So, you may have noticed, or maybe you haven't, that's fine too, that I haven't been on here very much, especially when it comes to writing, for the last three or so years. And I want to provide a little bit of clarity on the reasons why and also to talk a bit about my intentions/hopes for the future of this blog. So, that's what this post is for. If you read it, thank you for taking the time to do so and thank you for supporting my writing at any point in the past and (hopefully) in the future.
I'm gonna put it beneath a read more because it got really long.
So, the last time I posted fics on here consistently was over the summer of 2023, into around October. And then I popped back in for a one off fic in March of last year. To be completely honest, my grandfather died in the early spring of 2023. I was in my second to last semester of college, it was unexpected, it kind of turned my world on its head. And then I kind of just shifted my focus to getting through the last two semesters of college, any of the fics that went up from March-August were already written before he died. Hence why they were able to be uploaded in a consistent fashion.
The last three years have been an interesting time of just feeling very stuck in my life, like I haven't been moving forward or growing or changing. Like I've just been stuck as one version of myself, even though I want to be able to be a different version. I graduated college, tried a career path that didn't work at, and have been trying to find enjoyment in the good moments my life has put in front of me.
Then, in an unexpected turn of events, three family members died in the last few months of 2025. One of those people was my grandmother.
So, all of this to say there's been a lot going on these past few years. And, as a result, I haven't been here. I haven't really been able to write at all. And it's not for a lack of time, or even a lack of ideas. I've got like 20 draft fic posts on here, but they don't actually have anything written in them. Because my brain just won't let me. Which has really sucked because writing helps me process my thoughts and feelings. And maybe I'd feel a bit less stuck if writing was something I could've managed to do in these last few years.
But I'm really hoping that's going to change soon. Because this year feels different. I've gotten into new interests, am starting to pursue new hobbies, I've had a lot of stuff to look forward to this year. And I'm really giving being optimistic, within my personal life, a try this year. Which is very unlike me. But I'm hoping it'll all be for the better, and that I'll be able to post on here a little bit this year. Because I really want to, I have a lot of ideas that I'm excited about. Some of them have been collecting dust for the entirety of the last three years. And I think they deserve better than that.
I've watched a lot of new shows and found a lot of new characters to obsess over since we last interacted with each other. And I'm really hoping to share them with you guys in the near future. I'm not making any promises, because then I'll just feel guilty. But I'm feeling very hopeful about it. And that's better than I've felt about my writing in the last few years.
So, if you read all of that, I commend you. Because I really need to learn how to shut up and keep it brief. But I don't see that happening any time soon. Also, this is the most personal I've probably ever gotten on this blog. And I am super nervous about it, because I'm not big on sharing about my personal life. But I wanted to be honest, and I didn't want you guys to think I just disappeared.
Anyways, here's to hopefully at least one fic from me in 2026 (i'd really love if there were more than one and i'm really gonna try this year). And, hopefully, you guys will be willing to stick around a little longer for me. I hope you're well, and I hope you have a really great year.
@jade-efflorescence @amarveloustune @torturedpoetsalchemy @lingering-sunrise @khrismiddletons @if-this-was-a-movie @m1dn1ghts1nger and whoever else wants to do it!
You're similar to Bucky. It's why the two of you are good friends. You both appreciate dimly lit bars, prolonged silences, and violence being the answer to most problems. The sex isn't half-bad, either.
She's the complete opposite of you. Sunshine personified. She bakes, wears colorful dresses, and is never in a bad mood. But it seems like she might be exactly what Bucky wants, and needs.
Content Warning: FWB!Bucky x Avenger!F!Reader, mature themes, smut, angst, unrequited feelings, jealous!reader, insecurity, pining, nightmares, trauma, PTSD, i started writing this before watching thunderbolts so this is a good old-fashioned Avengers tower fic.
word count: 14k
"We head out in the morning," He tells you, his voice at a low hum. "Gonna be my longest mission in a while."
You turn your head to face him, raising a brow as your finger runs around the rim of your beer bottle. "Are you trying to bait me into saying I'm gonna miss you, Sergeant?" You ask him, pulling a smirk from his lips.
"I know better than that, gunner," He replies before taking a long sip of beer. "Just letting you know ahead of time, so you can prepare for the cold, lonely nights ahead."
"Steve's not going, is he?" You question coyly, holding back your laugh.
All you get in response is an eye roll.
You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.
"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."
"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"
"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.
"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"
Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."
"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."
Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.
His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.
And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.
"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.
"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.
"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.
You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.
"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.
The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.
"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."
With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.
"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"
"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?
His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.
Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.
You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.
It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.
Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.
Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."
While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.
Sergeant Barnes
Just landed in Croatia.
It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks
Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.
"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.
Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."
"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."
Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.
"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."
"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.
You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"
"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."
With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.
"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.
"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.
The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.
When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.
"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.
"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"
"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"
"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."
"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."
"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.
"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."
"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.
"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.
"Is she hot?" He asks.
You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."
"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.
"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."
"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.
"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.
"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.
"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."
"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.
"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."
"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."
As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.
"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."
"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.
"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.
"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.
You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."
"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"
"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.
"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."
"Sergeant Barnes!"
"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.
"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.
"Jealous, are we?"
There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.
"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."
"I don't even know what she looks-"
"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"
There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."
You sigh. "Yes, what?"
Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."
"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."
"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.
"Good night, you little shit."
Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.
While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.
"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.
"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.
Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.
"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."
With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?
Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?
"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"
Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.
When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.
"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."
"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.
"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.
"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.
"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.
"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"
"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.
"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"
While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.
"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."
"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.
"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."
"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.
Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"
"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.
Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."
"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.
"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.
A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"
"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.
"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."
"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.
"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.
"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."
He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.
Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.
You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?
You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.
This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?
"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."
You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.
"You're naked," You utter.
"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"
"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."
He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.
"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"
Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.
He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.
Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.
"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.
His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.
"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.
He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.
"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.
"It was alright," You answer with a grin.
"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"
"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."
"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."
"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"
Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.
"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"
"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."
He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"
You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.
As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.
"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.
You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."
He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.
Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.
"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.
"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.
Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.
One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).
"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."
You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.
He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.
"Bucky," You whimper.
"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.
"I'm- I'm gonna-"
All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.
The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.
"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."
You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.
"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.
"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."
"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.
"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."
"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.
"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."
She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."
"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."
Bucky hides his snort with a cough.
"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."
"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."
She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."
You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.
"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."
You say nothing, your fingers twitching.
"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"
"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.
A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.
"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"
A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."
"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"
"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."
"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.
"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."
Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."
"Will that be all?" You ask.
Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"
"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."
"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."
You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.
"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"
"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.
He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"
As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.
"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."
"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.
Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.
"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."
"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"
"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.
"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"
A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."
Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.
"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"
"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.
You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.
Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.
Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.
"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.
"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.
"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.
"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.
"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."
With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.
You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.
"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.
"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.
"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.
He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.
His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.
"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"
"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."
"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."
A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."
"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.
"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Yep."
"And is probably a great kisser."
"Mhm."
"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."
You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.
"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.
This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.
"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.
Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"
Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.
"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."
"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.
"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."
"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."
He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.
He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.
That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.
"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."
With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.
"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.
Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.
The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."
You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"
He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.
"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"
You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.
"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"
"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."
With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.
"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."
"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."
Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.
"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.
From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."
Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.
"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."
"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.
"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"
The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.
"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."
"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.
"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."
"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."
You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.
"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."
You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.
"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."
Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."
He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.
Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.
You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."
With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.
Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.
Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.
When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.
His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.
With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.
He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.
"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."
"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.
"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."
"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.
"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."
Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?
"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."
Pop? That bastard.
Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.
This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
So why aren't you waking up?
You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.
And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.
And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.
But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.
You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.
The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.
You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.
"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."
They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.
But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.
"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.
Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.
And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.
It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.
No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.
"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.
"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.
He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."
"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."
"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."
With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.
"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."
"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.
"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"
"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.
Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.
"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."
You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.
"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."
"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.
"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.
You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"
"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."
As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.
"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"
"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.
He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.
You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.
"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."
"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."
"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."
"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."
"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."
She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.
"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.
And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.
"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."
"Right," She utters.
"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.
"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.
"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"
She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."
Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.
She's the complete opposite of you.
Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.
Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.
And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.
She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-
"Hi."
Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.
"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.
You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.
So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.
It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.
She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?
"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.
You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.
"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.
"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.
"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."
"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" She pushes.
"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."
"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"
"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."
"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.
You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."
"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.
After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.
"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.
"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.
"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.
Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.
"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.
"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.
You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.
"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.
"I don't know," You answer dumbly.
"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"
A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.
"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.
"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."
A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.
Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.
Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.
"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.
"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.
"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.
"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.
Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.
With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.
His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.
"Neither do I," You return.
"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.
"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.
"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."
"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.
He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"
A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.
Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.
"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.
"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."
You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"
"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"
You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."
His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."
"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.
"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.
With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.
"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."
"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"
You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.
Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.
The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.
"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.
"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.
"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."
He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"
"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."
"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.
"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."
"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"
"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."
He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.
"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."
You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."
He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.
"All too well," You whisper.
"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."
"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."
"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."
You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"
"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."
You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."
A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."
You smile back at him.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."
"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."
Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."
"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."
"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.
You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.
"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"
You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."
a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3
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pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader
summary: clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you.
word count: 5.7k
warnings: 18+ mdni, coworkers/friends to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex (office), hair pulling! (m!receiving), wall sex, mutual pining, so much yearning, light angst, happy ending, clark losing it over an injustice, them christening every corner of the daily planet, this man lives to go down on u idc idc
In the twelve months you’ve known Clark Kent, you’ve counted exactly zero swear words.
Not one.
Not when the printer jammed five minutes before deadline. Not when a senator’s aide ‘accidentally’ dumped her $14 latte over his notes. Not even when a rat the size of a chihuahua moved into the break room and stared him down like it paid rent.
Three hundred and ninety-something days. Zero expletives. You’ve been tracking it like a long-term assignment.
The working headline? The Unshakable Composure of Clark Kent.
It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.
But over time, it became something else.
A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldn’t stop writing in your head:
Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter.
Height: 6’4” (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure).
Known aliases: None.
Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every intern’s fundraiser and forgets to take them home.)
Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says ‘good gosh’ and ‘heck’ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.)
Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that you’ve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)
And through a year’s worth of careful observations—of eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%—the man has yet to let so much as a ‘damn’ slip past his lips.
And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft you’ve outlined in your head:
“Clark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with ‘Thanks so much!’ even when they absolutely should not be.
He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.”
And that, you’ve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.
But tonight—
Tonight blows the whole story wide open.
Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screen—and he is absolutely vibrating with fury.
He’s leaning back against a desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jaw’s locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest it’s like he’s physically holding himself back.
And he hasn’t looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:
We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.
No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.
Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:
Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than you’ll ever have.
You’re still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.
But Clark?
Clark is something else entirely.
He’s past fury. Past protest.
Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaks—not out in the world, but inside him.
You’ve seen it before, in fragments.
When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.
When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.
When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didn’t ask if it was tied to your reporting—just asked which story.
When Clark gets truly upset, he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t storm around or slam doors.
He goes still.
Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.
You’ve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.
Tonight makes five.
And this time, it’s for you.
You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo might’ve changed since the last time you read it.
It hasn’t.
The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like it’s buffering.
Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.
Because your article—your article—
The triple-sourced, fact-checked into oblivion, airtight exposé Perry promised would front the Sunday edition—
Pulled.
Not bumped. Not buried on page ten.
Gone.
And it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.
Because it wasn’t just a story. It was a truth someone didn’t want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.
It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.
Now, it’s nothing.
Scraped like gum from the bottom of someone’s shoe.
But what wrecks you—what truly undoes you—isn’t the memo.
It’s him.
Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.
And it’s unbearable. Not because he’s angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. It’s a spotlight on everything you’ve been trying not to feel.
And the fact that it means this much to Clark—it's excruciating.
When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.
“This is such complete—”
He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.
You blink. “Were you about to swear?”
His laugh is barely a breath. “No. I was about to flip this place upside down.”
You snort softly. “Well, that’s healthy.”
He looks up at that.
And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if you’ve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, which—you have.
The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.
They’re still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.
Grief. Fragility.
Recognition.
Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.
The kind of knowing that can’t be taught, only earned—through late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.
He knows you.
Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a lead—obsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.
Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.
And how badly it broke you when you failed.
And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.
He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
And it shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didn’t know how to end until just now.
Because he means it. Really means it.
Not just for the story—for you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.
You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if that’ll erase the memo from existence.
“Should’ve pitched a fluff piece,” you mutter. “Stuff that matters. ‘Puppies of Metropolis.’ Or, I don’t know. ‘Ten Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.’”
Clark frowns. “Your story mattered.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. “It’s just a job.”
“No.” His voice sharpens, solidifying. “It’s not just a job.”
And the way he says it—
God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.
So you do what you always do when it gets too real:
You deflect.
“What’re you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?”
