce entered, each wearing the same expression: amused and absolutely ready to stir the pot.
"You missed it, Steve," Sam laughed, his voice dripping with amusement. He tossed his folder onto the counter and leaned against the fridge. "He saw Y/N inside the room through the glass panels as he was walking up."
"Totally distracted, just walked straight into the door," Clint added, grinning. "He didn't even flinch. Just got up like it was no big deal."
"Didn't even apologise this time," Bruce chimed in, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Just dusted himself off and walked right toward her, like nothing happened."
Steve chuckled under his breath, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s smitten.”
"Honestly, we need to get him to admit it already," Sam said with a sigh. "We've all been waiting for months. How much longer is this gonna go on?"
Clint raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Guy’s got the subtlety of a thunderstorm… and somehow still takes his sweet time."
Before Steve could answer, heavy footsteps approached.
Thor entered with a triumphant grin, holding a small black book high above his head.
"Is the Sergeant here?" he called out, voice booming. "I found this in the briefing room. Thought it best to return it after... his battle with the door."
As he waved the book, a piece of paper slipped free and drifted to the floor.
Clint was the first to spot it. He bent down, picked it up—and froze.
“Guys…” he said slowly, eyes wide.
Sam leaned over his shoulder. "No way."
The tension in the room shifted as Steve, Tony, Thor, and Bruce gathered around Clint and Sam, drawn in by the sudden curiosity.
Drawn in pencil—light but detailed—was a little bundle of flowers.
Near it, a small scribble read, "Lilies – the orange kind that reminded her of the light in everyday moments."
Below that, in Bucky's blocky handwriting, was a single line:
Favourite restaurant: Yet to find out
And beneath that, just one word: Movie
Then, the final line—underneath everything—was written with such casual tenderness that it hit all of them like a soft wave: "A quiet walk home, hand in hand, and a kiss on the cheek to say goodnight."
The room went still.
“What even is this?” Sam whispered.
“It’s a date,” Bruce said, adjusting his glasses.
“No kidding, Doc,” Sam muttered. "But not just any date. This is a *Y/N-specific, made-for-her, emotionally-charged Bucky Barnes™ daydream date."
Steve took the paper from Clint, eyes scanning every detail.
“This is dated from Wakanda,” he murmured, realisation dawning.
The mood shifted slightly, the group still absorbing the weight of the note.
Then Tony broke the silence, smirk returning. “Think he wrote a certain day and time for this date in his journal?"
Before Steve could react, Tony snatched the black book from his hand. “Got it!” he grinned, dancing back a step. “What, did you think I wouldn’t look?”
But before Tony could flip it open, Steve stepped forward, jaw set. “Tony. That’s private.”
“Oh, come on,” Tony said, still grinning. “It’s time we all find out what Barnes has been cooking… besides Y/N’s favourite mac and cheese, of course.”
Steve frowned, taking another step forward.
But Tony, ever the escape artist, sidestepped out of reach with a smug grin. “Rogers, at this rate, I’m gonna have to start installing super-soldier-proof doors around the compound.”
“Tony,” Steve said, exasperated now, “give it back.”
Without warning, Tony tossed the book to Clint, who caught it with a theatrical flourish.
“Captain,” Clint said, voice dry as dust, “if I had Cupid’s arrows, they’d be married already.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
As Steve moved toward him, Clint quickly passed the book to Sam, who backed up with it, holding it just out of reach.
"If I had a dollar for every time Bucky made heart eyes and Y/N missed it,” Sam said with a smirk, “I could retire.
Bruce, who had been quietly observing from the corner, added evenly, "Every time he looks at her, it's like he realised what love is".
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Bruce's words settling in the air.
Sam blinked, eyebrows raised, exchanging a look with Clint, who was doing a poor job hiding his grin.
“Okay, Bruce,” Sam said slowly, his voice laced with disbelief. “Since when did you become the poet of the group?”
Clint leaned in, clearly impressed. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Doc. That was almost… Shakespearean.”
Bruce gave a small shrug, his expression as deadpan as ever.
“I’m just stating the obvious. It’s like watching a live experiment. The variables are clear. The outcome is just... taking its sweet time.”
Tony let out an exaggerated sigh. “This is the slowest love story ever told. Someone bring me a violin.”
Steve, finally losing his patience, reached for the book, but before he could grab it, Sam darted back, staying just out of reach.
“If Bucky doesn’t make a move soon,” Sam said with a wink, “we’ll all be grandparents before he admits anything.”
"Give it here, Sam," Steve said, half-laughing but still serious. "It's private."
Before he could get close again, Thor leaned in, towering over the group.
“I do not understand this human tradition of secrecy!” he declared. “If the Sergeant does not share this with us, I shall challenge him to a duel for the right to know!”
Everyone paused.
Then—laughter erupted.
"It's not a duel, Thor," Clint said, still chuckling. "It's more like an emotional train wreck. No swords involved."
Sam, still holding the book, grinned at Steve.
“Alright, Cap. You can have it back… after we find a probable date and time.”
"We’re just trying to be good wingmen,” Clint added, eyebrows raised, clearly enjoying himself.
“To the two most oblivious lovebirds,” Tony chimed in, voice dripping with amusement as they all clustered around Steve, blocking his view of the book.
And then—
Bucky walked into the kitchen.
Everyone froze, like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
The tension snapped tight.
Then—absolute chaos.
Sam tossed the book across the room like it was radioactive. It hit Steve square in the chest—who caught it so fast it was like he’d expected it.
“Gotta go!” Clint shouted, dragging Sam with him.
“I regret nothing!” Sam added as they vanished.
Tony gave an exaggerated salute. “Not my soap opera, not my super soldier,” he muttered, already halfway out the door. “Good luck, Captain! You’re on your own now!”
Bruce, composed as ever, adjusted his glasses. “I’ll leave you both to it. I have… quantum mechanics to read.” He slipped away, avoiding everyone’s eyes like a pro.
Lastly, Thor—completely unbothered—wandered to the counter, picked up a lemon bar, took a thoughtful bite, and walked out like nothing had happened.
And then there was just Bucky.
He stood in the doorway, frozen. Confusion clouded his face as he tried to piece together the chaos he’d just walked into.
His eyes fell on Steve—standing there with the small black book in one hand, and a loose sheet of paper in the other.
Bucky’s heart skipped. His stomach dropped. He shifted on his feet, jaw tightening.
Steve held out the book, his tone gentle. “This was found in the briefing room. Don’t worry. No one read it.”
Bucky took it without a word, the familiar weight now heavier. He tucked it into his pocket without meeting Steve's eyes. His thoughts swirled—loud, chaotic, impossible to quiet.
Steve's hand lingered on the paper, his fingers nervously fumbling the edge. He hesitated, then spoke, voice quieter now. "Do you want to tell me about this?"
He held up the paper—and for a moment, Steve saw it. That flash of pain in Bucky's eyes. The same one that had been there for days, but which he'd never fully understood.
Bucky's voice was defensive as he answered, his hand moving swiftly to take the paper from Steve's grasp. "It's nothing," he muttered.
Steve's gaze didn't waver, and this time, he refused to let it slide. "Buck..." he said, firm but kind, "I've asked you before. I'm asking again. What's going on with you?"
Bucky folded the paper, his fingers trembling just enough to betray him, and shoved it into his pocket.
Without meeting Steve’s eyes, he turned and walked to the fridge.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of water with practiced deflection.
Steve followed, a step behind.
"You've been off since before I left for the mission," he said, voice softer now. "And I can still see it in your eyes."
Bucky didn't answer. Steve stepped in front of him, a gentle hand pressing against his chest to stop him.
"Buck, whatever it is," Steve said softly, "I'm here."
Bucky's breath hitched. "I know," he sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the unspoken. He stared at the floor, then finally looked up. "I just... don't know how to talk about it."
"Try."
Without another word, they sat side by side at the counter. Silence settled—not uncomfortable, just the kind Bucky needed to breathe.
Steve didn't rush him. He didn't push for answers. He simply sat there, patient, giving his best friend the time he needed to share whatever was locked inside.
"It's about Y/N," Bucky finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Steve's expression softened, and worry tightened in his chest. "What happened, Buck?" he asked.
Steve, more than anyone, understood the depth of Bucky's feelings for Y/N.
Bucky wasn't just chasing the high of butterflies or the fleeting excitement of a new crush.
This was different.
This was a love that had grown slowly, rooted in trust and blooming in shared moments.
A love built on patience—knowing, deep down, that it was something that would take time.
A love that comes when you've seen each other at your worst and still choose to stay.
A love that meant being there for someone, day in and day out, even when things weren't perfect.
For a man who once thought love was meant to be burning red, he now knows—it's golden, like daylight.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his hands braced against the edge of the counter.
Steve studied him for a long moment before speaking, voice low and careful. "I've never seen you like this over anyone."
Bucky didn't look up. "Because I've never been in love before," he said softly. "I never knew what it felt like... or why it was worth fighting for."
Steve's expression shifted—gentle, understanding. The kind of understanding that only comes from a man who's loved and lost.
Bucky's words lingered, heavy in the quiet.
His voice deepened, more certain now, his gaze steady.
"But every time I see her..."
He paused, as if the gravity of it was finally sinking in.
"I'm ready for war."
The words dropped between them like a loaded weapon—quiet, deliberate, unshakable.
Steve drew a slow breath, the meaning sinking deep. He placed a steady hand on his friend's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I know, Buck. I saw it—long before you ever told me".
Bucky's eyes flickered, caught between vulnerability and comfort.
Steve held his gaze, his voice steady and sure.
"The whole world could burn... and you'd never let a single flame touch her."
A pause stretched between them, and Steve's concern deepened. His voice softened.
"But something's still weighing on you," he said quietly, watching Bucky closely. "What is it?"
Bucky's eyes stayed on his hands, jaw tight, as if the words were too heavy to lift.
Steve waited, patient but concerned,his hand still resting on Bucky's shoulder, a quiet promise that he wasn't going anywhere.
After what felt like an eternity, Bucky drew a deep breath, his voice low and thick with emotion.