It’s a joke. A dumb one. You’re not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.
But something flickers in his expression.
His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrow—not in anger now, but in purpose.
And you’ve seen this look before, too.
In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.
Decision.
Steel-willed and absolute. Like he’s already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.
“Give me the files.”
You blink. “What?”
“Your article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Just—trust me.”
“Clark, I—”
“I’ll make sure it gets out.”
You stare at him.
This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders don’t get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.
But there’s something in his eyes that stops you cold.
Because what’s there isn’t hope—it’s certainty.
Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.
And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.
You nod. “Okay.”
He nods back, steady as anything. “Good.”
You turn—toward your desk, your files, this impossible thing you’re now apparently doing together—but he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.
“Hey.”
You look back.
And that’s when it hits you again.
That thing.
That not-quite-hidden headline that’s been quietly building in the margins between you for months.
The Look.
The I’d burn down the sky for you look.
The I’d rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.
The this isn’t just friendship and we both know it look.
His eyes are warm. Devastating.
“I know it hurts now,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, “but this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.”
It cracks something wide open in you.
You’ve held it together for hours—through the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it all—but this? This is the last thread.
And before you can stop yourself—
You kiss him.
Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thing—full of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.
Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.
And then you pull back like you've been burned.
“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m sorry—”
But Clark—
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stammer or reassure.
He just looks at you.
Steady. Intense. Certain.
Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.
And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.
You thought he’d be gentle.
Because he always is.
But this?
This is not gentle.
This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.
His kiss is all heat and purpose—no backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.
Just immediate, all-consuming want.
And you’re gone. Instantly.
Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.
Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like he’s built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.
His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.
And then you hear it—
A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.
It destroys you.
Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.
Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.
Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.
No, this Clark—the one kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting months to be allowed this close, like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth—
He’s new. Terrifying. Addictive.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.
“Clark,” you whisper, breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”
“I know.” His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t not anymore.”
And then he’s kissing you again.
Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.
You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.
His hands roam everywhere—your waist, your back, your jaw—like something broke loose in him and there’s no putting it back.
When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because he’s there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your head—like even now he doesn’t know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he can’t shake.
Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.
“We’re still at work,” you manage to gasp.
It’s not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.
“I’ll stop,” he murmurs.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let go.
Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like he’s studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, it’s just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.
You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anyway—rough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.
And something inside him snaps.
His hands slide to your hips, lifting you—gentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everything—and suddenly you’re perched on the edge of your desk.
His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “If this isn’t what you want, please. Tell me.”
Your pulse stutters.
He’s wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And still—still—beneath all that, he’s endlessly soft.
This is Clark Kent at his core—steadfast and true.
The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’
You take his hand.
Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where you’re already soaked.
“Does this feel like I want you to stop?”
His breath catches. His fingers twitch—then freeze.
Like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been holding this want in both hands for months and doesn’t know how to set it free.
But then you lean in, forehead to his.
"Clark."
And that’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.
Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like he’s holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, it’s slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice blown wide open. “You’re…”
His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.
“...you’re gonna kill me.”
“You’re telling me.” You gasp, already trembling.
He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined—but it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.
Just like that.
No pretense. No buildup. Just down.
And something in you stutters.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But he’s already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.
And then his mouth—
His mouth—
Fuck the plan. No time to think.
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthy—it knocks the breath clean from your lungs.
Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.
His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.
And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.
Bastard.
“Clark—please—”
He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.
And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.
His hair’s a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm it’s almost too much to bear.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. “Don’t hold back.”
Then he’s gone again.
No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.
His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.
You’re shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.
And Clark—sweet, perfect, fucking Clark—just keeps going.
When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just right—your back lifts clean off the table.
“Clark— Jesus, I’m gonna—”
You barely get the words out before you break.
Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry out—sharp, wild, unrestrained—coming hard and helpless in his mouth.
And he doesn’t stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.
Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.
Careful, reluctant. Like he’d stay there forever, if you let him.
And when he rises, he looks—
Destroyed.
Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.
Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.
And god help you, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.
He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.
Your hands fumble for his belt—still burning, still aching—but he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.
Still the same Clark underneath it all.
“Not here,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Not like this.”
You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.
“Why not?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Because when I finally have you,” he says softly, “I want to take my time. I want to see you.”
And the way he says it—like it’s something sacred, like you’re something sacred—knocks the breath from your lungs.
“…okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Uhm, your place or mine?”
He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.
“Yours. You’ve got better snacks.”
You laugh—really laugh—and something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe.
He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple.
The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isn’t clawing for your attention.
You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark window—swollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeks—and something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.
When you turn back, Clark’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his world.
“You okay?” he asks, soft.
You nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah, it's just… kind of unexpected.”
He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But there’s something nervous in it too.
“Unexpected... bad?”
You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.
Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.
“No, just—”
But you pause. Because now there’s room to really look at him.
The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way he’s watching you—like he’s terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.
Like he knows every jagged, weary part you’ve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.
His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.
Your chest goes soft.
“No,” you say quietly, eyes locked on his. “Unexpected perfect.”
Clark’s lashes flutter. And then—
He smiles.
Not the polite, mayor’s-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.
No. This one is his.
Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.
And when he leans in again—slower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when it’s just the two of you—
You meet him halfway.
Three days later, your article is everywhere.
Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.
Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.
The byline? Yours.
The exposé—your exposé—is splashed across every feed, pinging inboxes faster than the spin doctors can catch it. Reporters are quoting it, politicians are dodging it, and suddenly, you’re the name in the room. The one who broke it wide open.
When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.
Even Perry White, who doesn’t do applause—who curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him money—walks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:
“Hell of a story, kid.”
You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees aren’t full of helium.
You don’t ask how it happened. You don’t have to.
Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like it’s just another Friday, is Clark Kent.
He doesn’t look up at first. Doesn’t need to.
But when he does—when his eyes find yours—he gives you that look.
That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when he’s sure of something.
It hits you dead center.
You mouth: Thank you.
He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.
And when you move past him—headed for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normal—he reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.
Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.
You stop. Turn.
Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.
You lean down, all slow and casual, like you’re just checking his screen—then murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:
“Stairwell. Five minutes.”
Clark drops his pen.
You smirk.
His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.
You shove him hard—no grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up need— and he barely grunts before you’re on him, kissing like it’s a fight, like you’re trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.
It’s more violence than a kiss—teeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours.
“What is—fuck—what is wrong with you?” You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. “Whose balls did you have to bust to—get that—” Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. “You said it’d take longer. You can’t just—drop this on me—”
He’s laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.
“I cashed in a favor,” he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kent—”
You yank back just far enough to glare at him.
His hair’s a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.
He looks completely undone. Glowing with it.
Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends it’s ordinary.
Something behind your ribs gives way.
Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.
You blink hard, trying to look away.
But he sees it.
He always sees it.
His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.
“You did all the work,” he says, voice rough with truth. “I just helped the story get where it needed to go.”
You blink back at him.
This man.
This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didn’t turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.
Like the truth was always going to find the light—he’d just hold the sky steady until morning came.
You want to say something. Anything.
But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you can’t name.
So you do the only thing you can.
You grab his collar and kiss him.
Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.
He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.
Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency—and when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefs—
Jesus.
He’s already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.
He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him—slow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.
He’s stunning like this—glasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.
“Fuck, please—"
“Language, Smallville.” You grin.
He laughs—just barely—but it turns into a moan when you squeeze.
“Unfair,” he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. “You’re being so unfair.”
“You broke embargo,” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “I’m just collecting interest.”
Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.
“Clark! You can’t—”
“Sorry, sorry!”
Three days ago, you didn’t know what Clark Kent sounded like when he’s desperate.
Now, it lives under your skin.
You used to think he’d be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.
He’s not.
He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.
And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.
And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pull—he shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.
"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."
He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.
“Not a chance. And it’s really not fair how well you know me already.”
“Three days,” you murmur, lips brushing his. “Eleven orgasms. I’ve had time to study.”
“Twelve,” he rasps. “You forgot the shower this morning.”
You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “Oh god, the shower.”
“I like you wet,” he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got you up against tile.”
“Clark,” you gasp, laughing. “We’re not in a shower right now.”
“No,” he grins, shifting you up higher. “We’re not.”
His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Still soaking.”
You gasp as he slides in two fingers—slow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.
You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.
He watches your face the whole time—eyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.
You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.
"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.
"Pocket," he pants, "But you’ll have to let go.”
You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.
And then—
He’s inside you.
The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.
It’s not new. Not anymore.
But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.
He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like it’s the only breath he’s needed all day.
“Every time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel unreal.”
You clutch at his back, hips rolling.
“Move,” you plead. “Please, Clark—move—”
He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.
Again. And again.
The rhythm builds fast—skin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.
And then—you feel it.
The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.
“There,” you choke, eyes flying open. “Right there, don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he pants, unraveling. “I’ve got you—just like that—please, keep pulling—fuck—”
So you do.
You yank his hair again, and it’s enough.
You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.
Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.
The world holds its breath.
Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.
He holds you like he’s afraid to let go.
You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:
“…we should head back.”
He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.
You don’t need a mirror to know that you’re a wreck.
Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling.
You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.
And Clark—well, Clark doesn’t even try.
His shirt’s wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.
He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
You meet his eyes, brows raised. “Think we were subtle?”
“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, beaming.
You smack his chest. “Clark, we’re gonna get fired.”
“I’ll write a defense,” he says, tucking himself away. “‘A Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.’”
You choke on a laugh. “Catchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.”
He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.
“In these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?”
“Oh my god.”
“Sources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,”
“Clark.”
“Eyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.”
“Eyewitness?”
“Ferguson. The rat, remember? Hope he’s still crawling around the vents somewhere.”
You’re still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
When you turn, the joke’s still in his eyes—but something else has surfaced.
Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.
“Okay,” he starts. “What if… instead of writing that article…”
He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “I pitched a different one.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
His smile tilts—shy and hopeful.
“Yeah, forget the op-ed. How about: ‘Local Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.’”
You blink, heart catching in your throat.
And suddenly—this is scarier than anything that came before.
You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.
That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes.
You swallow.
“What’s the angle?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Human interest.”
You bite your lip, smile threatening. “And your sources?”
“Reliable,” he says, nodding seriously. “She even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.”
You hum. “Sounds like she’s into you.”
“Yeah,” he steps closer, smiling shyly. “I’m starting to think so too.”
You let the silence bloom between you—warm, delicate, just a little terrifying.
Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.
He leans down to meet you halfway.
This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.
You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.
“Hey, Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell her seven o’clock.”
His smile blooms slow and bright—a sunrise you get to keep.
“Done.”
epilogue
Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life.
Height: 6’4” (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment).
Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, and—Superman. (Yes, that one. You’re still not over it. You probably never will be.)
Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praise—saying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs.
Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironically—only now it’s the morning after he’s had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue.
Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you.
Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like he’s twelve and in love. (He is.)
Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.')
Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.
On every flat surface in your apartment. And his.
And yes—occasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you
tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise
warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong!
word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3)
note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x
masterlist
You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.
But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.
Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.
Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.
Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.
Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.
Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”
Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.
“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”
You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.
You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.
You were still new.
Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.
Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.
“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.
You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”
Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.
Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.
He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.
You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”
“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.
When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.
You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.
You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.
Strange, considering how different the two of you were.
Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.
You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.
There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.
It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.
You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.
Maybe.
The office changed at night.
Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.
You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.
He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.
Almost like a different person entirely.
You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.
Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.
“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.
Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”
You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.
He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.
Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.
“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.
It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.
Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.
Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.
“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.
The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.
“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.
His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.
You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”
Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.
Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”
“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.
“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.
You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.
You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.
Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.
He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.
His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.
You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.
Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”
“I thought you liked being late.”
He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”
You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”
“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.
“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.
Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.
You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.
His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.
He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.
And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.
Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.
You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.
Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.
That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.
“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”
“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.
“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”
You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.
Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”
“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”
That caught you off guard.
Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”
The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.
You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.
Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”
Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”
He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.
You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.
It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.
And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.
Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.
You had work to do. Explanations could come later.
Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.
The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.
“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”
You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.
Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.
You blinked once. Then twice.
“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”
Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.
And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??
You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.
For now.
You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.
Clark made a beeline for your desk.
“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.
Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.
In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C
You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.
The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.
But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.
“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”
Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.
Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.
Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.
Until now.
You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.
You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.
This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.
This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.
Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.
Something had changed, and you liked it.
Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.
Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.
Clark Kent? Superman?
You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.
You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.
A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.
Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.
You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.
Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.
You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.
Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.
Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.
Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.
The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.
By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.
“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”
The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.
You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.
For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.
Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.
Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.
Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”
You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”
Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”
You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.
Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.
“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”
You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”
“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”
Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.
Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.
Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You blinked, amused. “What?”
“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”
Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”
“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”
You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.
Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”
You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”
His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.
“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.
You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”
His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.
And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.
You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.
You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.
You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.
Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.
So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.
Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.
It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.
You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.
The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.
You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.
“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”
A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”
Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You rewound it again. And again.
Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.
Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.
You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?
Except no, they didn’t.
You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.
You stared back at the screen.
Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.
You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.
What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—
That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.
Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”
And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.
You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.
You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.
Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.
Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?
You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.
Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.
You sat back in your chair and stared.
“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”
Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.
Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.
He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.
There was no way they were the same person.
You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.
But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.
You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.
That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.
You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.
Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.
Unless that was the point.
You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.
You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.
You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.
You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.
And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.
The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.
Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.
The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.
Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.
Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.
You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.
What exactly were you doing?
You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.
Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.
You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.
But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.
And yet.
When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.
Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.
You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.
The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.
Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.
Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.
You flinched, braced for impact.
But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.
Nothing so much as grazed you.
When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.
Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.
Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.
You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.
“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.
You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”
Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.
When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.
Superman was right in front of you.
“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.
Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.
You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.
You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.
Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.
But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.
The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.
It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.
And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.
Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.
But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”
“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.
Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”
He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.
Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.
God.
You were losing it.
Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.
It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.
He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.
Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.
Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.
“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.
Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.
You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.
The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.
But you knew. You knew.
Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.
This was real.
Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.
The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.
Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.
And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.
You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.
It could all be bias, projection, or madness.
But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.
The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.
Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.
While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.
You glanced up.
Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.
Your eyes met.
It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.
It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.
Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.
There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.
Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.
You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.
Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.
It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.
You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:
Tonight.
My place.
We should talk.
No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.
You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.
Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?
The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.
Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.
You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.
Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.
You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.
Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.
There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.
You stepped inside hesitantly.
The apartment was surprising.
It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.
The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.
You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.
It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.
This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.
He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.
“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.
You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.
“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”
You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”
You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.
You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.
How could the same man feel so different?
Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.
Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.
Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.
Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”
You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”
You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.
Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.
Your breath caught.
Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.
Still unmistakably Clark Kent.
And Superman.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”
Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.
It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.
It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.
Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.
“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.
He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.
“They’re supposed to—”
You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”
Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”
The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.
You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.
His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.
“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”
Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”
Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.
“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”
You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”
Clark’s expression faltered.
“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”
“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”
He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.
“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”
You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”
His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”
“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”
“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”
You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”
Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”
And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.
You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.
Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.
Clark Kent loved you.
“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”
You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.
“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”
His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”
You nodded before your words could betray you.
Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.
“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”
Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”
You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.
And then he kissed you.
Not like Superman. Not like a secret.
Like Clark.
He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.
In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”
His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”
You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.
The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.
There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.
You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.
It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.
“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”
Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”
Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.
You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.
Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.
And you didn’t want him to.
Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.
Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.
Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.
The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.
You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.
It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.
Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”
Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.
You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.
You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”
And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.
Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.
He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.
The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.
Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.
In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.
You didn’t. But you thought about it.
Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.
At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.
“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.
Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.
It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.
You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.
And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.
Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.
Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.
“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.
Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.
“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.
You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.
Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”
Then she was gone.
The elevator doors glided shut.
You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.
The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.
Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.
You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.
It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.
Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.
He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.
“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.
“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.
“Exactly.”
You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.
Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.
“I missed this,” you murmured.
“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.
It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.
You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”
Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.
Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.
“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”
Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.
You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.
“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.
Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.
Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.
Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.
Everything was back to normal.
Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.
note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭
if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)
pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader
summary: you’re a TVA agent—meant to observe, never interfere—but you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it can’t break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here.
word count: 15.7k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss
This is it.
The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent.
Emphasis on “precision.” Emphasis on “field.” Emphasis, mostly, on “agent,” because the term “analyst” was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).
You’re not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think “delete” is a solution. You’re not an auditor—thank God—squinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.
No. You’re the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.
Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You don’t push the dominoes over—you walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.
There’s no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either.
Everything you do is redacted—even from you. You carry the residue of other people’s lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom.
Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.
It’s the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?
No one answers yes. Not honestly.
You understand now why. There’s no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesn’t stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.
You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them “softpoints.” You call them “the edge of the knife.”
Sometimes you’re a midwife in 1421. Sometimes you’re the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes you’re a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.
Right now, you're really fucking hungover.
You started having the dream again.
Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in pieces—clipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.
But it kept returning.
Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New York—no file, no mission tag—in winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. You’re on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.
You wake up before you follow. Every time.
Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.
You groan.
This is how your days usually start.
You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.
Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.
Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.
Your hair is somewhere between “ungovernable” and “formerly respected.” You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last night’s choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly — TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead — neutral, inoffensive.
You’ll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.
By the time you lace your boots (twice — the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangover’s down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.
You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.
And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you don’t remember how you got here. Or how you’ve always been here.
You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.
Time to go.
Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, you’re hunched over yet another Form G-17 — “Suspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.” Your fourth this week. You’ve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.
The previous G-17s included such branch classics as “cow develops rudimentary consciousness,” “Steve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,” and “Loki starts a book club.” (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)
This one, though—this one’s different.
The case file reads:
CASE FILE: #616-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence
LOCATION: Siberia, USSR
DATE: February 1955
SUMMARY:
A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline ‘fraying.’ Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high.
NOTES:
Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.
You stare at the file.
Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignment—just ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.
Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: “Please do not eat my croissant. Please.” The second “please” is underlined three times.
You stole that croissant yesterday.
Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.
You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. “Oh good,” you mutter to no one. “Toe amputation weather.”
You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum — dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.
Casey looks up.
“Heading out?” he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when you’re gone. You have the only chair that doesn’t squeak like a dying goose.
“Yup,” you say. “Brad flagged something ‘mildly interesting.’ We’ll see if it’s another raccoon wasted off shrooms.”
“Or a bear,” Casey offers.
You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. “Or a hallucinating bear.”
Casey nods gravely.
The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, “Let’s go see what broke this time.”
Then you step through.
The light swallows you whole.
And you forget, for a second—just a second—that you were ever anything else.
EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955
The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.
You didn’t trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barely—still more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasn’t on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.
Still. It was warm. Warm enough.
Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didn’t care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zone—a softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.
You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.
Observe. Do not interfere.
And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.
Unidentified movement—Quadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.
Human-shaped. Probably.
You didn’t move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.
You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.
You didn’t believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.
The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudder—just a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.
You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.
The blip on the monitor moved closer. Still slow. Still steady.
Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.
Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. It’s not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is close. Inside.
You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.
The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusion—boots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.
Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.
You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Four—no, five—distinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.
Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.
You move anyway.
Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralize—just to see.
Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrong—like the mind inside doesn’t fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesn’t even register you.
Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharper—like old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it.
In the corner of the hold, something hums—low, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter.
Instead, it's a pulse field generator—standard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.
According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Node—a fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.
This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. “No wonder they didn’t send backup. Needed someone expendable.”
Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashion—metal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generate—
—and freeze.
Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.
His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edges—standard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. There’s snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.
But it's his eyes that hold you still.
Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyes—pale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.
Just staring.
Like you’re an answer to a question he hasn’t been able to phrase. Like he’s seen you before and forgot until now.
And maybe—you freeze, stomach folding in on itself—maybe you forgot too.
The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache you’ve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.
You’ve heard plenty about Bu—the Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so… aware.
At the TVA, he’s quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitch—just a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version they’ve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. He’s the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way back—bloodied, wrong, resilient.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replicate well. His story’s too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesn’t scale. Whatever makes him who he is—the loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep trying—it’s never quite transferable.
The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.
In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, you’ve never actually met any versions of him.
Not directly. Not face-to-face. You’ve seen the aftershocks he leaves behind—cratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. You’ve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he should’ve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.
It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.
Except now he’s standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.
In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldier—a precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.
You take in the rest of him.
His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactly—but preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week and hasn’t cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since… the thing.
But it’s the eyes again—flicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something you’d almost call suspicion, if there wasn’t so much… exhaustion in it.
And finally—his silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like he’s cataloging the shift in your body language.
Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: he’s uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.
Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasn’t fully rebooted yet. There’s still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breath’s too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gaze—not vacant, not robotic, but… blinking too hard. Like the world’s coming in too fast, too bright, too much.
Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wrist—twenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.
“Look—”
But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.
“Quiet,” he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scoured—hoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just… grounding.
You nod. One deliberate motion. A signal that you understand. That you’ll play along.
There’s a beat—one heartbeat, maybe two—before he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.
Two more figures drop from above—armed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.
Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry.
The air shudders again—an ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everything’s shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, “We have to move.”
He hesitates—but only for a second.
Then he runs.
You don’t speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays close. Too close. Like he’s guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasn’t figured out yet that you aren’t the one who needs protecting.
You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Bucky’s chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.
You glance back.
He’s stopped.
He’s leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.
His metal fist clenches tight—so tight the plating groans—and he presses it to his temple like he’s trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brain’s short-circuiting.
“Hey,” you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Bucky.”
It slips out before you can catch it.
And it works.
He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap open—and they find yours instantly.
Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.
Not of you. For you.
His lips part like he’s going to speak—but no sound comes out.
You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.
You reach him slowly, each step cautious, deliberate. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” you say quietly. “I swear. I’m not.”
His jaw twitches. His eyes won’t leave yours. That look again—like he knows you. Like he’s trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.
“I know this place is loud,” you continue, softer still. “I know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But you’re doing fine. Better than fine.”
A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. You’re not sure which would be worse.
And then the timepad on your wrist pulses—a slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.
Of course. That’s what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didn’t break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.
It was him. He was the pulse.
You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold must’ve gone inert—no more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the storm’s intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everything’s slowing down. Calming.
It’s over.
The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol you’ve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.
But.
You’ve already—fuck, you’ve already. The moment he looked at you like that—like you were familiar, like you mattered—it was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.
“I don’t know what they told you,” you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. It’s quieter now. Gentler. Like you’re afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. “About this place. About this mission. I don’t even know if you’re going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—”
You don’t finish.
Because he speaks.
“Will I see you again?”
The words are soft. Barely voiced. Like he had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavy—denser than sound has any right to be. It knocks the breath out of you.
You blink. “What?”
He steps forward—just one measured step—but it’s enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension he’s trying to lock down.
He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t need to.
You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines you’ve used before—smooth, forgettable, safe. But you don’t reach for any of them.
Instead, you smile. It’s lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. It’s your shield and your surrender, both.
“Only if you start talking more,” you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.
The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.
But your heart’s a thunderclap now. Relentless. You’re already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softened—not like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe he’d found something in you worth staying awake for.
And you know better—god, do you know better—but your feet don’t move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.
You don’t look back. You never do.
But the image of his eyes—ice-clear, impossibly human—follows you like a ghost you didn’t mean to keep.
.
You wait for the hammer to fall.
You expect it in the usual ways—a recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.
You expect something.
Because you said his name.
Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passing—not incidental. You chose to.
You’ve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worse—shunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.
And you—you—let your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. That’s not oversight. That’s not mission drift. That’s a lapse.
And yet… nothing happens.
Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.
Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.
Business as usual.
You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angle—waiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.
Nothing.
Just… more work.
You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange here—like chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.
But there’s something different now.
It’s you.
You keep seeing him—in flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you don’t realize you’re having until they hit the page. You start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?
You shouldn’t care. You don’t care. It’s just a glitch in your focus. Just… inertia.
Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.
Some entries are missing dates.
You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.
You just want to.
And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in gold—Causal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.
You flick through the details:
CASE FILE: #456-TH9
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands
DATE: JUNE 1602
ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes
SUMMARY:
Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures.
You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.
(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)
You frown at the file. It feels… small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.
Still, you hesitate.
Not because it’s dangerous. Because it’s not. And because part of you wonders—quiet, insistent—if he’ll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.
The TVA says every mission is randomized.
But it never quite feels like that, does it?
EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602
The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.
Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. It’s quiet here, beneath the canopy—just birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.
You scan the clearing.
They call it a "camp," but it’s more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crest—recently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.
You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalist—dirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives.
You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hair’s tied back, rough and practical. There’s mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.
He doesn’t see you, not yet.
Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), you’re told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.
“The mead’s surprisingly tolerable,” they say, nudging your satchel. “Also, your contact’s not due for another twelve hours, so don’t just sit there and brood. Blend in.”
You go.
The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbal—probably the same bitterroot tincture you’ve been pretending to peddle all day.
The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. It’s warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.
Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.
You look up—and still, somehow, you’re not ready.
He’s changed, of course. That’s the constant.
His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metal—but shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.
A blacksmith’s nightmare. A knight's inheritance.
And then there’s the way he moves—like someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.
His eyes—those same pale, searching eyes—find yours almost immediately.
He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesn’t quite match.
He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.
“My lady, you shouldn’t be out this late,” he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life that’s clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. “Not alone.”
You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. “It’s always late here. And rarely alone.”
He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like you’ve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.
Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.
He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. He’s still damp at the collar—rain, or sweat, or both. He’s got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesn’t shake.
“Have we met?”
You offer a small, unreadable smile. “I don’t believe so.”
But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing it—mapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.
“You look lost.”
“Just passing through.”