"When I first fell in love with Y/N, it wasn't by accident—it was a choice. One I make every single day," he said, his words weighted with truth.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "But I was scared," he admitted, voice unsteady. "Scared it would ruin everything we've built. Scared that telling her would make it all feel different".
His gaze softened, his tone gentler now. "But over time, I realised... she deserves to know. That she's loved. Not just as a teammate. Not just as a friend. But more."
He paused, gripping the edge of the counter, then turned to Steve. The silence stretched again, heavy with unspoken emotion, as Bucky tried to steady the storm inside him.
After a beat, he exhaled slowly, as if the next part of his confession was the hardest to say.
"I know she doesn't feel the same way," he said quietly, his voice laced with a sorrow he'd carried for far too long. "But that's okay."
His hand curled into a fist, as if clinging to the last thread of composure.
"I just want her to know, Steve—without expecting anything in return—that she's loved. In a world that's done everything to convince her otherwise."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like dust in the stillness.
Then, softly, Steve reached out—his own heart heavy.
"Buck... I get it," he said, his voice low and cautious, like he was trying to find the right place to land. "But you're not seeing things clearly. Y/N does feel the same way—"
"No." Bucky cut him off, voice low and edged with something final. He looked down, unable to meet Steve's eyes, the weight of his words hanging between them.
"Don't go there, Steve. She doesn't see me that way."
A silence followed, thick and unmoving. Then Bucky reached into his pocket, pulling out the folded paper. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it, eyes lingering on the page.
"It was something she said. Back in Wakanda," he murmured, his tone softening, touched with quiet nostalgia. "One night, she was half-asleep. We were talking about nothing—books, food... silly movie tropes."
He paused, gaze fixed on the paper, as if the memory itself was written there. Like he could feel it all over again—the way it had quietly settled in him and never left.
"She said it was the kind of date she always wanted—something simple. Being picked up with flowers at her door, a quiet dinner. A movie after..."
Bucky's voice caught as he looked up, meeting Steve's eyes. The pause that followed stretched longer than it should have.
"...And a goodnight kiss," he added softly, his voice thick with something fragile. "Just a kiss on the cheek. That was all she wanted."
Steve remained silent, letting Bucky's words settle between them.
"She said it like it was a dream" Bucky continued, his gaze dropping to the page in his hands. "One she wished came true but didn't believe it would".
He ran his fingers gently across the paper, as if the memory lived in its fibres. "But the way she smiled when she said it..."
He swallowed hard.
"I wrote it down that night—because I didn't want to forget."
The stillness that followed was heavy, but it was the kind of quiet that gave Bucky room to keep going—to finally unravel the thoughts he'd kept locked away.
"I never thought I'd get the chance," he said, his voice steadier now, grounded in quiet hope. "But I wanted to give her that dream—to make it real."
He paused, brow furrowing.
Steve saw it all in his face—the weight of it, the quiet ache, the depth of how much this mattered to him.
"I just wanted her to experience the kind of love she's always dreamed of..." Bucky's voice faltered, thick with emotion
His expression shifted, as if the truth had suddenly grown too heavy to hold. "But now I'm worried I'll hurt her by trying to do so."
Steve's shoulders tensed, confusion creeping in. "What do you mean?" he asked gently, his voice threaded with concern.
Bucky looked down, fingers fidgeting. He drew a slow breath.
"A few days ago... I, uh... I overheard something. Something I wasn't supposed to."
"Something Y/N said to Nat," Bucky continued, his tone low, tinged with quiet regret. "I didn't mean to listen. I just... froze. I couldn't move."
Steve's expression softened, heart sinking as he leaned in slightly, pulled by the weight of Bucky's words. "What did she say?"
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "She said she's convinced love is something that isn't meant to happen for her."
He paused, eyes dropping away, the heaviness of it all pressing down. "Because she thinks she's too much—for anyone to choose her, let alone stay."
Steve felt a sharp ache settle in his chest, his mind flashing to Y/N and the weight of her belief.
A pang of sorrow rose in him at the thought of someone so full of life—so deserving of love—doubting that it even existed for her.
His brow furrowed, sorrow and disbelief tightening his throat.
No one should ever feel that way, he thought.
Bucky looked down, his hand trembling as he gripped the edge of the counter. "She never felt like too much to me, Steve. She's always felt... just right. Exactly as she is."
His voice was softer now, laced with an aching sincerity that cut deep.
The room stilled, his words hanging in the air—heavy, unshakable.
"When I heard her say she thinks she's too much... too messy, too complicated," Bucky went on, voice thick with frustration, "all I wanted was to kick the whole damn world's ass for ever making her feel that way."
Steve nodded slowly, the weight of Bucky's words sinking in. His heart ached—for Bucky, for Y/N. "She doesn't deserve that kind of doubt," he said quietly.
Bucky's fingers curled tightly around nothing, as if trying to hold onto the finality of her words. "She said it like it was a fact... like gravity."
He paused, his voice thickening, the depth of his fear finally settling in.
"And now, if I say it—if I say I love her—and she doesn't believe me...that could hurt worse than not saying it at all."
He let out a shaky breath.
"That's what terrifies me, Steve. Not rejection. Not the embarrassment. It's hurting her. Watching her search my face for truth and finding doubt instead."
His jaw tensed, frustration and helplessness rising in his chest.
"I know Y/N. If she doesn't believe me, she won't yell or push back. She'll just pull away. Quietly. Shut down. And I won't even know how to reach her again."
Bucky finally looked up, eyes clouded with sorrow.
"I don't want to be another reason she reinforces that wall she's already built. I don't want to hurt her."
A long pause followed—the kind of silence where even breathing felt heavy.
Bucky's voice dropped to a whisper, each word steeped in raw vulnerability. "I love her so much."
He closed his eyes, as if bracing himself against the weight of it, then exhaled slowly. The air around them seemed to still under the gravity of his confession.
Steve watched him closely, feeling the depth of what Bucky carried.
"Do you think she'd believe it from anyone?" he asked softly, his voice gentle but laced with concern, trying to understand the heart of Bucky's fear.
Bucky blinked, surprised by the question.
"No," he admitted, voice rough with emotion. "And that's the point."
Steve leaned in, his gaze steady, full of understanding . He took a breath, then said, calm but unwavering: "Then make her believe it from you."
The words hit harder than Bucky expected. He swallowed, turning away for a moment, trying to steady himself.
Steve's words pressed into him, making everything feel real in a way it hadn't before.
"I know Y/N's holding onto the belief that love isn't in her future, Buck." Steve said gently, his voice full of quiet empathy. "But maybe... she just needs someone brave enough to prove her wrong."
Bucky stared at him, the weight of it sinking deep into his chest.
"I don't know how to, Steve," he admitted. "I don't know how to change her mind."
Steve held his gaze, thoughtful and steady.
"Maybe it's not about changing her mind," he said, voice calm and sure. "Maybe it's just about showing her."
Steve leaned back slightly, collecting his thoughts before meeting Bucky's eyes with quiet sincerity.
"She needs to see that she's loved—despite everything she believes about herself."
Bucky's gaze flickered, his expression softening, as if the words stirred something deep within him.
"She needs to see that she's never too much for you," Steve continued gently. "She's always been just enough."
His voice grew quieter, more deliberate.
"She needs to know this love stays. Not because it's easy—but because she's worth it."
Bucky let the words settle in his chest.
He glanced down, fingers brushing the paper—anchored by the moment that had started it all.
"But what if she pulls away? What if I make it worse by pushing too hard?" His voice wavered, thick with doubt and fear.
Steve leaned in, his voice calm but steady, eyes full of concern. "Then you pull back, Buck. Give her the space she needs to see it for herself. But don't hide behind that fear".
He let the words hang for a beat, giving Bucky room to breathe.
Then, softer now—his certainty still steady—Steve continued,
"She needs to know the truth—to see how much she means to you."
Bucky's gaze flickered, uncertain. Steve placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder again.
"If you say nothing," he said gently, "you're only proving her right."
Bucky's shoulders eased slightly, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. The silence stretched as both men sat with the weight of it all.
His eyes dropped to the paper, and Steve could see the shift—the quiet stirrings of resolve taking hold, the gravity of what Bucky was about to do settling in.
"The first step is saying it, Buck," Steve said gently, his voice firm but kind. "It's not about having everything figured out. It's about showing up. Telling her how you feel—just like you planned."
He tapped the paper in Bucky's hands, the small gesture serving as a reminder. "Whatever happens after that, you'll face together."
Bucky's eyes softened. Slowly, steadily, a quiet determination rose within him.
For once, his heart wasn't bracing for a fight. It was reaching for something worth holding on to.
He wasn't just going to let her story end in doubt.
Her heart deserved more than to beat with the pain of believing it wasn't the most precious thing in existence.
And if that was the story she told herself,
Then he had one mission left:
They were getting better at life. Slowly. Awkwardly. But better.
And that's when Steve decided it was time for the next level.
He insisted they "learn public transport."
He said it with the same tone he used when talking about survival strategies or CPR training.
"It's not glamorous," he told them, "but it's the city. You haven't really lived here until you've survived the subway."
Turns out, survival was the right word.
The train was packed—shoulder to shoulder, air heavy with perfume, coffee, and general existential exhaustion.
Y/N was wedged between Bucky and a teenager blasting TikToks at full volume.
Bucky, stoic as ever, looked one playlist away from committing a mild crime.
Up ahead, Steve stood like a seasoned commuter, gripping the overhead rail with absolute peace.
Y/N struggled to stay upright every time the train lurched.
Suddenly, she felt the lightest tug on her hand.
Bucky.
He didn't grab it—just hooked his pinky around hers.
No words. Just that little tether to say, I've got you.
She didn't say anything. Just let it stay.
When they finally resurfaced onto the street, Steve led them through a winding trail near the edge of the city, far from crowds and noise. They reached a high overlook tucked above an old community garden. From here, the skyline stretched wide, glowing orange and gold in the late afternoon sun.
Steve sat down on a wide patch of grass and gestured beside him. "This is where I come to draw."
Y/N sat to his left. Bucky dropped beside her, hands braced behind him.
They sat in easy silence for a while.
Then the stories started.