His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesn’t satisfy. You can tell he doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t press.
He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people who’ve stopped pretending they’ll live long lives.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.
You glance at them. “Neither should you.”
His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.
He’s part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. He’s the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest he’s tried to remove—once royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when he’s still too long, and there’s something reverent in how the others look at him when they think he’s not paying attention.
This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, he’s a savior. To himself, probably a liability.
Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.
And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you don’t quite belong here—and wants to guard you anyway.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you home.”
The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.
The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.
He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.
“Why are you here?”
You should lie. You want to lie.
But instead, you say it softly. “Because I said I would be.”
He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesn’t understand them. But he feels them.
You step closer. Just close enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you kiss him.
The moment your lips touch his, the rest of the world blanks. Not gone—just irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slats—it all slips away. All that remains is this.
His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if he’s holding still for a test he doesn’t know the answer to.
You’re the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.
And gods—it does.
It means everything you haven’t said aloud. Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldn’t scrub clean.
You’d told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.
Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.
He doesn’t pull away.
His hand twitches—just once—like he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesn’t. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like no one’s kissed him like this in years.
Like no one’s ever kissed him like they remembered him.
The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you won’t be able to file away as incidental.
But you linger close.
He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.
You complete the mission in silence.
The child is easy to find—just as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his mother’s arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.
And just like that—it’s done.
Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.
The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You don’t look back. You’ve learned your lesson there.
But as you step through, the last thing you hear—carried faintly on the wind—is his voice.
“I never got your name,” he says into a room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.
.
You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data point—distinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.
There’s the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like they’re a threat and touches you like they’re a prayer.
The one in 2049 who doesn’t speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like he’s known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.
Each time, it’s different.
Each time, it’s him.
You start to think: maybe he’s not a variable. Maybe he’s the constant. The fixed point the multiverse can’t help but echo. A gravitational pull in human form—tethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.
You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if it’s punishing you instead—showing you every version of the thing you can’t quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.
You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.
Then you get your next assignment.
The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always are—euphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didn’t.
You read it twice. Three times. It doesn’t change.
This Bucky Barnes didn’t fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydra’s European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.
You try to imagine him without the weight.
You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.
You wonder what that would be like.
So you go.
Of course you go.
You always do.
EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944
You’ve never liked the long assignments.
Short ones are surgical—get in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.
You’re embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think you’re here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. They’re not entirely wrong.
The first time you see him again, he’s making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. He’s not in uniform—just a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.
It’s different sound from what you've heard over the years.
But then Bucky Barnes notices you.
Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the fact—love at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasn’t cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.
“You always write that fast?” he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like it’s casual, like he didn’t cross half the camp just to talk to you.
You don’t look up. “Only when I’m trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.”
He grins. “Hey, Dugan’s doing his best.”
You snort. “His best sounds like a wounded mule.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. It’s nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.
Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questions—about where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.
You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.
But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You don’t sleep well. You’ve lost people.
He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though it’s technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.
He never pushes.
And you hate it—how much you want him to.
The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. It’s stupid, how much you feel it.
He notices.
"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that you’ve known someone longer than you’re supposed to?"
Your breath catches.
You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."
He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.
You’re not supposed to fall in this one.
But God, it’s so easy. So familiar.
Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses weren’t looking. He draws out your laugh like it’s a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.
And all the while, you feel it coming.
One night, two months in, he walks you back and you don’t stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.
"You’re not like anyone I’ve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.
You smile sadly. "You’ve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. "But none of them felt like déjà vu."
You almost kiss him. But not yet.
The war ends not with silence, but with song.
London spills into the streets like a wound unstitched—men and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesn’t sleep. Neither do you.
You’ve stayed longer than planned.
Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepad’s been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret you’re not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibility—two to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.
Bucky doesn’t know. He’s too busy laughing—really laughing—face lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s had two pints and a victory cigar, and you’ve never seen him look so alive.
He’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he must’ve stolen from Stark’s ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. He’s warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.
You turn, startled by the shift. “About?”
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind you—drunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.
“You could come with me,” he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."
Your stomach drops.
“We’ve got peace now. There’s gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know it’s chaos but… I don’t know. I thought maybe…” He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”
You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates again—EXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.
“Say it,” you whisper.
“I’ll get a job,” Bucky says.
His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgent—like if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything it’s not allowed to be.
“You’re so… so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room and—Christ, I’ve seen tacticians, I’ve seen war heroes—but no one moves the way you do.”
He’s closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.
“I’ll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but we’ll learn the neighbors’. I’ll fix the heater when it breaks. I’ll learn to make your coffee the way you like it—two sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. I’ll write it down if I have to. You won’t even have to ask.”
He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.
“I’ll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. I’ll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. We’ll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. I’ll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. I’ll leave notes on the fridge. I’ll rub your feet when you’ve had a long day, even if you pretend you don’t want me to.”
His eyes are wet now, but he doesn’t blink them away. He wants you to see.
“I’ll build a life where you can rest,” he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. “No secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we don’t have to leave unless we want to.”
His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. He’s unraveling. And he’s never been more sure of anything.
“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers. “But you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.”
His eyes search yours, bright and raw.
“Darling,” he breathes, “I just want—”
You don’t speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.
Instead, your hand reaches for him—cups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.
The kiss is molten.
Not soft, not chaste. It’s everything you aren’t supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and war’s aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows you’re slipping.
You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. And you—you clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around you—drunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestone—but none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.
He kisses like he’s starved for something he can’t name.
Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.
Somehow, you make it back to his quarters—barely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and he’s on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like he’s mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.
“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. “Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”
You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not dreaming.”
You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiers—scars you’ve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.
Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.
Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuits—he's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."
You pull on his hair—hard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."
"Ask and you shall receive."
You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can't—won't—look away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.
Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest.
Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.
"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."
He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going to—oh, yes, right there—god, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."
You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Not—not like this. I want to be inside you."
Of course, of course. "Of course, James."
He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.
"So eager."
You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a tease—Oh."
He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.
His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch.
"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."
You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to you—fuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.
You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like that—him inside of you, tangled up in him.
The light is different when you wake up in the morning.
Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesn’t want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.
His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.
You don’t kiss him goodbye.
Instead, you whisper something he won’t hear. “I wish we had more time.”
And then you activate the timepad.
.
Time passes strangely in the TVA.
There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days don’t pile up here—they just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesn’t exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.
You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.
Instead, you worked.
Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wanted—scrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before you’d even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake you’ve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)
You smiled. You always smile.
You don’t let yourself say what you’re really thinking.
That all of it—all the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into place—is just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.
And you’ve tried. God, you’ve tried.
You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself it’s not cowardice if it’s protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.
Until the file lands on your desk.
CASE FILE: #2149-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: Earth-2149 — Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland
DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day)
ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials
SUMMARY:
Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and T’Challa successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage.
Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.
You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.
But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.
No backup. No reassignment.
Just you.
EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)
Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.
The air reeks of ash and ozone. You’re used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesn’t fall the way it should—too sharp at the edges, like the sun’s been split into shards and you’re walking through the aftermath.
You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.
Bucky doesn’t make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.
And you’re supposed to let that happen.
Your first glimpse of him isn’t cinematic. No slow reveal, no stirring strings. Just a sliver of profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. He’s talking to Parker—low and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.
When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is again—that look. Recognition.
Your breath stutters. You don’t say anything. You just nod, like you’ve been here all along. Like you’re meant to be here.
You don’t know if you can watch him die.
Not when you’ve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.
Peter introduces you. A name you chose at random from a TVA list. He doesn’t flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyes—quiet and soft and gone before it settles.
You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesn’t quite land.
For the next two weeks, you stay with them.
You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's… he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when he—when he eventually—You can't even say it.
But it happens one morning, anyway—fog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. You’re both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, what’s left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.
You blink from your thoughts. “In a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.”
He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. “I was gonna say the same.”
Silence settles between you, but it’s a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.
You speak first this time. “You always this poetic?”
“Only when I’m tired. Or scared.”
You glance at him. “Which is it now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Both.”
You don’t touch. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the space between you—heavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.
You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.
He doesn’t have to say anything. You feel it.
All of it.
And the worst part—the most unbearable—is knowing it’s temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.
You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though it’s hopeless.
But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like it’s trying to keep him there.
And then it's here.
The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.
You've lost practically everyone—Sharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not grief—there’s no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivors—Peter, T’Challa, Lang’s floating head in a jar—are already climbing aboard. You’ve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.
You’ve done everything the mission brief said—down to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you… you’re standing beside Bucky.
And still, you’re standing beside him.
Bucky’s chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you can’t decipher. There’s soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, there’s something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.
Resolve.
You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.
“We have to go,” you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.
Bucky doesn’t move.
He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. There’s something about this version of him—familiar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.
You hate that.
“I’ll hold her off,” he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.
“No,” you breathe. Too fast, too raw.
His brow furrows. “Someone has to. You said it yourself—if we don’t get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.”
“That doesn’t mean it has to be you.”
He smiles, and it’s that same damn smile that’s followed you across time. The one that says it’s already decided.
“I think it always was.”
You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that you’ve met him over and over, and every time he’s left a bruise somewhere deeper.
But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.
MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES
You ignore it.
“You’ll make it,” he says gently, like a goodbye.
“No, I won’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”
There’s shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.
You don’t move.
Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for you to memorize it.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Greedy. A kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like it’s something he’s missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of him—the scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you pull away.
“I’ll find you again,” you say. It's a promise.
He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.
You watch him go. You always watch him go.
The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking joke—
Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.
You don’t look back at the ground. You’ve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesn’t stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you can’t see him anymore—
You swear something rips loose in you.
And this time, you don’t think it will grow back.
.
You’ve seen him in snow.
In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. You’ve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. You’ve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one notices—quiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesn’t ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.
And now you’ve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadn’t known you—not really. Not as the woman who’d held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But he’d looked at you like he wanted to.
The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.
So when you get the assignment to go—
It doesn’t land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVA’s perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.
The kind of hurt that doesn't pulse—it seeps. It rots. You move like you’re wearing someone else’s body, like your own bones are too loud. You haven’t been sleeping—not really.
You open the file with a numb hand. Just procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you see the numbers.
CASE FILE: #616-SV1
MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation
LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania
DATE: March 2016
ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat
SUMMARY:
Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.
Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.
You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell.
There’s a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isn’t built for recursion. But this—this is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.
And now you’ve been assigned to watch him again.
After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass.
You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself.
You don’t.
You close the file and begin packing for Bucharest.
EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016
You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep.
The city feels brittle—like something trying very hard not to splinter. Your cover’s thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.
And you wait.
The first time you see him again, he’s carrying plums.
You’re leaning on a railing, nursing coffee that’s more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way you’ve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.
He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.
You almost don’t recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.
But it slams into you anyway.
Because there it is—that flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.
You’ve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit.
You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.
Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every time—checks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like he’s trying not to be. Like he’s tired of being a weapon, and doesn’t quite know how to be anything else.
He never takes the same route home.
You map them all anyway.
There’s a rhythm to his caution. It’s not paranoia. It’s preservation. You know the difference. You’ve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someone’s not trying to escape the world—just survive it.
And through it all, you pretend not to ache.
You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. He’s not a threat. Not a spark.
Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.
But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault lines—but for the quiet, ordinary proof that he’s still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like it’s going to disappear.
You don’t. Of course you don’t.
Until the night you lose him.
It’s raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. You’re two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.
And he’s gone.
You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. It’s half an hour later when you feel the grip.
Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sideways—into a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The wall hits your spine. The air knocks out of you. And then he’s there.
Close. Too close.
Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Because he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting.
“You’ve been following me,” he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.
Your mouth opens. Closes.
He tilts his head, studying your face like he’s comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. “Siberia. 1955.”
The words gut you.
“I remember,” he says. “You said my name.”
His name. That night. The way he shook—like his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.
And it worked.
He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.
You don’t mean to—but you reach up, slowly, and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.
You look at him. Really look.
The rain has soaked through everything, and he’s shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t look like a stranger’s.
It looks like home.
He takes a step back and mutters, “Come on.”
You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practiced—surfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say.
“Not what you expected?” he asks eventually, voice rough.
You shake your head. “No. It’s exactly what I expected.”
He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. “How do you know me?”
And you could lie. You could stall. But you’re tired of running out of time.
But you’re tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didn’t make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stop—when the words have left you empty and open and raw—he doesn’t flinch.
He exhales, long and deliberate. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at you—really looks, and you can feel the moment shift.
“When I saw you again,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, “on the street… it wasn’t like remembering something. It was like finishing something.”
You blink. “Finishing?”
He nods, slowly. “Yeah. Like… you know when you’ve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyrics—just the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest just—unlocks. Like something you didn’t know was broken gets put back together.”
He glances down at his hands, then back at you.
“That’s what it felt like. Seeing you.”
You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.