Steve glanced sideways at Bucky, a half-smile forming. "You used to walk me the long way home just so I wouldn't have to pass by guys who'd mouth off."
Y/N looked over at Bucky. "That tracks."
Steve smiled. "Once, I tripped in the middle of the street and ripped a hole in my pants. He gave me his jacket. Spent the rest of the walk pretending he wasn't freezing."
Bucky shrugged. "You needed it more."
"It was snowing, Buck."
"And you were limping."
Y/N's expression softened. "You've always been like that, huh?"
Bucky glanced down at his hands. "Like what?"
"Showing up," she said simply.
Steve grinned. "Exactly."
Y/N glanced between them—between now and the memory Steve once shared on the flight to Wakanda.
How Bucky used to drag him out of alleys. How he always stepped in without hesitation. Back then, it had sounded like grief.
It was different, hearing it now. Not heavy. Not haunted. Just history, shared like a joke between brothers.
They sat for what felt like hours, laughing at dumb teenage decisions and stories of Brooklyn corners that didn't exist anymore.
Then Steve stood up suddenly. "Alright. Settle something."
Bucky narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Steve pointed between them. "Which one of us is the fastest?"
Y/N blinked. "You're really opening yourself up to defeat here, Rogers."
Steve grinned and nodded toward the far end of the park. "First one there wins."
"You're on, Rogers," Bucky said with a smirk, already rolling up his sleeves like it was game time.
"I want chocolate chip cookie," Bucky added, already way too invested.
Steve raised a brow. "You haven't even won yet."
Bucky grinned. "Doesn't matter. I'm manifesting."
And then someone yelled, "Go!"
(Nobody remembers who.)
It wasn't graceful.
It was chaos.
Shoes pounding, limbs flailing, breathless laughter echoing between trees as three super soldiers raced like over-caffeinated kids across an almost-empty park.
It was a weekday lull—too late for lunch breaks, too early for post-work strollers. The park, for once, felt like their own.
Bucky tripped over a rock and blamed the landscaping.
Steve ran into a squirrel and declared it sabotage.
Y/N won, somehow — not because she ran the fastest, but because Steve and Bucky got too busy trying to outpace each other to notice she'd already crossed the line.
She turned around, hands on her hips, breathless and grinning. "You two done arguing?"
They didn't declare an official winner—Y/N just smiled like she already knew. The next thing anyone said was, "Ice cream sounds good," as they wandered toward the nearest cart.
Fifteen minutes later, they were walking back toward their original spot near the overlook, cones in hand and sun warm on their shoulders. The golden hour hit everything just right—turning edges to warmth, and making the world feel like it was pausing for a breath.
Y/N had mango. Bucky had chocolate chip cookie. Steve went with vanilla—classic, no fuss.
That kicked off a whole debate—half-serious, half-laughing—about which flavour reigned supreme. Bucky insisted chocolate chip cookie had texture and depth. Y/N said mango was refreshing and didn't "taste like freezer burn" which earned a full offended gasp from Bucky.
Steve just rolled his eyes and kept eating.
And for a moment—
He didn't feel like Captain America. Or a man out of time. Or a symbol.
He felt like Steve.
The punk kid from Brooklyn who used to get into trouble and drag his best friend with him. Who now had two people beside him who made the world feel small enough to hold.
He watched Y/N flick a drop of melted mango onto Bucky's boot and Bucky dramatically mourn his "favourite sock," and something in Steve's chest eased.
They were laughing.
Not surviving. Not coping.
Laughing.
And he was too.
Steve smiled into his cone and let it melt just a little more in the sun. For the first time in a long time, everything felt... easy. The kind of moment you didn't realise you'd been waiting for until you were in it.
And then, somehow, it got even better.
Because Bucky got ice cream on his cheek.
Then his chin.
Then, impossibly, the tip of his nose.
Repeatedly.
Y/N caught it every time—soft wipes with the edge of her thumb, grinning like it was the highlight of her day. And Steve noticed how Bucky leaned just a little each time, eyes fluttering half-shut like a puppy getting his ears scratched.
Steve raised an eyebrow, watching him with amused suspicion.
He could swear Bucky was deliberately getting ice cream on his face—like some tactical operation to make Y/N laugh and reach for him again.
Steve bit back a grin. Smooth, Barnes. Real subtle.
But then, as he watched them, something else tugged at his chest.
Because he remembered the man Bucky used to be—the one who always had to have it together, who looked out for everyone, who carried things no one ever asked him to carry. Even before the war. Even before Hydra. Bucky had always been the one with the charming smile and the careful armour beneath it.
But this Bucky—ice cream-smeared and grinning like a dork under Y/N's soft gaze—wasn't performing. He wasn't holding the world up. He wasn't trying to fix anything.
He was just being.
Letting himself be cared for.
Letting himself want.
And Steve had never seen that before. Not even back then.
They'd wandered back to their usual spot—quiet, tucked away, familiar.
Steve continued sketching. Y/N lay in the grass, eyes closed. And Bucky—
Bucky had stretched out beside her, head resting on her stomach, gloves off, breath evening out. At some point, he'd drifted off completely.
Steve only noticed when a soft snore broke the silence.
He glanced over, half-smiling—then paused.
Y/N was awake. Barely moving. One hand threaded gently through Bucky's hair, fingers trailing slow, absent circles. She didn't say anything. Just smiled every time he made a tiny, contented sound in his sleep. Like it was her favourite thing.
With every quiet stroke of her fingers. With the way she softened to hold him, the way she watched him breathe like it mattered.
She cradled the moment like it might slip away.
And Bucky—he'd let himself fall asleep there.
On her.
Like it was the safest place in the world.
Steve looked down at his sketchpad but didn't draw for a moment.
Just smiled.
A few minutes later, the soft crunch of small shoes on gravel broke the stillness—and all three of them snapped to alert.
Bucky stirred first, eyes blinking open as instinct kicked in. He sat up quickly, shoulders tense, scanning—until he saw the source.
A little boy—no older than five—stood a few feet away, ball cap slightly crooked, wide eyes fixed on Bucky's hand.
The Vibranium one.
He hadn't even realised it was still bare. The glove lay forgotten in the grass beside him.
They were tucked away in a quiet corner of the park. He hadn't expected anyone to notice.
Bucky went still. His hand twitched, the old urge rising fast—to cover it. Hide it.
But the kid took a step closer.
"I have one too," he said matter-of-factly, holding up a small prosthetic arm. Bright blue. Well-used.
Bucky blinked. "...Yeah?"
The kid nodded solemnly. "Yours is cooler."
That got a breath of surprise out of him. "Thanks."
The boy took another step, curious but not afraid. "Does it make noise?"
"Sometimes," Bucky said.
"Does it punch bad guys?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at Bucky's lips. "Only the really bad ones."
The boy grinned—broad and proud—and for a second, nothing else moved.
Y/N stayed where she was, hands still resting in the grass, her heart full.
Steve glanced sideways at her, then back at Bucky—a proud smile tugging at his lips.
It was such a simple thing.
But watching Bucky, who used to flinch from being seen, let himself be seen now—and seen like that—it meant something.
The boy's mother called from farther down the trail. The kid gave Bucky a small salute and a wide grin, then turned and ran off, his little prosthetic arm swinging freely by his side.
Bucky watched the boy go.
He sat there for a while after, his Vibranium hand resting lightly in his lap.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need to hide it.
He didn't say anything. But he didn't reach for the glove either.
And neither Steve nor Y/N said a word.
Because they understood what it meant.
And that was enough.
--
Life kept unfolding, one gentle moment at a time.
Two days later, Peter showed up at their door, clutching two boxes like it might explode.
"Hi! Peter Parker. Official tech support, apparently," he grinned. "Mr. Stark said you guys needed phones that weren't from, like, the dinosaur era."
He handed Y/N a brand-new smartphone like he was gifting her a live grenade.
"Okay! So this is your phone. You tap here to unlock it, swipe this way to see your notifications, and if you press this for too long it calls Steve. Don't ask why. It just does." She blinked at the screen lighting up. "It glows. Why is it glowing?"
Peter beamed. "It's ready for you. It's like... a really smart friend who lives in your pocket. But with infinite knowledge and, like, zero boundaries."
Bucky stood beside her, arms folded, clearly skeptical. "What happens if you press the apple?"
Peter squinted. "Uh, that's just a sticker."
Bucky grunted. "Then why's it on there?"
Y/N turned the phone over carefully, holding it like it might detonate if she angled it wrong. "It's too shiny. This doesn't feel like something I should be allowed to use."
Peter softened a bit, his excitement quieting. "Hey... it's just a tool. You get to decide how you use it. Call people. Listen to music. Set a timer for cookies. Whatever feels normal." Then his grin came right back. "Also, I already installed Spotify, Duolingo, and a cat video app."
They spent the afternoon texting each other across the couch like they were plotting a world takeover. Bucky accidentally replied to a group chat with a thumbs-up emoji and got roasted by Sam for twenty minutes. Y/N found the camera feature and kept zooming in too close, resulting in a collection of unflattering forehead shots and one perfect picture of Bucky looking confused at a banana.
By evening, they were still sprawled on the couch—Y/N in the middle, flanked by Bucky and Peter like mismatched bookends, all clutching their new phones like mission equipment.
Peter was already swiping through screens like a man with a plan.
He suddenly sat up straighter, clapped his hands once, and grinned. "Alright. Next disaster to tackle: Instagram. The worst and best place on the internet."
Bucky held his phone like it might talk back. "What's the point of it?"
Peter grinned. "To make people jealous of your breakfast and fall in love with your dog. Also, memes."
Y/N had picked it up quickly, already following a trail of book recommendations, sneaker drops, and videos of food she wanted to try—noodles, pastries, and things that sizzled. Bucky, on the other hand, kept accidentally liking posts from 2018 and didn't understand filters.
At some point, while Peter scrolled through his own feed, Bucky's thumb slipped. A little red LIVE icon appeared at the top of his screen. Neither he nor Y/N noticed.
She had curled sideways on the couch, giggling as she told him how she'd spilled smoothie all over her notes—and now half her grocery list smelled like strawberries.