“At first I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “Some hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldn’t place. But then you moved, and—Jesus—I knew it wasn’t just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you weren’t afraid of me.”
His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.
“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “Fear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. I’m used to people stepping back. Or pretending they don’t see me. But you… you didn’t flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I was—” He falters, and then tries again. “Like I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.”
Your chest aches.
He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. “God, and hearing you say it again—Bucky—like it was the first time all over. I don’t know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like… like I’d been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.”
You don’t say anything.
You’re still trying to breathe around the weight of him.
“I don’t remember everything,” he says. “Not clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That light—on your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like… five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.”
His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“I think I’ve been looking for that feeling ever since.”
You don't answer—not with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, slow and deliberate, and sink to your knees in front of him.
Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a sound—half-breath, half-confession—as your fingers thread together.
“Okay?” you murmur.
He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungry—one brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’s still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, you’ll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft, reverent—his lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything you’ve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.
He surges forward.
Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.
Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like he’s trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.
And then—God—he breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.
“You’re real,” he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”
His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, slow and aching, like it means something. Like everything means something.
You’re both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers.
He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuck—you're so wet. For me?"
You nod, breathless.
It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal.
Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's so—he's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.
"Bucky, please—oh god, please, don't stop."
You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in place—and then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.
It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.
When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'm–here. Let me help."
Bucky smiles. Softly.
"You're so sweet. You're too good for me."
You think you lose another shred of your sanity.
The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.
"Bucky, please."
His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."
It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking.
He says your name again. "Promise me."
You tell yourself—you're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "Bucky—fuck—I—"
Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'm—"
"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and it—you don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."
Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.
You’re not sure how long you stay like that—twined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.
You don’t want to break it. But you have to.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “They’re going to try to take me away.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. “The TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. I’ve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. This—” You gesture softly between you, “—this isn’t sanctioned.”
He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re not wrong.
“Let them try,” he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. “I won’t let them.”
You smile—sad, crooked, fond. “You might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.”
He swallows hard. “You promise?”
You nod. Press your lips to his again—gentle this time, slow and deliberate, like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:
“I’ll come back. I always come back.”
His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, they’re full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.
“Next time,” you say, voice shaking with certainty, “next time I’ll stay.”
THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9
You broke protocol.
Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.
And the TVA caught up to you.
They always do.
They didn’t drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motion—and then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didn’t fall through time; it collapsed around you.
And then: nothing.
But nothing wasn’t quiet.
Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspension—standard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.
They called it “nullspace” in the manual. But that word doesn’t tell the whole story.
Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didn’t move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in it—bodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.
You stopped when you couldn’t tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives you’d watched but never lived.
You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—not every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.
Maybe they’d left you there forever.
But something changed.
When the light shifts again, it’s not like waking.
It’s like surfacing—like clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.
The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and you—like so many others—were set loose without fanfare.
Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.
You’re on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like it’s been waiting.
You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.
“Welcome back, Agent.”
“Status: Cleared.”
“Assignment Log: Vacated.”
You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.
“You are free to go.”
They’ve never said that before.
There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just… release.
It doesn’t feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.
When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.
Earth-616. Brooklyn.
And suddenly that dream… that dream you've always had isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t psychic bleed or misaligned memory. It’s real.
The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasn’t timeline residue.
It was home.
You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dream—your building. The stairs you must’ve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasn’t just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.
And you never did. Until now.
The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone he’d loved in a dream—all of it clicks into place.
You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.
You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:
“INPUT COORDINATES.”
Your breath shakes.
For the first time in your life, there’s no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.
You don’t hesitate.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names.
But you’ve always been sure about how he looks in silhouette—how his shoulders hunch slightly when he’s thinking, how his hands twitch when he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he knows he’s not allowed to want.
And maybe that’s why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens.
In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessed—not for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, “target disappeared into snow.”
Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.
You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live.
For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didn’t see—chopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no one’s watching.
Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.
You remember something he once said—maybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. “People like us… we don’t get soft landings.” And you think that’s the tragedy of it.
He has always been built to break. And you—you keep getting assigned to the wreckage.
There’s a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignment—just a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.
In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.
It’s nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
You’ve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. You’ve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, it’s coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.
But paper doesn’t account for the way he looks at you—each time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.
He's not supposed to remember you. He can’t. And still, he always sees you.
That’s the part that undoes you.
You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.
But you think—no, you know—if you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, you’d do it. You’d do it a thousand more.
Because even if all he says is, “Took you long enough,” you’d still believe it was worth the wait.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Stark’s foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassy—this one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, occasional Avenger—has just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.
Redistricting helped. So did the veterans’ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.
You find him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course he’s here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustration—white dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair.
And somehow still the same soul you’ve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, he’s always trying to make something right.
You step into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the gravity of him pulls you forward before you’ve fully decided to be brave.
He’s facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomach—familiar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.
“Excuse me,” you say, steadying your voice like it’s just another assignment. “I’m a deeply concerned constituent, and I’d like to register a complaint about your policies.”
He turns.
And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.
His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only you’ve ever seen—like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t trust yet. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.
You only just open your mouth to say something else when he’s already in front of you. And then—
He kisses you.
Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesn’t keep contact. You let yourself press into it—mouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.
You pull back, breathless. Smiling.
“You came back,” he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. “You came back.”
Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm he’s real. “Took me long enough,” you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.
Then he stills, just a little.
“You staying?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.
oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)
pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader
summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed.
word count: 10.6k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets
You don’t mean to go viral.
You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.
Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.
Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:
“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”
You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”
By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.
The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:
@RepBarnes:
Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?
You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.
Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.
Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.
You reread it.
Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.
You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:
NINA
DUDE
DUDE
HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE
do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???
You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.
You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.
This time it’s not public.
@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.
If you’re interested, I could use someone like you.
NY/DC split. Health benefits included.
Let me know.
You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.
You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.
You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:
are u joking?
His reply comes five minutes later.
No.
You’re good.
And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.
You stare at your screen.
You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”
But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.
And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?
You exhale. Then type,
i'll clear my schedule. when and where?
A beat.
Meet me in D.C.
I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.
You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.
You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.
.
Once upon a time, you had hopes.
Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.
Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.
You had dreams. Now you have bills.
Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.
You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay.
And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:
bucky barnes political platform site:gov
Then:
bucky barnes cat
And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:
bucky barnes shirtless
For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.
(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)
It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”
You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”
It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.
You click out of the tab. Open another.
Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse.
You hate how much you want to fix it.
Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:
Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.
You stare at it.
It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”
You breathe out a laugh.
You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush.
Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.
You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.
Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.
In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:
She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.
Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.
.
You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.
Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.
You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.
By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.
The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something.
You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.
Five minutes later, he walks in.
And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.
James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.
God. This is so unfair.
His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.
He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.
“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”
His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.
“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.
“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”
He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.
“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”
A pause.
“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”
He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.
Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”
And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”
He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”
You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”
His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”
You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”
And just like that—you’re in it.
You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)
But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”
You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”
“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”
He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”
You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”
He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”
You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”
He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”
You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”
“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”
You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”
You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”
He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.
You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:
“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”
He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”
It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway.
That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.
Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps.
But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.
And you hate how that pulls at you.
You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”
He nods. “Understood.”
“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”
“I was hoping you would.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”
A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”
“Of course you did.”
A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”
It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.
You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”
He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”
“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”
There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.
You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.
But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.
You’re in. Actually.
God help you.
.
Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.
Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.
You’re not. But it’s touch and go.
Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:
REP. JAMES BARNES
New York’s 9th District
Inside, it’s… chaos.
Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.
Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.
“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.
“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.
He gives you the tour, if you can call it that.
There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.
You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.
“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.
“Yes,” he replies.
The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield.
You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.
By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.
Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.
The next week is only slightly less chaotic.
Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.
When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”
“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.
You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.
“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.
“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
You almost smile.
The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.
Then he starts to speak.
And damn.
Okay.
You hadn’t expected this.
It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.
But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.
And it’s good.
It’s honest.
He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.
You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.
You feel it, too.
By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”
When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.
You hand him a bottle of water.
He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”
You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”
“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”
He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”
“But you like the mission.”
He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.
“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”
You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.
You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”
He tilts his head. “You buying?”
“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”
“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”
You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.
“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”
“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”
He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”
You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”
He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before.
You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”
You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”
He waits.
You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”
There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.
When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”
You blink. “About what?”
“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”
You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”
A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”
Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”
You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.
“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”
His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”
“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.
His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”
It lands heavier than expected.
You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”
He huffs. “That helped.”
You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.
“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.
It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”
He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”
“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”
And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.
.
Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.
Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.
The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right.
They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.
You write back:
it’s missing caps and grammar and polish
…it’s also perfect. i hate you a little
He replies ten minutes later:
Good.
Keep hating me.
Makes your edits stronger.
You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there.
In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.
One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.
You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”
“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.
You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.
“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”
You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”
You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.
.
Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.
He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”
“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”
You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.
He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.
One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”
You freeze. “And now?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”
Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.
The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.
He always says it like it matters.
One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.
You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”
You pretend not to hear her.
One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.
“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”
You laugh. He looks over, soft.
And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”
You blink. “You mean… as staff?”
He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.
He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.
Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.
Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.
Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.
Not really.
.
It’s a Tuesday night.
Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”
The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.
Your phone buzzes.
BUCKY
Are you awake
No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.
You call him.
It only rings once.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.
“You okay?” you ask, softly.
A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”
You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.
“You want to talk about it?” you ask.
“Not really.”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”
A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”
You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”
Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”
He exhales.
“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”
You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.
“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”
A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”
“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”
It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.
There’s a beat.
Then he says, “You want to come over?”
Your heart stumbles. “Now?”
“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.
“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.
“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”
.
Which is—not fair.
He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.
“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.
“Hey,” he replies, voice low.
He steps back. You step in.
You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.
Neither of you says much at first.
You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.
“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.
You glance at him. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”
“And now?”
He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.
“I trust you."
The silence sharpens.
You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.
He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.
You say his name. Soft.
“Bucky.”
He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.
And then—
He stops.
You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
Close enough to break.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.
You nod. You understand.
.
You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.
Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.
You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.
It hasn’t.
So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.
You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.
No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.
You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.
You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”
“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.
Your fingers still on the steering wheel.
“I—what?”
They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”
You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.
The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.
You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.
And there it is.
Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?
It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?
There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:
“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”
The rest of the article is worse.
It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.
The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.
You call him. He doesn’t answer.
You call again. Still nothing.
So you go to his apartment.
Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.
He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.
The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch.
“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”
“It’s bad.”
He nods.
He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”
“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”
He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.
“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”
His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.
“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”
You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.
“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”
“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.
You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.
But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.
So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.
“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”
His brow furrows.
“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”
You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”
He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.
His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."
You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.
Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.
Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.
“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”
He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.
“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”
That last part is barely above a whisper.
You pause. Let the silence stretch.
“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.
“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”
That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.
“You always come when I need you,” he says.
It’s a simple sentence.
But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.
You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.
You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.
“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”
“What’s your favorite?”
There’s a pause.
Then, quietly: “You.”
You blink.
“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”
Your throat goes tight.
He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.
“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.
You can’t stop looking.
“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.
“Wouldn’t get attached.”
The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.
He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.
“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”
“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.
“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”
You’re already turning. Reaching for him.
His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.
And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.
You don’t want him to.
So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.
He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.
His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.
When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.
“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”
He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.
You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.
The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.
Then restraint snaps.
He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.
You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.
Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.
His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.
The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”
Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:
“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.
“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”
You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”
He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.
Somehow, you make it upstairs.
It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”
By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.
And Bucky?
He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.
You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.
“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.
You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”
He freezes. “Processing what?”
“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”
His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”
“What? You set yourself up for that.”
He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”
You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.
“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”
“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”
That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.
Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time.
"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."
He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.
The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.
"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."
You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."
"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers. "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"
He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"
"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"
You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—
Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.
And who were you to resist?
For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."
Those four words cause something in you to snap.
His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation.
It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"
A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.
When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.
"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"
"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."
Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."
There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.
His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."
Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.
"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."
And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.
"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."
"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"
It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.
And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."
You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.
.
You go viral again.
Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.
The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.
The caption?
sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.
You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:
call me when you’re up
You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.
“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”
You blink. “The—job?”
“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”
You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.
“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”
“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”
“Mom.”
In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”
The line goes dead.
You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”
You shoot him a look. He grins.
Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”
Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.
But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.
Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.
It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.
“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”
He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”
“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”
“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”
You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.
You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”
“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”
You grin into your mug.
God help you, you’re in so deep.
You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.
Evan Buckley x Female!Reader (22.9k) It’s funny how it only takes one second to unravel an entire future.
Warnings: A curse word or two. Mentions of injury. Mentions of fire. Mentions of 4x13 and 4x14. Memory loss. angst
Author’s Note: We’re back with Buck and this is one of my favorite tropes. We’ve got a lovely dose of amnesia for all of you today, and it is just such a treat. I wrote a killer firework analogy for this one, and if we don’t all collectively adore it I won’t be mad, just disappointed. Enjoy.