Her hair was soft and slightly tangled. Her socks didn't match. She looked like safety and sunlight.
And Bucky, without realising it, was staring at her like she'd hung the stars just right.
On the other side of the screen, a notification pinged for the rest of the team.
"BuckyBarnes is live 📹"
Tony: Why are we watching this like it's a documentary?
Natasha: Because this is better than cable.
Clint: Look at his face. He's so gone.
Steve, quietly from the gym: That look says everything.
Sam: Shut up. I'm screen recording this for the wedding slideshow.
Back on the couch, Y/N laughed at something she'd said. Bucky smiled without thinking, and only when Peter looked up and froze in horror did either of them realise.
"Dude," Peter whispered. "You're live. You've been live for, like... seven minutes."
Bucky's eyes widened. "WHAT?"
He fumbled with the phone like it had betrayed him, tapping every button at once. The stream ended with an accidental selfie of his panicked face and Y/N's confused one beside him.
Silence.
Then Y/N looked at him and grinned.
"Congratulations. You've officially joined the internet."
He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. "I'm never hearing the end of this."
She nudged him gently, her smile softening. "Could've been worse. You could've been shirtless."
"Don't help."
She just leaned her head on his shoulder, and he let her.
Peter, still holding the phone, whispered with mock reverence, "Should I tag it #SwipeSoldier?"
Bucky let out a warning growl. Y/N started giggling.
Peter dove off the couch with a yelp, arms over his head. "Okay, okay! I'm logging off!"
The room dissolved into chaotic laughter—and somehow, it felt like the most peaceful place in the world.
--
A few weeks later, Y/N and Bucky were standing by the elevator, waiting to head out for the day.
Bucky leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, his usual calm demeanour seemingly a little more relaxed than usual. He'd been taking things slower lately, and Y/N was glad for it. Bucky had finally started choosing rest over keeping himself busy, something she knew he'd struggled with.
They stood in silence, waiting for the elevator, the quiet hum of the compound filling the space. Y/N glanced at Bucky, the faintest of smiles playing on her lips. She hadn't admitted it aloud, but she liked this—just being together like this, without the constant rush.
Before she could say anything, Bruce came hurrying around the corner, his usual fast-paced energy filling the hallway.
"Y/N!" he said, breathless as he approached. "Tony and I could really use your help in the lab—an urgent consultation. Can you come by?"
Y/N blinked, surprised, but then nodded. She had, over time, started to help out in the medical bay and the lab, even if she hadn't completely thrown herself into it yet. It had been her choice, taking it slow, easing herself back into the things she'd once done.
Bucky, however, hadn't quite found his own pace. He had been resting more, and that made Y/N happy. It was a quiet victory, seeing him choose his health and well-being first.
"Bruce was practically bouncing on his heels, eager to get going. "Y/N, we've got to move. Tony's one espresso shot away from turning the lab into chaos."
Y/N glanced at Bucky, offering an apologetic smile. He shot her a playful pout in return, though his expression softened with understanding.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," she reassured him, giving him a soft smile before following Bruce leaving Bucky standing alone by the elevator.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft 'ding,' and Thor stepped out, immediately spotting Bucky standing by the door, looking a little down.
Thor's smile faltered for a moment as he noticed Bucky's expression. He walked over and clapped Bucky on the shoulder with a friendly thud, his voice softer than usual. "What's this, my friend? No smile today?"
When Bucky didn't respond right away, Thor's expression shifted with concern, his gaze searching for Y/N. "Where is the Doctor?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual thunderous volume. "I have returned from Asgard and come bearing gifts!"
"Y/N got dragged off by Bruce for something with Tony," Bucky mumbled, a slight edge of sulking in his tone.
Thor blinked, processing the situation with the seriousness of a god. Then, a warm smile crept across his face as he looked at Bucky, still slouched by the elevator. His voice took on a mischievous tone.
"Well, my friend, it seems you are in dire need of distraction. I think I have just the solution."
Bucky tilted his head, his arms still crossed, but the curiosity tugging at him was clear. "What are you talking about?"
Thor leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper, though his grin was far from subtle. "There's a place. A legendary place. Where you can buy flat-packed furniture, strange food, and marvel at its wonders. A place called... IKEA."
Bucky blinked. "IKEA?"
"Yes!" Thor said with absolute certainty, clapping Bucky on the shoulder again. "You and I shall embark on a quest for meatballs, furniture, and strange Swedish inventions. You need not be alone in your sorrow, my friend. I, Thor, shall help you recover from the absence of Y/N."
Bucky raised an eyebrow, caught between confusion and the faintest hint of amusement. 'IKEA?' he repeated, as if weighing the absurdity of the idea. 'Well, guess I've done worse... Lead the way.'"
And so, just like that, Bucky and Thor—along with an unexpected mission—left the elevator, leaving behind the still-quiet compound for an afternoon of ridiculous adventures.
Thor entered IKEA like a storm on a sunny day, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt with an unreadable Asgardian slogan, and his signature boots. He looked entirely too grand for a furniture store. "Ah, the land of flat-packed wonders!" he exclaimed, arms wide as if welcoming the entire store.
Bucky, pushing the cart with a slightly annoyed expression, rolled his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
Thor grinned at him. "This, my friend, is the realm of endless possibilities! And today, you will find the key to comfort!"
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "We're just here to get a few things, Thor. I didn't sign up for a 'comfort quest.'"
Thor clapped him on the back with a grin. "Every great journey begins with a step—and today, that step is in IKEA."
So there they were, walking down aisles of inexpensive furniture and oddly shaped storage units, when Thor began to give Bucky an impromptu tour of the store, offering tidbits about every section they passed. "This, my friend, is the land of cushions! These soft, squishy treasures are made for comfort and relaxation!"
Bucky just grunted. He wasn't in the mood for shopping, let alone listening to Thor wax poetic about home decor.
But as they wandered through the aisles, Bucky's gaze caught on a few simple items that seemed to offer a bit of comfort for Y/N's world, touches that could make her space feel more hers in the way she deserved.
Thor didn't seem to notice his shift in focus, continuing to regale Bucky with his IKEA wisdom. "And here we have the section for throws and cushions. Perfect for any battle-weary traveler who needs to rest their mighty limbs after a long day of heroics."
Bucky, though, had stopped listening. His mind was busy, thinking about the things Y/N could use—things that would make her smile, make her feel more at home. These weren't big gestures. But they were little things that might just brighten up her day, in the simplest way.
Things Y/N would love.
He started with a journal with a fluffy cover, soft and comforting, perfect for the quiet moments Y/N had when she wrote or reflected. Alongside it, he picked up a set of coloured pens, imagining Y/N filling the pages with her sketches or to-do lists, adding little splashes of colour as she went.
Further down the aisle, he saw fairy lights—the soft, twinkling kind that would add a touch of magic to her room. Bucky thought they'd be perfect for her to hang up and brighten the space with her own quiet glow.
Then he found a cute teapot and tea set—simple and floral, just the right size for Y/N. He'd seen her make tea in mismatched mugs, but this would be a treat for her. She deserved to have something beautiful to drink out of, something that made her tea time feel just a little bit more special.
A few aisles over, Bucky found a soft robe and a pair of plush slippers, both perfect for Y/N to unwind after a long day—comforting and cozy, just a little indulgence for her to relax.
Walking down another aisle, he found a soft cushion for a chair, one that would make her workspace more comfortable. Y/N had never complained, but Bucky had noticed how she shifted uncomfortably after long hours, and this would give her some relief.
Finally, Bucky found a cozy throw blanket, plush and soft, just waiting for someone to curl up with it. Y/N always had a blanket that she loved, but this one would be a little extra warm, like a gentle hug.
As Bucky loaded the items onto the conveyor belt at the checkout, Thor leaned over with a raised eyebrow, eyeing the cart. "Ah, I see what you've done. Such cozy items... for Y/N, huh?"
Bucky just gave him a flat look, pulling out his wallet. "I'm just getting stuff she might like. It's practical."
Thor chuckled, shaking his head. "Practical, indeed. A blanket, a teapot... Bucky, my friend, you've crafted a masterpiece of affection, and I must say, I approve."
Bucky rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Just don't make a big deal out of it, okay?"
Thor gave him a wink as they paid. "I would never," he said, voice full of mischief.
"The fair maiden is lucky to have you," he added with a teasing grin.
Bucky shifted slightly, looking down at the items. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, a small, almost shy smile pulling at his lips. "I'm trying" he muttered, his voice soft but genuine.
Thor's smile softened, the teasing replaced with something more understanding. "You're doing just fine, brother."
And just like that, Bucky felt a little lighter, like he was heading home with something more than just a few items from a furniture store. He was heading back with the idea of making Y/N's space feel a little more hers. A little more loved.
--
Y/N stepped into her room, weary from a long day of work. The hum of the city outside felt like a distant echo compared to the exhaustion settling into her bones. She closed the door behind her, the quiet of the room a welcome contrast to the busy chaos of the day.
But then, her eyes landed on something that immediately softened the tension in her shoulders.
On her desk, Y/N found a fluffy journal with colourful pens and a cushion on her chair. She smiled, her fingers brushing over the soft cover.
Then her gaze shifted to the bed, where a cozy throw blanket lay, inviting her to curl up. Beside it, a soft robe with a pair of plush slippers placed below on the floor.
She hadn't mentioned wanting any of it, yet there it was, waiting for her.
Her eyes widened. Who had done this?
Before she could think too much about it, a soft sound caught her attention. She turned around to see Bucky, kneeling on the floor near the corner of her room, tangled up in a mess of fairy lights. He was so focused on the lights that he didn't notice her walk in. She couldn't help but laugh quietly as she watched him untangle himself, his brow furrowed in concentration.
When he finally looked up and noticed her, his face turned slightly pink.
"Oh—uh—hey," he said, his voice still a little breathless from his tangle with the lights.
"Trying to redecorate, huh?" Y/N teased, still smiling.
Bucky blinked at her, looking sheepish. "I thought it might make things more... cozy. I got a little carried away." He gestured to the mess of lights hanging awkwardly around the room.