The title comes from “Wrong Direction” by Hailee Steinfeld
(Divider by @silkholland)
Note: My work is not to be posted anywhere else on any other platforms.
MASTERLIST
The beeping of the heart monitor should be a comforting sound. It means his heart is still beating. It means he’s still alive. But over the last few hours it’s started to feel like a sword swinging over your head. Each beep is another reminder of where you are, of the reason why you’re here. And you’re terrified that each beep might be the last.
You’ve already been scrunched up in uncomfortable hospital chairs, and living off shitty vending machine coffee, for the past three days waiting for Buck to wake up. It’s longer than he’s ever been out before, and it’s concerning to say the least. But the doctor’s swear it’s not that uncommon. That his body is just taking its time to heal.
And every member of the 118 says some variation of the same thing when they come to visit after their shifts. And Maddie, too. You take it from her most because she has the most experience with all of this.
You’re used to Buck getting himself sent to the hospital by now, but each time is still more worrisome than the last. And it’s not like you can really fault him this time. Because he got hurt saving you, and you can’t really blame him for that. If the roles were reversed you would’ve done the same thing if it meant you were getting him out of danger.
Besides you already gave his unconscious form the self sacrificing idiot speech, and you think he got the message.
You’re just about to go take a walk to get your next cup of coffee when something beats you to it.
“Knock, knock.” You look up to see Eddie standing in the doorway with two cups of coffee in hand. “Stopped by the shop down the street, figured you needed something better than the shit in this place to keep you awake.”
He walks over and hands you the cup, which you accept with more relief than you’ve felt in ages. At least it’s something. You haven’t really slept in days, maybe a few minutes of shut eye here and there. The team keeps telling you to get some rest, especially while they come to visit, but you have yet to budge. You worry that the second you really commit to getting some rest is the moment Buck will wake up, or worse.
“You’ve got great timing,” You say, “Was about to go grab myself a refill.” You brush a few empty coffee cups into the nearby trash can before settling back into your uncomfortable chair as Eddie does the same on the other side of the bed.
“The nurses give you any updates?” He asks, eyes fixated on your fiancé holed up in a cramped hospital bed.
“They said it’s only a matter of time now before he wakes up. But it could be hours, could still be a few more days. Hell, maybe even a week.”
You don’t know why they say it like that when it still really tells you nothing. All it tells you is that he’ll wake up, which is comforting but everything can change on a dime. And he could be fine one second and coding the next.
Besides, they still have no clue what state he’ll be in when he wakes up. And you can’t fault them for that. Because that’s out of their control. They’ll only know once you do, once Buck opens his eyes and greets the world again for the first time in nearly a week. And it’s torture to say the least.
You eye Eddie across the room from over the rim of your coffee cup, and you see his eyes carefully flitting back to you every few seconds.
“If you’re about to say you’re worried about me, don’t.” You’ve had enough condolences and pitiful looks this week to last you a lifetime.
“Me? Never.” He jokes, taking a sip from his own coffee. “Bobby however.”
“Well, you can tell Bobby that I’m fine. I’m just playing the waiting game.” Which is arguably the worst part of this entire ordeal. “Ask me again when he wakes up.”
If he wakes up. You’ve always been a bit of the paranoid type, it kind of comes with the territory of the job. Face value has never really been your friend, and you’re finding that your tendencies have led to an inability to put much stock in the optimism of the hospital staff.
And you’re talking to someone with the same problem. A man who relies solely on his team and his intuition. It’s a good way to live, leads to less disappointment. It also leads to a whole slew of trust issues, but that’s a problem for another day. And that seems to be your attitude towards everything these days.
“How’s the wedding going?” He asks, and you roll your eyes. The both of you know full well that you’re not the half of the couple that’s been worrying about the details of the big day.
You’ve always been a little blasé about the idea of your future wedding. Figuring that it’s less about all of the rigmarole and more about the love shared between two people and the people who love them.
But Buck wants it to be perfect. It’s sweet, damn near endearing, but it’s also kind of driving you crazy. Although you’d give anything to be flipping through the wedding binder with him at this very moment.
You’d much rather he be fussing over picking the right venue, or the flowers, or the menu. Hell, you’d rather be arguing about whether you should have a DJ or a band. Which, the correct answer is DJ. Despite what Buck may think.
He thinks there’s something so romantic about a full band playing while the two of you have your first dance as husband and wife. And there is some credence in that ideology, but it’s still the wrong answer. Sweet, but overall misguided.
“Swimmingly.” You joke, placing your empty coffee cup on the tray table beside his bed. “I’ve been fielding calls from Loretta all day. She’s a little worried since she hasn’t heard from Buck in a while.”
Three days qualifies as a while because Loretta seems to be his new best friend. The two of them are this little collective, planning what is going to be a “perfect” day, while you’re just giving your opinion here and there.
He wants it to be great, and you want him to be happy with the way it turns out. It doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, so long as you’re married by the end of it.
“Did you figure out your guest list?” He asks, and you know that Eddie really couldn’t care less about the details. You know that he’s trying to turn your brain to focusing on a brighter day, and you appreciate it. But he’s not as sly as he thinks.
“You say that like we have leagues of people to invite.” It’s going to be a small affair, well Buck prefers to refer to it as “intimate,” he thinks it makes it sound more fancy or something like that, you only really have the 118, their families, and Maddie to invite.
“A wedding doesn’t have to be big to be special.” It’s about the people, as most things are, and you it’s better to have a few really close people in your life than a slew of acquaintances lining the rows to cheer on a couple that they barely even know.
“I’ve been trying to tell Buck that.” You never expected him to be so enthralled by the spectacle of a grand wedding, but it turns out that he’s even more of a romantic than you’ve ever known him to be.
“He loves you.” Eddie says, knocking back the last of his coffee as he leans forward in his chair. “He just wants everyone to know. Including you.”
Like you could ever really doubt his love. He’s constantly finding ways to remind you, small and big ways. Like he’s worried you’ll stop believing him one of these days. Like he’s worried one of these days you’ll run away because he didn’t prove it enough.
He’s got a lot of those preconceived notions, and you know that they come from a place of his own past traumas and insecurities. You just wish he’d believe that some people aren’t going to leave. Some people intend to stay, and they’ll fight tooth and nail to be by your side. They’ll be there when you need them.
You wish that he had an easier time believing that. You wish he’d never been convinced otherwise in the first place.
“I just-” You start, but you hear the slightest noise that sounds like a groan and it has you sitting up straighter in your chair. Exchanging quick eye contact with Eddie as the both of you lean in a little closer to see if you heard it right.
Only for the sound to ring out, along with the slightly faster beeping of the heart monitor, loud enough for you and Eddie to hear. You’re both out of your seats in record time.
“Buck?”
His brows furrow at the sound of your voice, his head tilting in the opposite direction as the hand closest to you flexes slightly. Without much thought you place your hand on his wrist, the cool metal of your engagement ring making contact with his arm and he flinches slightly despite his sluggish nature.
“Buck,” Eddie tries, the both of you still waiting for him to actually open his eyes, “Buck, can you hear me?”
“Eddie?” Buck’s voice is weak, scratchy, and quieter than you’ve heard it in so long, but it’s there. It’s there.
“Yeah, I’m here.” He says, and the two of you exchange quick, hopeful smiles before turning your attention back to Buck.
And then, the greatest thing out of all of this, Buck’s eyes finally open. And you can’t help but grin as you finally get a good look at him. Even though his eyes are still solely on Eddie.
“Hey, man.” He says, voice a little stronger than before as he cracks a slight smile. And the smile is returned by Eddie.
“Hey. How are you feeling?” He asks, and then Buck lets out another groan. As though he’s just now reminded that he’s in pain.
“Like I got crushed by a firetruck.” He says it with a chuckle, like it’s supposed to be funny. Like it’s supposed to be funny because it’s what happened. But it isn’t what happened, at least not this time. It has your brows furrowing as your gaze shifts to Eddie.
“That bad, huh?” He asks, a slight chuckle in place to make Buck feel more comfortable as he eases back slightly. If something’s wrong, the easiest way to figure it out is by making sure Buck isn’t too worked up.
“I’ve definitely felt better.” He says, coughing slightly as he goes to reach for the cup of water on the tray table. Only to find that his arm isn’t free, and that’s when his gaze finally shifts to you.
And you don’t know what you’re expecting from him. Maybe a smile or some flirtatious line off the top of his head. What you don’t expect is for his brows to furrow and for his eyes to roam across your face in the hopes of trying to place you.
Your hand slowly retracts from his wrist and you discretely shove it in the pocket of your hoodie as he looks at you.
“Who’s this?” He asks, the question clearly directed towards Eddie even though he hasn’t torn his eyes from you. And you can see Eddie open his mouth out of your peripheral, but you beat him to the punch.
“I’m Y/N.” You start, putting on your most professional and placating smile as you attempt to convincingly lie your ass off, “I work for the department, and I was sent to check in on you. Diaz was updating me on your condition.”
You shoot a look in Eddie’s direction, a silent plea that he just goes along with this. It’ll be easier that way, easier than trying to convince Buck of things that aren’t coming to the forefront of his brain.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Buckley.” You clear your throat, grabbing your jacket off the chair next to you as you take a few steps back. “I’ll go grab a nurse and let them know you’re awake.”
And with that you’re gone, not bothering to send one last look in their direction. Yeah, the doctors definitely didn’t prepare you for this.
— — —
“We’re gonna be late.”
Your warning seems to fall on disinterested ears as you feel yet another kiss pressed to your neck.
“Who cares?” It’s a mumble, one that comes from a voice that is still scratchy from sleep, but it makes you laugh.
“Bobby will kill us if we’re late.” You tilt your head slightly, catching a glimpse of the alarm clock on the bedside table. The party is supposed to start in an hour and a half, with the both of you supposed to arrive at least thirty minutes after the fact. And you both still need to shower.
“It’s a party, it’s not like we’re going to be late for work.”
“It’s your birthday party.”
“Which I’m not supposed to know about.” You roll your eyes. How does he have the nerve to act like you spilled the beans when you didn’t breathe a word of it to him?
“Which you know about because you’re nosy.”
“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” You can’t manage to bite back the belly laugh that bubbles up in your throat at that. You don’t buy it for a second.
“You asked Chimney.”
Buck pulls away from you with a sigh, hovering over you as you stare up at him, failing to hide the grin on your face as you lock eyes with him. And he finds himself smiling back within a matter of seconds.
“What?” He asks, and you shake your head as your hands skate up his arms to then wrap around his neck. Pulling him slightly closer to you.
“I’m just,” You start, sighing slightly as you thread your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, “Really happy.”
And the way that that brightens his smile might just be the most breathtaking thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. And your smile grows in turn at the sight of him so damn happy, and it makes your heart jump slightly at the idea that you just might be the thing that makes him so damn happy.
Who’d have ever thought you could be the cause of a smile so radiant? The idea of it had never really crossed your mind in the past. And now you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. And, if you let yourself, you think you could get used to it. Get addicted to it. And that’s dangerous.
It’s dangerous because this could all go away so quickly. It could slip through your fingers and you could be out in the cold. On your own once more, living an awkward work life and having next to no personal life. Just because things are good right now doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way.
You know it’s incredibly glass half empty, but your brain is hardwired to be waiting for the next terrible thing around the bend. It’s pessimistic as hell, you’re well aware, but it’s a habit that you just can’t manage to shake. You have the feeling it’ll follow you to your grave.
“I love you.” You whisper, quieter than you need to be because it’s just the two of you. There are no prying ears to hide the words from, but they feel sacred. Like they’re something special to be held between just the two of you, no matter how many times you’ve said them at this point. You don’t ever want those three little words to feel trite, to feel like something you just say.
There’s beauty in something becoming reflexive, but you fear that it’ll lose some of its meaning if it's solely instinctive. If then it’ll just be something you say because you’re used to it. You don’t ever want it to feel that way.
“I love you too.” He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, your hands sliding down to rest on either side of his face until he pulls away.
“Happy birthday, Buck.”
— — —
“Absolutely not.”
See, you knew that you were going to be met with the stubborn brick wall when you showed up today. But there’s this small, somewhat stupid, part of you that hoped maybe you’d be met with a bit of understanding. But that’s not possible where Bobby is concerned. Not in a situation like this.
Because he seems to think it’s in your best interest to take a few days off. To give yourself some time to gather your thoughts and figure out what you want to do. Maybe take a little vacation time, fly back to the east coast and visit your family. He wouldn’t want to throw you back into high stress situations after the week you’ve had.
He doesn’t seem to understand the fact that you’d rather be anywhere than in your own head right now. You want to be able to rely on your instincts and on the things that you can do. The things you can control. You can save people. You can do something worthwhile with your time instead of just sitting on the couch letting your misery swallow you whole.