Y/N chuckled softly, the warmth of the room, the thoughtful gesture, and the sight of Bucky so out of his element making her heart swell.
"How'd all this get here?" she asked, looking at Bucky with an amused expression.
Bucky scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, I may have... gone a little shopping with Thor. Grabbed a few things. Thought you might like them".
Y/N's smile softened as she glanced around, taking in the sweet touches. "A few things, huh?" She couldn't help but tease gently, her voice warm. "Well, it's... definitely cozy."
Bucky flushed, awkwardly clearing his throat. "I just... wanted to make things a little nicer for you."
He noticed the awe in her eyes as she stood there, taking in the scene. She walked over to him, still stunned, and softly said, "Thank you, Bucky."
Y/N smiled, her voice gentle. "For all of this... You didn't have to, but you did. It means a lot."
Bucky's chest tightened at her words, and he simply nodded. "I'm glad you like it."
Before she could say anything more, his expression softened further. "I made you dinner," he added, his tone quieter now. "I figured you might be tired after work. It should be done by now."
Y/N blinked. "You cooked?"
Bucky nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. C'mon. I'll show you."
As they walked toward the kitchen, Bucky's voice took on a playful note. "And, uh, I have one more surprise." He gestured to the counter, where the teapot was sitting, steam rising gently. Two matching teacups were placed side by side next to it. "Tea's already brewing."
Y/N's heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of the tea set. She met his gaze, her thoughts momentarily lost.
"Go wash your hands," Bucky said with a grin, "I'll get dinner ready".
Y/N washed up quickly, then joined him at the counter. He was just pulling out the oven tray, and the smell of her favourite dish filled the room. It was a simple meal, but the effort he'd put into it made it feel like something special.
They ate, sharing little moments between bites. Bucky, still smiling, filled her in on his "adventure" with Thor—how they ended up with a cart full of inexplicable things, including an inflatable Viking helmet.
Y/N told him about her day at work, how it had been busy but fulfilling. She mentioned some of the cases she handled and how she was slowly finding her rhythm again. "I'm starting to feel like I'm really back," she said quietly, a small smile on her face.
Afterward, Y/N started to stand up, ready to clear the plates. But Bucky stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"Sit," he said. "I've got this."
She blinked, confused, but didn't protest. Bucky loaded the plates into the dishwasher with surprising ease. Then, without a word, he set the kettle to boil again.
"I know you want your before-bed tea," he said casually, his back turned to her as he worked.
Y/N watched him, feeling a quiet kind of awe at how seamlessly he was slipping into these moments of care. How, despite everything, Bucky had created this small, peaceful space for her—one that felt like home.
And she couldn't help but smile, a gentle warmth settling in her heart.
They were still sitting at the counter, long past the time they should've been tucked away in their beds. Their laughter and stories echoed through the compound, light and free, like music. By now, they were on their fifth round of tea, but neither of them seemed to mind.
The conversation flowed easily, everything feeling familiar as they poured tea into their cups, leaning into each other's space with the ease of old habits.
The distance between them didn't feel like two people who had been assigned rooms next to each other—it felt like they didn't know how to be far apart anymore.
They laughed more than they spoke.
And they didn't notice the audience
Across the kitchen, the entire team was gathered in the doorway—trying (and failing) not to stare.
Tony leaned sideways to whisper to Steve: "Okay, tell me I'm not the only one who feels like we're intruding on a rom-com finale."
Steve had his arms crossed, one corner of his mouth pulled into a knowing smile.
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, watching them like someone witnessing an unfamiliar species in their natural habitat.
Clint whispered, "They've synced up. They're finishing each other's sentences. They're drinking out of matching tea cups".
"The Soldier has excellent taste in tea sets," Thor commented, giving a approving nod.
Tony took a large sip of his coffee, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "This is better than soap operas. And I funded one."
"I'm pretty sure this counts as staring," Steve said.
Just then, Bucky turned—eyes landing on the group.
He paused. Narrowed his eyes.
Then tossed a spoon at Sam's head with startling accuracy.
"What are you all staring at?"
Sam threw up both hands, eyes wide in mock disbelief as the spoon bounced off his forehead.
"Really? The bionic staring machine is accusing us of staring?" he said, rubbing his head dramatically.
Y/N choked on her sip of tea, the unexpected comment catching her off guard.
Bucky immediately turned back to her, his expression shifting to concern. He reached over, gently patting her back. "You okay?" he asked, his voice laced with care.
She nodded, breathless. "Yeah I'm fine. I just didn't expect spoon diplomacy."
Bucky chuckled softly, the playful tension melting away as he met Y/N's eyes again. "Guess I'm more diplomatic than I thought," he said with a wink, his voice lighter than before.
Just then, Thor stepped into the room, arms wide and a grin plastered across his face. "Your bond is beautiful. We were moved."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You were... just watching?"
Steve, standing just behind Thor, smiled faintly. "We were just... observing."
"Like creeps," Y/N added, squinting at them, a teasing edge to her voice.
Tony raised an eyebrow, then added, "We're just... appreciating the vibes. Let us have our moment."
They all hummed in agreement, some nodding, some chuckling.
Bucky, eyes narrowing playfully, pointed another spoon at them threateningly. "Get out of here before I start using my words instead of spoons."
Tony raised his hands. "Okay, okay. Domestic Winter Soldier is terrifying."
As they all started to shuffle off, still grinning and muttering to each other, Nat called over her shoulder: "You two are gross in a weirdly wholesome way. I kind of love it."
Bucky leaned on the counter beside Y/N, shaking his head with a soft chuckle.
"I swear they have no boundaries," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Y/N raised an eyebrow, her smile softening as she looked at him. "You're not wrong," she said, her voice teasing.
"Kind of crazy how we've adjusted to it all," she added, letting the thought settle between them.
Bucky’s lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes softening as he met her gaze. "I never imagined I could have this," he said quietly, a touch of surprise in his tone.
Y/N couldn’t help but smile, her expression light. "What? Friends who spy?" she teased, watching him pour the last cup of tea for the night.
Bucky laughed softly, the sound full of warmth and affection.
He glanced at her—his hand brushing hers as he passed her the cup.
"No," he said, his voice lowering as he looked down at their hands, lingering for a second longer before meeting her eyes once more. "This."
So, naturally, the Avengers decided to take matters into their own chaotic, well-meaning hands.
Clint and Nat didn’t plan the shopping trip.
They ambushed it.
Y/N and Bucky had been minding their business—locked in a cutthroat game of UNO in the lounge, both unusually intense about the rules—when Natasha strolled in wearing black jeans, a fitted tee, and oversized sunglasses, and a crossbody bag that made it clear she was here with purpose.
Clint followed a beat later, holding two iced Starbucks drinks and grinning like a man about to throw a grenade into a very calm room.
“Field trip,” he declared. “Mall. Now.”
Bucky didn’t even look up. “I’m not going into the wild. Too many civilians. Too much noise. Fluorescent lights. Perfume clouds."
Y/N grimaced. “Is this mandatory?” She looked toward Natasha, tone cautiously pleading. “I’d rather stay inside.”
Natasha’s expression softened. She crossed her arms, but her voice was gentle. “I know,” she said. “But you can’t do that forever.”
“Pepper already taught us how to do online grocery shopping,” Bucky added, half-hopeful, half-defensive.
Clint squinted at him, sipping his drink like a disappointed parent. “You two have been hiding in the compound like gremlins. It’s time to join society.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue—then promptly shut it when Nat raised a single brow.
Ten minutes later, they were in the car.
The mall was loud.
At least, that’s how it felt to Bucky and Y/N.
The kind of loud that echoed off shiny tile floors and ricocheted around their skull like a ping pong ball made of anxiety. Pop music blared from every direction. People moved too fast. The lights were too bright. There were too many choices, and not enough escape routes.
Nat didn’t waste time.
“Clint, you’re on Bucky,” she said, already weaving through the crowd like a seasoned operative. “Y/N’s with me.”
“What are we looking for?” Y/N called after her, forced to power-walk to keep up.
“Essentials,” Nat replied. “Clothes that aren’t tactical, shoes that aren’t boots, and maybe—if you behave—milkshake and churros.”
Clint clapped Bucky on the back with all the subtlety of a brick.
“Time to teach you what joggers are, man.”
Bucky scowled. “I have pants.”
“You have combat-grade leather that creaks when you sit. We’re getting you breathable cotton”.
An hour in, Y/N and Natasha had already hit four stores—each one somehow worse than the last.
Now, Y/N stood motionless between racks of pastel crop tops and jeans with too many rips, surrounded by mannequins in tiny dresses and girls walking by in coordinated two-piece sets that looked effortless and cool and so far from anything she'd ever been or wanted to be.
She wasn't a heels-and-mini-skirt kind of girl. But everything in the store seemed to scream "fit in or fade out."
She picked up a hanger with a tank top barely wide enough for her arm. Then dropped it again.
Her throat tightened.
She felt awkward. Loud in her own skin.
Quietly. Quickly. She slipped away, ducking into a quiet corner near the fitting rooms.
She sat on the small bench, staring at her reflection in the three-way mirror that somehow made her feel even more out of place in her own clothes.
She wasn't crying.
But she wasn't far from it, either.
Then—
A soft thump. A paper shopping bag being set down beside her.
And Natasha sitting down next to her, legs crossed, holding a bottle of water and wearing an expression that didn't need words.
Y/N took the bottle but didn’t open it. She sniffed once. “I just... I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear. Everything feels like it belongs to someone else. Like I’m playing dress-up in a world that already decided I don’t belong.”
Nat didn’t rush her. Just waited, then said gently, “It’s not about fitting in, Y/N. It’s about finding what fits you.”
Y/N looked up.
Natasha’s voice stayed soft, honest—stripped of armour.
“For a long time, everything I wore was for survival. Costumes. Uniforms. Personas. I could blend in, seduce, intimidate, disappear whatever they needed me to be."
Y/N angled toward her, listening more closely now.
“But none of it was me. Not really. I didn’t even know what my style was until I was finally free. And even then, it took me a while to believe I deserved to be comfortable—just being myself.”
“You always look so confident,” Y/N murmured.
Nat smiled—wry, and just a little sad.
"Confidence isn't about loving how you look. It's about refusing to let the world tell you you're not enough."
She glanced toward the open store. "You think everyone here's dressed because they love how they look? Most of them are scared. Trying to look like everyone else so they won't get judged".
She met Y/N’s eyes. "Don't give people that kind of power, Y/N."
She nudged her chin toward the fitting room racks.
"You want hoodies four sizes too big? Get them. Want tight clothes, or yoga pants or boots you can kick down a door in? Do that".
Her voice stayed calm, grounded. "You don't owe the world an image, sweetheart. You owe yourself comfort. Choice. Safety."
Y/N's fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. "It's just hard. Feeling like... I take up too much space. Like my body doesn't match what people expect."
Nat's voice softened.
"The only expectation that matters is the one you set for yourself. And it should sound like this: 'I get to feel safe in my own skin. I get to take up space. I get to exist without apology.'"
Y/N's eyes welled just a little. Not from sadness. From the sudden relief of being understood.
Nat reached over, bumped their shoulders.
"You don't owe the world pretty. You don't owe it 'skinny' or 'cool' or whatever trend is shouting the loudest this week. You owe yourself comfort. Peace. Something you can put on and say—'this feels like me'."
Y/N laughed softly, wiping her cheek. "I don't think I'm ever wearing a crop top".
"Great," Nat said. "Then we'll start with hoodies. Maybe some cargo pants. Something that says, 'I've survived a war and still have snacks in my pocket".
Y/N chuckled and stood up. "Okay. Let's try again."
Nat rose with her, proud and patient. “That’s my girl.”
And together, they stepped back into the store—not to fit in.
But to find something that fit her.
Meanwhile…
Clint and Bucky were trapped in what could only be described as a hellscape of modern menswear.
Three stores in, and they still hadn’t bought a single thing.
Bucky had officially hit his limit.
“I don’t need a flannel,” he grumbled, eyeing the chequered shirt like it might jump off the hanger and force itself onto him.
Clint rolled his eyes. “You don’t own a single casual shirt. We’re starting from zero. That means yes, you do.”
They were mid-argument over the difference between black and slightly darker black t-shirts when Bucky suddenly stopped.
Something across the walkway had caught his eye.
A toy store.
Specifically, a window display.
A wall of plush animals.
And in the centre—
A small, soft-looking, cinnamon-coloured teddy bear with a pink ribbon tied loosely around its neck.
Something about it made his heart stop.
He imagined Y/N holding it. Sitting in her room, curled up in her favourite hoodie, arms wrapped around the little bear. Maybe falling asleep with it tucked under her chin.
He had no idea why the thought hit him so hard.
But he walked in.
Clint caught up to him two minutes later and nearly ran into him.
"You disappeared into a toy store? Did you black out?"
Bucky ignored him. He was holding the bear now, turning it over in his hand like it was the most fragile thing in the world.
"She likes soft things," he said quietly.
And with that, he walked straight to the cashier.
Clint didn’t say a word. Just watched him go—eyebrows raised, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t comment, didn’t tease. Not this time.
Five minutes later, bear safely tucked into a small paper bag, Clint had dragged him into yet another clothing store.
Bucky hovered just inside the entrance, expression guarded, shoulders tense like the walls might close in at any second. Music blared overhead. A mannequin in sunglasses was aggressively modelling cargo shorts.
“Why are the lights so bright?” Bucky muttered.
Clint didn’t respond right away. Instead, he rolled a nearby rack closer and nudged it toward Bucky. “Start here,” he said simply.
“Find something that looks like you,” he said, wandering off toward a wall lined with hoodies and graphic tees. “I’ll be back.”
Ten minutes later, Clint emerged to see Bucky in a black leather jacket that somehow fit like it was made for him. Crisp at the seams, heavy, tailored to his frame. Perfect.
Clint let out a low whistle. “Okay, Barnes. Look at you.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”
“Nah,” Clint said, stepping back and taking it in. “You look solid. Like someone who owns a Harley and knows how to keep it running.”
He gave a nod, this time genuine. "We're definitely keeping it".
Then, without missing a beat, Clint held up a pair of joggers he’d snagged from a nearby rack, lifting them like sacred relics. “Okay, time to try these. They’re comfortable. They have pockets. What’s not to like?”
“They don’t have a belt,” Bucky said suspiciously. “How do they stay on?”
“They have a drawstring, Bucky. Welcome to the 21st century.”
Bucky took them with two fingers, like they might bite. “They look like sleepwear.”
“Exactly,” Clint said. “You can fight evil and nap in the same outfit. It’s called balance.”
He tossed a hoodie at Bucky’s chest before he could protest. “Go. Try them on".
Bucky groaned but stalked off toward the fitting rooms.
Clint waited. And waited.
Five minutes later, the curtain shifted. “I’m not coming out.”
“C’mon,” Clint called. “I didn’t brave three teen sales associates and a cologne cloud for nothing.”
“Clint.”
“Bucky.”
A beat. Then—
“...It feels too soft.”
Clint blinked. “That’s the point.”
There was a long pause.
Then the curtain finally slid open.
Bucky stepped out stiffly in a black hoodie and dark grey joggers. The fit was perfect. Relaxed. Comfortable.
Clint gave a slow nod. “Damn, Barnes. You almost look like a functioning adult.”
Bucky glanced at the mirror. He didn’t say anything, but his expression shifted—just slightly. Less guarded. Less ready to bolt.
Clint stepped forward, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to prove anything, man. Not here. Not anymore.”
Bucky’s jaw worked for a second before he muttered, “It’s just… weird. Wearing something that’s not built for combat.”
Clint gave a small shrug. “Yeah. But maybe now? You get to build a life that isn’t either.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away.
But he didn’t go back into the changing room either.
Bucky tugged once at the drawstring of the joggers, glancing at his reflection again. The hoodie was soft, the joggers moved easily, and—much to his frustration—it was all dangerously close to… comfortable. He gave a small, reluctant nod.
“…Fine. I don’t hate it.”
Clint grinned, victorious, and handed him a navy Henley along with jeans in three slightly different shades of black—their earlier compromise.
“Time to bust out the spring colours,” he said, nodding toward the Henley. “Go wild.”
The fitting room curtain rustled as Bucky stepped out again, tugging lightly at the sleeves of the navy Henley. The jeans—black, simple, and free of tactical webbing or reinforced seams—fit comfortably.
No armour, no gear, no buckles.
Just clothes. His clothes.
He caught Clint’s approving nod, but before he could roll his eyes, something at the corner of his vision made him pause.
Y/N.
She and Natasha were just outside the store, mid-conversation and both carrying an armful of shopping bags, when Natasha caught sight of him and tilted her head toward the entrance. Y/N looked over—
And Bucky felt something in his chest shift.
She was wearing light blue jeans and an oversized burnt-orange hoodie with small white flowers scattered across the fabric, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her sneakers looked broken-in and perfectly hers.
He saw her.
Alive. Free. Smiling.
Something about the way she moved—the quiet confidence, the comfort in her own clothes—hit him harder than it should have. She wasn’t trying to be anyone. Just moving through the world on her own terms.
And she still looked… beautiful.
It did something strange to his heart.
Her gaze flicked over him as she walked up—head to toe—and when her eyes met his, her expression softened into something warm and sincere.
“I like your shirt,” she said, voice gentle. “It matches your eyes.”
Bucky blinked.
For a second, all he could do was stare—caught off guard not by the compliment, but by how genuine it sounded.
A flush crept up his neck, then bloomed across his cheeks, full and unmistakable. It spread fast, turning the tips of his ears pink and settling across his face like he’d been hit with a heat lamp.
No words came out. He opened his mouth—then closed it again.
Clint’s eyes widened in delight.
Without missing a beat, he grabbed a red Henley off the rack beside him and tossed it at Bucky’s chest. “Now this one matches your face.”
Bucky caught it on reflex and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, turning even redder.
Y/N bit back a laugh.
Natasha just smirked. “Nice aim, Barton.”
Clint bowed. “Thank you. Years of training for this moment.”
Y/N hugged the sleeves of her hoodie, gave Bucky one more glance—and smiled. Small, shy, and just for him.
He didn’t say it out loud, but he’d remember that look for a long time.
A few minutes later, the food court buzzed with life—kids running around with sticky fingers, couples sharing oversized pretzels, and the scent of cinnamon sugar and fries thick in the air.
Bucky and Y/N weaved through the crowd behind Clint and Natasha, who were already heading toward the churro stand with an alarming sense of purpose.
“You two did good,” Clint called over his shoulder. “Didn’t bolt. Didn’t cause a scene. That means you get rewards.”
“Churros and milkshakes,” Nat added, voice dry but fond. “Because apparently, we’re bribing you like toddlers.”
“Mum and Dad energy is strong today,” Y/N murmured to Bucky.
“Clint’s definitely the embarrassing dad,” Bucky said under his breath. “Nat’s the scary mum who somehow always knows what you’re up to.”
Y/N grinned. “Guess that makes us the troublemakers they can’t leave unsupervised.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh at that, and they slipped into an empty booth near the edge of the food court—away from the chaos, but still close enough to see Clint trying to charm the churro vendor while Nat leaned on the counter, giving the churro vendor a look that said don’t mess this up.
They sat in companionable silence, the kind that always came easily between them.
Bucky shifted in his seat, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat.
He reached under the table, a little stiff, a little unsure, and pulled out a small bag he’d been carrying since the checkout line. Without quite looking at her, he held it out.
Y/N blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”
“Something I saw,” he said, voice low. "Thought you might like it".
He placed the bag in front of her, his gaze fixed on a point just past her shoulder. As if watching her open it might be too much.
Y/N opened the bag carefully, peering inside—then froze.
She reached in and pulled out a small plush teddy bear. Soft. Cinnamon-brown. Its fur was gently curled, and a pink ribbon was tied neatly around its neck.
Her breath caught.
“You got me a teddy bear,” she said, her voice caught somewhere between awe and softness.
Bucky’s hand flexed slightly against his knee, the tips of his ears flushing red. “It reminded me of you,” he mumbled.