“Bobby, I need this.” You say, leaning down on the countertop as you look at him behind the stove.
“I had Eddie take a week off after Shannon, I’m giving you the same.”
“But this is not the same.” You try and argue, but Bobby is having none of it.
“It is the same.” He says, fixing you with a look that puts a finality on your perspective. “The future you had in mind was pulled out from under you. It’s the same.”
But it’s not the same. It’s not the same in the least. And, god, it makes you feel like a shitty person for even entertaining the notion, but a sick part of you feels like Eddie got off easy.
Because there’s no wondering. Once it’s done, it’s done. And she’s just gone. There was no way of getting her back. He doesn’t have to be plagued with the idea that one day she might come back to him. That any day could just be that day and things will be perfect again.
And he doesn’t have to live with the fear that that day may not ever actually show up. And you’ll just have to learn how to move on with your life again, with you being the only person to know your and Buck’s storied history. Every last detail, each and every quiet moment shared without prying eyes.
It’ll only live on behind your eyes, and you don’t know how you’re supposed to live with that. Not with the knowledge that Buck is still out there without an ounce of a memory of what you shared. Of the future you were planning. And that is a torture of its own uniquely hellish design.
And you can’t help but wonder if all of this, if the forgetting and all the pain that comes with it, is a fate worse than death. It certainly feels like it is. At least death is final.
“Bobby, I-” You start, but the sternness of his glance intensifies as he puts a lasagna in the oven.
“I’ll see you in a week, Y/L/N.” And with that he’s off. Heading down the stairs towards his office, no doubt to fill out even more paperwork about Buck’s accident and his impending return from leave.
You let out a long suffering sigh as you turn around, only to find two pairs of sympathetic eyes watching you from across the room. And they don’t even bother to pretend that they’re not eavesdropping when you catch them.
“I’m gonna assume you guys won’t put in a good word for me with Bobby.” You say, pushing away from the counter and making your way over to the couch where Hen and Chimney are sitting.
“Maybe some time off won’t be so bad.” Hen tries, hoping that it’ll provide some level of comfort in the face of this unprecedented territory. It doesn’t. “Maybe it’ll help you clear your head.”
“I can promise you, this fog isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” You say as you lean back a little bit so that you’re resting against the back cushions of the couch.
These last few days have gone by like your body and brain were running completely on autopilot. The elevator ride to the hospital lobby, the walk back to your car, the drive back to your and Buck’s apartment.
The immediate instinct to run upstairs and grab all the duffel bags you could find and start packing your things into them. Stripping the apartment of every last trace of your existence and your relationship with Buck. It just about broke your heart in two to take the photo booth photostrip, with its worn crease in the middle, off the fridge and stuff it into your wallet.
It has all started to bleed together in your brain. And you don’t have it in you to go through and try to pick it all apart. Right now you’re trying your damnedest to be focused on the immediate. Keeping your sights locked in on the right now. And it’s proving to be damn near impossible since everyone seems to think that they know better. Since everyone seems to think that time is the answer here.
There is no answer. They just don’t seem to get that.
“I called Loretta last night and told her her services would no longer be needed.” You’d called and straight up told her that the wedding has been canceled. But she was busy asking you about Buck since she saw the story on the news, and she never got a straight answer over the past few days because you'd just given her a few bullshit placating answers when she’d called.
And you told her that he was still in the hospital, and that he’d be going home in a few days. You also mentioned the turn in his condition in a slightly offhand way to make it seem like you’re not as bothered by it as you are. And she came to the lovely conclusion that the big day is just postponed. She’ll still be looking out and trying to get everything in order the way she and Buck had been discussing.
She’s so convinced that all of this will have a miraculous happy ending. That one day soon it’ll all be normal again and you’ll be walking down the aisle in no time.
Hope is a luxury that only the truly unaffected can afford. Because they don’t know any better. Because they don’t have anything to lose. You’d given up on the optimistic side of your own fate a long time ago because a half full glass has never gotten you anywhere.
And it won’t get you anywhere now. Not with what the doctor told you over the phone. An update on Buck’s condition since you tried to make your presence at the hospital scarce after his first set of waking hours. You left in the presence of his best friend who he trusted. Who he still remembered.
According to the doctor his memory was about two years behind the current times, meaning that in his mind it’s shortly after the ladder truck incident. Meaning that he’s still in that phase of his life where he’s getting over the short and sweet, and astoundingly abrupt, presence of Ali in his life. All the while he’s still trying to mend his broken heart over Abby’s little cut and run act.
And he hasn’t met you yet.
Because you didn’t come around until the middle of the hell freezing over. You stumbled upon the dose of familial chaos that is the 118 when Buck was in the middle of suing the department for wrongful termination.
The beginning of a new job is stressful enough, it was like walking on eggshells over there for a while. Not because they didn’t like you, it's just that you aren’t Buck. Which was both a good and bad thing, because as mad as they were at him they still missed him like hell. They just wished he could pull his head out of his ass and see sense.
And eventually he did. But he wasn’t thrilled to come back and find a new member of the team. Someone who hadn’t been shipped off to another house after he was granted his return. But that dissatisfaction only lasted for a little while. It didn’t take too long for the switch to flip and for the vibe to change completely. The two of you were practically inseparable after a little while.
But history isn’t going to repeat itself, and you can’t just orchestrate things to roll forth the way they had the first time around. That was a beautiful stroke of luck, an entirely unexpected thing that set your life on a different course. And it won’t happen the same way twice. If you even bother this time.
The doctor said that you can’t be too pushy with the whole idea of reappearing memories. You can’t just talk to him about his life and practically force a revelation upon him. It has to be organic, it has to be natural. The doctor has every faith that everything will come back to Mr. Buckley, he just doesn’t know how long that will take. It just sounded like a lot of bullshit to you.
The rest of the team seems a little more insistent than you do. Like they’ve all signed themselves up to try and help jog Buck’s memory. But you can’t decide if that’s something you really want.
Well, okay, obviously you want that. You want your life to go back to what it was a week ago. But you don’t know if you want to give some of those memories back to Buck. You’re the reason he landed himself in that bed in the first place. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself for that.
So, you don’t want him to remember it. Because it’s easier to hold it against yourself, to keep the weight of it steadily secured on your shoulders, when he doesn’t have the option to forgive you. It’s easier to keep hating yourself when there’s no one there to give you permission to give yourself a break.
“You know, you can stay with Karen and me if you want.” Hen offers, that kind smile would be comforting if it weren’t for the pity that is so evident in her eyes, “It might be best if you’re not alone right now.”
“Or you can stay with me.” Chimney pipes up, “Albert’s about to get his own place.”
As tempting as the offer of Chimney’s vacant living room floor is, you have to graciously turn it down. Because they’re both being unbearably sweet, and you’d probably do the same if the roles were reversed. But you don’t really want it. You can handle this yourself, even if you really don’t want to.
“I’m good at the hotel guys, I promise.” You say, waving them off as you stand from the couch. “Besides, a unit in my old building just went up for rent and I put in an offer. I’m doing fine, I’ll be settled in a couple weeks. It’ll be fine.”
They’re about to protest once more, Hen more so than Chimney, but you’re all stopped in your tracks by the sound of a familiar voice. A voice calling out to Bobby in a far too cheery tone, the sound of someone relieved to be back in the only building they’ve ever felt at home in.
You rush over to the railing and find Eddie and Buck walking into the firehouse. Eddie had texted earlier that morning and said Buck was being discharged today. But he was supposed to take him back to the loft, he wasn’t supposed to bring him here.
But Buck was probably insistent. He probably wanted to check in with the rest of the 118 and ease any worries. Besides, it’s not like you told Eddie that you’d be here. You can hear the two of them getting off the couch behind you and approaching you with slow steps. Like you’re a skittish wild animal about to make a run for the woods.
And, honestly, that’s the way you feel right about now.
“Y/N.” Hen says. Like she’s trying to regain your attention. Like she’s already said it a few times and you just haven’t heard her. And you turn to find her rising from her chair with her brows raised as she walks towards the railing to see what’s captured your attention. Once she spots him she places her hand on your shoulder like it’ll do something to keep you there for a few more seconds.
But it’s not enough, and you’re not ready to look at his face and see not an ounce of recognition. Not again. Not this soon.
“I have to go.” You say, snatching your hoodie off the back of the nearby armchair and pulling it on as you speed down the steps. You zip it up and are reaching for the hood as you make it down to the firetruck bay, and you can see Buck hugging Bobby out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head just slightly as they’re pulling away. And Buck sees you, he catches a glimpse of you right before you have the hood fully situated on the top of your head.
It’s a split second, and you know he doesn’t know who you are. You know that he’s probably trying to place why he recognizes you, trying to connect it to when he saw you at the hospital. But the furrow in his brow gives you pause, but just for a second. Because soon enough you’re hightailing it out of the station and heading out to your car. You don’t give yourself the chance to breathe until you’ve pulled out of the parking lot and are on your way back to the hotel.
— — —
“You are the worst driver.”
“I am an excellent driver.”
You roll your eyes as you wipe some excess lip gloss off your cheek, lip gloss that had been accidentally smeared on your face when Buck swerved at the very last second to avoid what he believed to be an animal in the middle of the road. You don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t an animal.
“Tell that to all of your overdue parking tickets.” You taunt, screwing the cap back on your tube of lip gloss before sticking it in your purse.
“Parking and driving are not the same thing.”
“They’re basically the same thing.” You put the visor back up where it's supposed to be as you turn your head to look at him.
“They are not the same thing, at all.”
“You can’t just drive around forever, you have to stop at some point. Parking is the end point of driving. They go hand in hand, so they’re the same thing. It’s all one big thing.”
And he’s at a loss. He’s shaking his head, eyes on the road with the beginnings of a disbelieving smile on his face. And you know he’s at a loss because you’re right, your logic leads to the right ending. Despite the defense he may be building in his mind, you’ve won this time around.
“When we have kids you’re not teaching them how to drive.” Is what he comes up with instead, meaning to pivot this little spat away from his bad driving but it kind of stops you in your tracks.
“When we have kids?” It’s not really meant to be a question, but it comes out like one in spite of your intentions.
Sure, you’d thought about your future with Buck. You’d given yourself the bandwidth, the freedom, to dream beyond the reality in front of you. But you always thought the idea of some happily ever after was just too far-fetched to happen to little old you. And things have just been going too well, everything is too perfect. And expecting anything more feels a little greedy when you already have more than you bargained for.
You never dared to let yourself think that, maybe, Buck’s been thinking about the same things too.
“I mean, I’ve thought about it.” He starts, his nerves slipping into his voice as he purposely keeps his eyes on the road ahead. “A lot, actually. And I know we haven’t talked about it yet, and I don’t even know if you want-”
And it’s cute, kind of. It’s endearing to say the least. But you figure it’s best to put him out of his misery, to give him the reassurance that you’ve let your mind wander down the same paths. He’s been let down one too many times for him to just believe that there is a future in this. At least not without his fair share of misgivings and doubt.
So, you reach across the console to his hand resting by the gear shift and you slip your hand into his. Your fingers twining between his as you look over at him. You catch his gaze dart over to you out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road.
“I’ve thought about it too, Buck.” And it’s like he finally stops holding his breath. “I’ve thought of the future, our future, in so many ways.”
And, if you’re being really honest with yourself, kids have never really been something you felt were necessary for your happiness. Sure, you weren’t entirely against the idea but it wasn’t like you had any desperate need to be a mother or anything.
But you’ve been spending so much time around such great parents as of late, and getting to hang out with their amazing kids. In fact you’ve spent your fair share of time around the Diaz boys, and Chris has just about stolen your heart. Buck is amazing with kids, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.
And every time you see him around the kids of the 118, everytime you see him around Jee-Yun, it does something to your heart. It doesn’t make it skip a beat, per se. There’s just this wave of warmth that washes through your chest as you watch them. A sweet, unintentional smile making itself known. And you can see it in the people around you, like they know what’s going through your mind.
Like they’re just counting down the days until it’s actually a reality. Because Buck would be a great dad, there’s no doubt in your mind. And the idea of family has always felt a bit like a foreign concept, but you really want to build a family with Buck.
“All those things that we’re supposed to dream about,” You start, taking a breath before you continue on, “Marriage. Kids. A family and a place of your own. I want all of that. I want to have all of that with you.”
“Yeah?” He asks, a small smile on his face as he peeks over at you.
“Yeah.” You assure, a barely hidden smile on your face as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it.
— — —
You’re back at the 118 exactly a week later, because you are just that stubborn and you want Bobby to know exactly where he can stick his time off. You know he means well, Bobby isn’t the kind of guy to act with ill intent. Especially not in regards to his crew. But you’re just so tired of everyone’s kind gestures. They’ve been too frequent for your liking.