She held it so carefully, like it meant more than she knew how to say.
And now, watching her cradle it like it was the most precious thing in the world—like she didn’t quite know how to process it—his chest tightened in the best kind of way.
Y/N stared at the bear for a long moment, her fingers brushing over the ribbon, then the soft fur. Her expression was unreadable at first—surprise, wonder, something just on the edge of disbelief.
Then it shifted.
She smiled.
Slow and full, the kind of smile that unfolded like sunlight. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “Thank you, Bucky.”
And there was something in her eyes when she said it—something real and unguarded. Like no one had ever done this for her before. Like receiving a gift just because was foreign, unexpected, overwhelming in the quietest way.
She tucked the bear gently into her lap, one hand resting protectively over its soft belly like she was afraid it might disappear.
Something twisted warm and slow in Bucky’s chest.
She looked... happy. Not the cautious kind. Not the polite kind.
The real kind.
And he’d done that.
He hadn't been sure about giving it to her. He'd told himself it was silly. But now, watching her like this, he knew he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Across the food court, Clint and Nat returned—arms full of churros and milkshakes, like proud parents returning from a successful mission.
Y/N looked up, still smiling, bear in her lap and her heart a little fuller than it had been ten minutes ago.
Bucky just looked down at the table, trying not to smile too obviously. Failing, just a little.
Today… they just felt like people, finding their way back to living.
--
A few days later, something new arrived.
Of course, it was Tony. And of course, he didn’t invite them—he scheduled them.
It began with an email.
Y/N was half-slouched on the compound couch, scrolling on her laptop in the common room, when the notification pinged.
TONY STARK:
Be ready at 7. Wear what's on your bed. Yes, it's fancy. No, it's not optional.
She rolled her eyes—until she stepped into her room and saw a dress laid out with surgical precision.
For a moment, all she could do was stare and think, This looks like something out of another life. One I never thought I’d touch.
She showered and put it on.
The dress was a deep wine red, unmistakably 1940s in style—fitted at the waist with a wrap-around bow that tied neatly at the side. The skirt flared just below the knees, full and flowing with every step. With short sleeves and a high neckline, it was classic, elegant, and quietly breathtaking.
She paired it with white sneakers—because heels weren’t her thing, and tonight was about being herself, not someone else’s idea of elegance.
Before stepping out, she caught her reflection one last time and thought, Comfort. Choice. Safety. Nat had been right. This felt like her.
She opened the door.
Bucky was already outside, adjusting the cuff of the suit Tony had sent him—a charcoal grey, classic 1940s cut. The kind of suit he might’ve worn to a dance before the war. The material was newer, cleaner, but the lines were the same. Familiar.
He’d paired it with his boots—the same ones he wore almost everywhere now. Because he wasn’t trying to be who he used to be. Just someone trying to stand still in his skin.
He looked up.
And froze for half a second when he saw her.
The dress—its cut, its colour, the way it moved—looked like it had stepped right out of his time. But it wasn’t the past staring back at him. It was her.
Modern. Unapologetic. Entirely herself.
And somehow, that made it even more beautiful.
Y/N’s breath caught when she saw him.
The suit was timeless—like something out of a photograph from a time she still remembered.
But it wasn’t just the suit.
It was him in it.
He’d kept his boots on—rough and worn against polished fabric—because that’s who he was now. A little past, a little present.
And somehow, that made the whole look even more striking.
He didn’t look like he was trying to fit in.
He looked like he belonged. Right here. Right now.
With her.
“You clean up nice,” Y/N said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Bucky glanced down at himself, then at her. “You look... incredible.”
Their smiles matched—lopsided, warm—as they made their way to the front door.
The limo was already waiting outside, engine purring. The back door swung open before they reached it.
Tony leaned out, sunglasses on, grin wide.
“Well, don’t you two look like a vintage magazine cover,” he said. “Now get in before they give our table to someone with less style.”
They arrived at the rooftop restaurant in soft golden light—the kind of place with linen tablecloths, sweeping city views, and warm, flickering bulbs Tony insisted weren’t romantic, just “high-efficiency ambiance.”
The city buzzed below like distant music, and their own conversations had been surprisingly calm. Elegant, even.
Then came the menu.
Y/N tilted hers sideways. "Is this in a foreign language?"
"It's French," Tony said, already halfway through the wine list. "So yes".
Bucky squinted at his options like they were encoded. “What’s... bouillabaisse?”
“Fish stew,” Tony replied. “But make it twelve syllables and $40.”
They ended up ordering oysters for appetisers—because Tony said “trust the experience,” and Bucky said “fine.”
When the tray arrived, Bucky stared.
“These are raw.”
“They’re a delicacy,” Tony gestured to the cutlery. "Just use the little fork—"
Bucky reached for one, trying to follow the instructions—
WHAP.
One rogue oyster slipped, launched off Bucky’s plate, and smacked Tony square in the forehead, before landing with an elegant plop in his wine glass.
Tony wiped the shellfish goo from his face. "Should've let you crack it open with your vibranium can opener. That's on me".
Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
She failed. Miserably.
Tony lifted his glass, oyster still bobbing in his wine. “To civilian life and and food that costs more than my first car".
They clinked glasses, and the dinner rolled on—dish after dish Tony insisted they "just had to try."
Y/N was seated between Bucky and Tony at the long table, her eyes lit from laughter and too many sips of sparkling lemonade. Bucky wasn’t exactly chatty, but he chimed in here and there—dry comments, well-timed smirks, the kind that made Y/N grin behind her glass and Tony look almost proud.
At one point, Tony leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink.
“You know,” he said, glancing between the two of them, “you’re both starting to look dangerously well-adjusted. It's making me nervous.”
Y/N smirked. “Coming from the guy who owns three suits of armour and a giant bunny suit?”
Tony pointed at her. “Hey, emotional growth comes in many forms. Some of them are metal. Some are plush.”
Bucky shook his head. “You need a new hobby.”
Tony sipped his drink. “I had one. Then I met all of you.”
They all laughed—genuinely, easily.
Then Tony’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen and stood. "Two seconds. That's Pepper's assistant, which means I'm either in trouble or about to get voluntold into something charitable."
He stepped away toward the balcony.
A waiter arrived, placing a plate in front of each of them. Molten lava cake.
Y/N's eyes widened.
"Oh my god," she whispered, visibly delighted. "It's tiny and fancy and filled with chocolate death. I'm ready."
Bucky chuckled as she lifted her fork.
She stabbed into the center a bit too excitedly—forgetting she was literally a super soldier.
The cake exploded.
A burst of chocolate launched from the middle, hitting her square in the chest, splattering across her collarbone, and smearing a line up her cheek.
She froze.
Bucky blinked, half in awe.
Y/N looked down at herself.
Then whispered, "No."
"Y/N—"
"No no no no no."
She wiped at her dress with her napkin, only making the mess worse. Her face fell—brows furrowing, shoulders stiffening.
"God, I'm such an idiot," she muttered, trying to rub the chocolate off her neckline. "I ruined everything—why did I even—"
"Hey," Bucky said gently.
She didn't stop.
"I can't even eat cake without turning it into a crime scene."
"Y/N."
"I mean, seriously, who breaks pastry?"
"Y/N." He said it again, quieter.
She finally looked at him.
There was chocolate on her cheek. Her lip was trembling in that way she always tried to hide—like being upset was a burden.
Bucky picked up a napkin and leaned in, slowly wiping the smear from her face with the same care he'd use bandaging a wound.
"There," he said, voice low. "Still you."
Her dress, though—chocolate still spread across the fabric. She looked down at it like it had personally betrayed her.
He could see it: the tension behind her eyes. She was holding it in. Pushing it down. For everyone else's sake.
So he shrugged off his jacket and gently placed it over her shoulders.
"You don't have to be perfect," he said. "Not with me."
She blinked fast, eyes a little too shiny.
"I just wish I wasn't so clumsy".
"That's okay" he said.
Then—without a word—he reached down, dipped his thumb into the chocolate mess on her plate, and casually smudged it right across his crisp white shirt.
Y/N gasped. "Bucky—!"
"I'm clumsy too," he said flatly. "Look at us. Couple of chocolate disasters."
"But that's your shirt!"
"And this—" he pushed his own plate of untouched chocolate lava cake toward her, "—is your second chance."
She opened her mouth to protest. He cut a piece before she could.
"Let me."
He lifted the fork to her lips and she let him, biting into it carefully.
Somehow, chocolate got on her cheek again. She started to reach for the napkin, but Bucky beat her to it, brushing it away gently with his thumb, fingers lingering just a second too long.
And that's when it hit him.
Not the amusement. Not the instinct to care.
But the want.
Not to kiss her.
But to love her.
To be the reason she didn't have to hold everything in anymore.
To be the one who made her laugh when lava cake betrayed her, and made her feel safe when her own mind turned against her.
-
Tony stood on the balcony, phone still against his ear.
"...Tony? Tony are you there?"
He didn't answer.
Just stared, eyes wide, jaw slightly dropped —watching it all unfold through the glass.
"Did you just... forget how to speak?" came Pepper's voice.
Still, no response.
Tony blinked slowly and muttered to no one in particular—
"...I'm gonna need to upgrade my emotional firewall."
--
The next wave of chaos arrived a few days later—wearing sunglasses and carrying tote bags.
Sam had shown up at their doors on a Sunday just after 10 a.m., radiating the energy of a cool uncle taking the kids out.
“We’re going to the farmer’s market,” he announced. “You two need sun, air, and overpriced organic produce. Let’s move.”
The market was bustling—vibrant stalls, live jazz, and at least three different people aggressively offering samples of fermented beet juice.
Sam had dragged them there for what he called “normal people fun,” which, somehow, had spiralled into a heated debate over plums.
He picked one up, held it to the light like he was appraising a gemstone, and nodded solemnly.
“Now this is a plum. Perfect weight. Glossy skin. Slight give. You’re welcome.”
Bucky scoffed. “You just picked the first one you touched.”
“I selected it, Barnes. With instinct. With experience. I know plums.”
“You think you know plums,” Bucky said, reaching for another. “But that one’s overripe. It’s halfway to jam.”
“Oh, and you’re some kind of plum sommelier now?”
“I’ve eaten more plums than you’ve had hot dinners.”
Sam raised a brow. “That’s... sad. But also, false. I grew up around produce stands.”
Bucky held up his own selection. “This. This is the one.”
Sam shook his head. “That’s a panic plum. The kind someone grabs at closing time. Amateur move.”
As their Very Serious Plum Debate intensified, Y/N had quietly wandered a few stalls over, lured by something soft and oddly... fluffy.
There, nestled between a basket of lavender sachets and some handmade soaps, was a round, grey-and-white wolf plushie—soft as a cloud, with tiny embroidered paws and the most judgmental sleepy eyes she'd ever seen.
She grinned.
Without hesitation, she bought it.
Meanwhile, five minutes later—
Bucky turned from the plums. "Where's Y/N?"
Sam glanced around. "She was just... huh."
Bucky's brows immediately drew together. "She wouldn't just leave."
"She probably got distracted by—"
"She never just walks off without saying something."
There was an edge to his voice now. His eyes scanning the crowd, body tense.
Sam held up a hand, trying to keep things steady. “Hey—hey, we’ll find her. It’s a busy market, not a mission.”
But he saw it then—the flicker of real fear in Bucky’s eyes, sharp and buried just beneath the surface.
He softened his tone. “Alright. We’ll split up. I’ll head toward the food stalls—you check the side booths.”
Bucky was already walking off. Fast.
He found her two streets down.
Just walking. Calm. Hugging something comically large and grey and squishy to her chest.
He didn't think.
He just ran.
"Y/N!"
She turned—surprised—and barely had a moment to react before Bucky was there, arms wrapping tight around her like he was afraid she'd vanish again.
And then—"Wait—what is this giant squishy thing between us stopping me from hugging you properly?!"
Y/N laughed, cheeks pink. She held up the wolf plushie.
"This is what stopped your dramatic rescue hug."
Bucky blinked. "...Is that a... wolf?"
"Mmhmm." She pressed it into his arms. "Saw it and thought of you."
She gave a lopsided grin. "Because you're stronger than you think. And you don't need a pack to be brave. But you deserve one anyway."
He stared. At the plush. At her. Back at the plush.
"This is the softest thing I've ever touched in my life," he whispered.
Y/N smiled, gentler now. "Wolves are strong. Loyal. Protective. A little misunderstood. I figured... maybe it's time you had something soft too."
He didn't say anything. Just hugged it to his chest, completely and utterly gone.
Then quietly—"I love it."
His voice was almost small. Vulnerable.
Then—
"I'm naming him... I don't know. Wolfie."
Y/N giggled. "Strong choice."
Sam finally caught up and immediately stopped in his tracks at the sight of Bucky—super soldier, 100-year-old ex-assassin—cradling a plushie like it was made of gold.
"Oh my God," Sam breathed. "You're a walking Build-A-Bear commercial."
Bucky shot him a look. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying—'Winter Soldier and Son' has a nice ring to it."
"Say that again and Wolfie bites."
Sam snorted, but he was smiling too. "You're soft, Barnes. It's disgusting."
"Damn right I am."
And then—without thinking, without saying a word—Bucky reached out and took Y/N's hand in his free one.
Just casual. Just... natural.
Y/N blinked down at their joined hands.
Bucky didn't notice. Or pretended not to.
Sam noticed. Sam definitely noticed.
And as they strolled down the aisle of stalls together—one hand holding Wolfie, the other holding Y/N—Sam trailed behind with a grin, muttering, “You big softies.”
-
That night, the Compound was quiet.
Y/N was heading back to her room when she noticed the light spilling from under Bucky’s half-open door.
She paused.
She should've kept walking. Really. She meant to.
But then she heard it. A soft voice. His voice. Quiet. Gentle in a way she hadn't heard before.
So she peeked.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Bucky was in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. His room was dim, lamp casting a warm amber glow.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed.
Holding Wolfie.
The ridiculously round, grey, floppy wolf plushie Y/N had given him earlier that day.
But he wasn't just holding it. He was...
tucking it into bed.
Like, genuinely pulling the blanket over the plush wolf's body, smoothing it out. Carefully. Gently. As if Wolfie was something fragile. Something important.
Then came the real kicker.
"Alright, bud," Bucky murmured, patting its tiny plush head with his metal hand. "You're in charge tonight. Keep the nightmares away, yeah?"
Y/N's hand clutched the doorframe. Her heart clenched in the softest ache.
He trusted it. Trusted her, really. Enough to let this part of himself exist.
She was smiling without realising it, warmth blooming in her chest like dawn.
Then—too late—his head lifted.
Their eyes met.
She froze.
He froze.
The tension lasted approximately three seconds before Bucky's face turned the colour of a ripe tomato.
"I—uh—he was cold," Bucky blurted.
Y/N stepped in, hands up in mock surrender, eyes sparkling. "Hey. No judgment. You're clearly an amazing father."
Bucky groaned, falling back into his pillow. "I'm never living this down."
She walked up to the bed, sat beside the plush wolf, and gave it a little high-five.
"You picked a good guardian."
Bucky peeked at her from under his arm. "You're not gonna tell the team?"
"Never," she said, reaching for the corner of the blanket to help smooth it over Wolfie's stubby leg. "This one's just for me."
He watched her, smile tugging at his lips. Something soft lingered between them.
Then she stood up and headed for the door, pausing in the doorway.
"Goodnight, Bucky."
He held her gaze, something unspoken resting behind his eyes.
"Goodnight, Y/N."
--
The next day, Bruce started acting suspicious.
Too many soft smiles. Too many “don’t worry about it”s. The last time he looked that pleased with himself, Tony had accidentally invented a sentient espresso machine.
So when he led Y/N and Bucky out into the compound garden, hands behind his back, Y/N half-expected robots—or at least something that beeped.
What she got was better.
Puppies.
At least a dozen of them—bounding across the grass, tiny tails wagging, ears flopping, a chaos of soft fur and sharp little barks. Someone had set up shade tents and water bowls, and a volunteer stood nearby with a clipboard that read “Therapy Dog Socialisation – Please Cuddle Generously.”
Bruce smiled, sheepish.
“I figured… you both could use a little emotional support. So I called in a favour from the program downtown.”
With a small nod and a softer smile, he turned and quietly headed back inside.
Y/N didn’t wait. She was already in the grass, giggling as two puppies climbed onto her stomach and one curled up under her arm. Her entire face glowed like it was the best day of her life.
Bucky, on the other hand, stayed back.
He stood stiff at the edge of the garden, hands in his pockets, his face carefully blank—but his eyes never left her.
He was watching her. The way she laughed—completely unguarded—as one of the pups tried to climb her shoulder. The way she scooped up another and kissed its head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And something in his chest pulled tight.
She didn’t even know what she did to people. How the light caught in her hair, how her laugh made things feel safe.
How she moved through the world carrying shadows she didn’t talk about—still choosing to smile anyway.
It mesmerised him. Every time.
The strength it took to fight through the dark and still smile in the light…
He’d never seen anything like it.
And God, he wanted to protect it.
Not just her. But that—that smile. That softness. That spark.
Because he knew what it cost her to hold onto it—
and he wanted to be someone who gave softness back to the woman who gave it so freely to everyone but herself.
To make sure she never felt alone in a quiet room again.
To be steady when her hands trembled.
To keep her laughing.
To love her in the quiet, careful way she’d always deserved.
And somewhere in all of it, he realised—he was already falling.
Steady as breath. Just as vital.
He didn’t know how to say any of it.
So he just stood there—watching her like she was everything.
And then, the world reminded him it was still moving.
Something bumped his boot.
He looked down.
A tiny golden retriever puppy was gnawing at his laces with all the determination of a creature who had never once failed in life.
Bucky blinked.
“Are you... lost?” he asked the puppy, baffled.
The puppy let go of the lace, gave an enormous yawn, and sat down like it had just completed a great mission.
He bent down, carefully scooped the puppy up like it might detonate, and turned to walk toward Y/N.
But the puppy curled into his chest immediately—let out one sigh and conked out cold.
He froze. “It… fell asleep.”
Y/N beamed. “That’s because it trusts you.”
He didn’t know what to do with that.
So she helped.
She gently placed another puppy on his shoulder. Then another. One climbed into the crook of his arm. A fourth settled near his boot.
Slowly—almost without realizing—he sank into the grass, back against the tree, arms full of fluffy chaos.
His head tilted toward hers, like he still couldn’t believe this was allowed.
Y/N looked at him.
Really looked.
At his careful hands. The softness in his eyes. The way he kept absently rubbing slow circles over the back of the first puppy’s fur, like he’d forgotten how to stop being gentle.
There was something almost tender in the way he breathed.
Like peace wasn’t something he reached for—just something that had finally found him.
She couldn’t stop watching.
It wasn’t just that he looked soft.
It was that she knew how hard he’d fought to get here.
All the parts of him that didn’t rest easy. The shadows he never talked about. The way he sometimes flinched from comfort like it might break him.
And still—here he was. Letting go, just a little. Sitting in the grass, with these little bundles of joy, and letting it happen.
Her chest ached—not with fear or confusion, but with something blooming and inevitable.
She didn’t just like the part of him that smiled.
She liked the part that didn’t know how.
The part that tried anyway.
And maybe, without even meaning to, she’d started falling in love with all of it.
Bucky glanced at her, then carefully shifted the one sleeping puppy in his lap—and reached for her.
Without a word, he pulled her gently into his lap, her back resting against his chest. One arm wrapped around her waist. The other still held the tiny retriever, snuggled soundly against him.
The puppy Y/N had been holding stirred, lifted its head, and began licking Bucky’s cheek with sleepy enthusiasm.
He scrunched his nose. She burst into a quiet giggle.
And then they were laughing together, soft and breathless, eyes meeting in a moment so close it could have tipped into something more—if either of them had dared.
But for now, they just stayed there.
Wrapped in warmth. Covered in puppies. Hearts inching closer, unaware they were falling in perfect sync.
Just two old souls, falling in love—one plushie, one plum, and one puppy at a time.