And it’s a few days removed from that one week cut off, and being back at work doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would. Because he’s here, but he’s not. He’s here in the sense that he’s seemingly just around every corner. Right there to stop your breath in your throat when you catch sight of him. Like a living ghost, and you’re worried that he’s going to disappear each and every time.
And he’s not there in the sense that the chemistry in the field is off. That unspoken connection has gone out the window, and he no longer has the ability to anticipate your next move. But you’re always on par with him because you still know him like the back of your hand. Maybe if you didn’t it wouldn’t hurt so much.
During the times when you’re all back in the station you make the calculated choice to make yourself scarce because you don’t have it in you to have to face all of this head on. You don’t really have the self control to entertain conversation with this version of Buck.
Not that there’s anything wrong with this phase of Buck, I mean this is the Buck you fell in love with after all. Before the Buck 3.0 software update, which always felt a little laughable to be honest. As there was no need for a complete overhaul. But you know he’ll never be on the same page as you when it comes to the topic of his “self improvement.”
You just can’t bear to hear him talk about the lovers of his past. Ali was a little more like a footnote, a weatherable shock to the system. But Abby was like a hurricane. And Buck wasn’t safely planted in the eye of the storm, he was smack in the middle of the path of destruction she left in her wake. This is Buck pre-closure, and there’s a piece of your heart that aches for his state of mind.
And you’ve had to hear him ramble on to Bobby or Hen, or, really, whoever will listen, about these tales of woe. Of how he’s still trying to figure these things out. And just because he left Abby’s place it doesn’t truly mean he’s left Abby in his rearview.
And everyone is treating him with kid gloves, trying to act like they haven’t already been through these conversations a tireless amount of times. Even though they moved beyond them years ago, but it all feels so real to Buck right now. And there’s nothing any of them can do to change that.
They’ve been trying to get the two of you in the same room during each shift, but you find ways to slip out before they can manage it. Besides, it’s not like Buck really notices. As far as he’s concerned you’re just another coworker, one who likes to keep to themself. And he respects that.
And the 118 has been, to the best of their ability, respecting your space. Chimney claims that when he asks it’s because Maddie is worried about you. But you know it’s more than that. Hell, you’ve even had to field a few calls from Athena because she knows you’re not talking to Bobby. And, whether he’ll admit it or not, it’s kind of killing him.
You’ve been doing a good job of keeping it together yourself. You’ve yet to cry about it, you’ve just tried to act like it’s not really happening. Treating it somewhat like you and Buck have just broken up, and that you’re trying to get your life back on track. Since that’s basically what this is. Despite that teensy sprinkle of hope everyone keeps telling you to hold onto.
And you’re doing great with this avoidance tactic until he makes it all but impossible to act like he doesn’t exist. You’re up in the loft of the firehouse at like two in the morning, watching the news while everyone is supposed to be sleeping, shuffling a deck of cards in your hands. And then you hear footsteps coming from the steps by the kitchen. You don’t even bother to look up. You know exactly who it is.
“There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter if you want some.” You say, voice halfway zoned out as you watch the latest traffic prediction for the impending early morning commute. The most predictable thing about LA traffic is that it’s going to be shitty, it’s not exactly rocket science.
“Thanks.” You hear as one of the cabinets closes and a mug is placed on the counter. There’s liquid being poured into the mug, and then the sound of footsteps again that get slightly louder with each step closer to the armchair beside you.
He focuses on the TV for a few seconds, but you can feel his gaze flicking to you several times. Like he’s waiting to strike up a conversation, like something about you has been on his mind in a way that he just can’t shake, but he doesn’t know how to start.
And you’re really not doing him any favors. Your eyes are still glued to the screen while you fiddle with the deck. And he drinks his coffee, and the occasional slurping sounds do nothing to abate the awkwardness that has settled over the hallowed house.
Eventually Buck seems to give up on nonchalance and settles his mug down on the coffee table as he leans forward slightly.
“You came to visit me in the hospital.” It’s not a question, there’s such sureness in the way he says it that he’s not really looking for you to confirm anything. He has no trouble remembering that. But he probably figured he’d never see you again after that day. So, having to deal with you on a daily basis has probably thrown him for a loop.
“I did.” And it absolutely kills you that this is the way he views this whole thing. You came for a visit, just to check in on a fellow firefighter. It wasn’t a visit, it was hell. It was days of waiting to see if he was ever even going to wake up. You wish it could just be classified as a visit.
“You said you were sent to check on my condition.” And now it’s time to lie a little more. And it should be a little troubling how naturally it comes to you, how easily you’re willing to save your own skin by letting Buck believe whatever he needs to believe. You wish you were a little better at being honest. “You said you worked for the department.”
“I do.” You say, because technically that part isn’t a lie. But you can’t say the same for this next part. “I heard about your accident and figured I should come check in. I know I’d want someone there with me if I was in your position.”
A kind face, whether they’re familiar enough to be friendly or not. Sometimes just having someone can make even the worst things seem a little bit better than they could’ve been. One of the worst things in this life is being alone, and no one deserves to be subscribed to that fate. Especially not in a time quite as vulnerable as a hospital stay.
“Seems like you got dealt a shitty hand.” You mutter, flipping over the card on the top of the deck to be met with the smirking face of the Joker.
“It’s no picnic.” He says, eyes falling on the dark liquid in his mug.
And you can’t imagine what it’s like to actually be in his head these days. Sure, the outside perspective is a hellish enough experience on its own. But you can’t imagine what it’s like to be so lost inside your own mind. More so than he’s ever been before.
“Do you remember anything at all?” You ask, because you just can’t help yourself. Self control has never really been your virtue and it’s been keeping you up at night. Because the doctor said that the last few years are just gone in this weird blink of an eye. And that just doesn’t really seem possible. It doesn’t seem feasible.
“Not really. And what I do remember is basically just in flashes.” Meaning none of it is clear. Meaning he remembers these last few years of his life through a completely distorted lens.
And you don’t have a perfect memory either. There are sections of your life that are completely gone from your mind. And no matter how hard you try you wouldn’t be able to call upon them with perfect clarity.
But that’s just the effects of time on the mind, this is something of a fluke. Something that was never supposed to happen. And the doctor had rambled on about it hopefully being short term, and that hopefully it’ll all come back to him soon. But none of this feels short term. And you’re sure that Buck understands that more than anyone.
“And I’ve been trying to jog my memory but nothing’s working. And it just feels like something is missing.” He scoffs, taking another sip of his coffee. “I know that probably sounds stupid, because obviously something is missing. But it just feels like there’s a hole. Like there’s someone missing, and I don’t know who. I just know that they’re important. And everyone seems to clam up whenever I ask about them.”
And suddenly the coffee table is extremely interesting as you can’t bear to make eye contact with him.
“How important?” It’s a low blow, and it comes from the greediest, slimiest corners of your brain. Because there’s a small part of you that just wants to hear the level of importance that your presence holds in Buck’s mind even when he’s not all the way there.
You shouldn’t need to hear it, you hear it all the time. You’re wearing his ring for goodness sake! You’ve never been left wondering, and you’re grateful for that. But everything feels like a shot in the dark right now. And you’ll take everything you can get.
“Abby important.” He says, and you just about choke on your saliva. Obviously you know about Abby Clark, and you know the number she did on him. She was his first real experience with love and he got his heart stomped on in the process. And the aftermath of that train derailment was not the easiest of days. In fact, it was pretty shitty in a lot of ways.
That was the night you and Buck kissed for the first time. And it ended in you pushing him away because you just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was coming from the wrong place. He’d seen Abby again after having given up on the idea of her ever coming back. And he saved her fiancés life. He was in a bad way, and you figured that this sudden outpouring of feeling was solely because he wanted a distraction.
He wanted the opportunity to be weak and seek comfort in a familiar presence. Just to act as though it never happened. Then you’d just be coworkers again, and you’d just have to soldier on with a brave face in the wake of Buck’s broken heart and the burgeoning fissure in your own.
And, really, no one could blame you. You’d heard the stories about Buck 1.0. About stealing fire trucks to hook up with hot girls from dating apps, or girls from rescues that were a little too fanatic about snakes, to the point that it resulted in a temporary firing. How were you supposed to know that Buck actually wanted something serious with you?
But you were wrong about all that, and he made sure you knew it. It just happened to be the next morning because you’d all but fled the station after the kiss. Your shift was over anyway, and you just didn’t have it in you to face all of those jumbled feelings when you could barely keep your eyes open.
But Buck was at your apartment door bright and early the next morning with coffee from the shop down the block. And you were a little more than antsy at the prospect of the conversation. But it didn’t crash and burn like you were expecting. It wasn’t flames, it was fireworks. And it was beautiful. It has always been beautiful.
Until the vibrant colors disappear from the star filled sky and all you can see is the smoke billowing through the wind until it blends with the black of the night. That’s what this is now. The fireworks have fizzled to their end. These are the dregs. You’re the smoke and you’ve already all but disappeared. And you’re helpless to the power of the wind as it carries you off someplace beyond sight.
It might be naive, but you thought the fireworks were never going to fade. Being wrong has never felt so severe a punishment until now.
Because these days it feels like you’re in the middle of a grassy field sprawled out a checkered blanket as you watch the display. And you see him in each beautiful interruption of the natural order of the night. He’s the bang. He’s bright, and intoxicating, and he draws you in. But nothing lasts forever, and the beauty of it is buried deep within its ephemeral nature.
And, because you’re only human, you forget just how beautiful the fireworks can be until you’re in that same space again. And you get caught up in the awe of the magnificent chaos it creates. But only for a little while. Only for as long as they’re in the sky. Once the show is over you’re packing up your blanket and heading to your car. Like it never even happened.
That’s where things get a little different. Because, try as you might, you can’t forget him. You’ve been falling a little more in love with Evan Buckley since the day you met him, and you know that you’ll still be falling a little more until the last day you stand beside him, and that’s not something you can so easily forget.
Not when you’ve had the privilege of bearing witness to his heart on his sleeve and that infuriatingly charming smile of his. You don’t ever want to forget that. That heart, that smile, those eyes, his laugh.
They’re all just like fireworks.
A little skip in the beat of your heart, but their impact is so much greater than a few seconds along the atmosphere. Just as beautiful, but permanently burned into your brain so you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to.
Better than fireworks. Better than flames. Better than anything you ever could have imagined. And then the universe goes and makes you the butt of some sick joke.
“But I feel like this person might be more important than that.” He says, like it’s been rattling around in his head for a while. And he’s been waiting to give it the time and space to breathe. “But everytime I try and think about them, to try and get something back, I hit a wall.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” You say, reaching for your own mug from the table and taking a long sip.
“What do you mean?” He asks, and you shrug in an attempt at nonchalance. You’re not sure if it succeeds or not.
“Maybe this is supposed to be one of those things that is spontaneous. It’ll all come back when it’s ready. A watched pot never boils.” You put the mug back down on the table, wiping the back of your hand against your lips. “Maybe you just have to be patient.”
And you know that it’s all a little hypocritical because patience has never been your virtue. And these days it really feels like you’re at the end of your rope. But this is solely a waiting game at this point, that’s all life has been the past few weeks.
“Maybe.” He says, and the way he says it makes it seem like the last thing he wants to do is wait. And you understand, you’re on the same wavelength, but it seems a little inevitable at this point.
The two of you lapse into comfortable silence, which feels like a freaking miracle on your part, with only the sound of the latest breaking news in the background. You stare at the TV screen, zoned out to the droning sound of the reporter’s voice and fiddling with the ring on the chain around your neck. A spot you’d chosen for safe keeping during the job. Plus, it’s a nice way of keeping Buck close to your heart.
You don’t even realize that you’re doing it, it’s just become a bit of a nervous habit at this point since you’ve been wearing the ring for nearly six months now. In fact, you don’t take notice of it until you hear him say:
“You’re engaged?” You just about freeze to your spot at the sound of his voice, your gaze very slowly drifting from the television to his face. And he doesn’t seem as surprised as you suspected. In fact, there’s an almost sweet smile on his lips when he looks at you. And the mere sight of it triggers a million memories of every other time you’ve been on the receiving end of that smile. All the smiles that aren’t even a blip on his radar.
“Uh, yeah.” You say, trying to swallow down the lump that has settled in your throat. “About six months now.”
“They treat you right?” He asks, and you nod as you slide your finger along the chain.
“Yeah. He’s pretty great.” And you smile despite yourself, because you really just can’t help it. The happiness you have been privy to these last two years is almost incomprehensible. “But, one of these days, I swear that man is going to be the death of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a heart first kind of guy.” You say, eyes meeting his for a brief second before moving back to the TV. “His solutions are often out of instinct, and he acts on them without much more thought. He figures if he can help in any way then it has to be the right move, even if it means that he’ll get hurt in the process. He doesn’t seem to realize that losing him is also a worst case scenario.”
That’s the part that you can never seem to get over. That one little annoyance with Buck that you can never seem to shake. He seems to believe that he’s a person people can just get over. That he’ll be easy to move on from.
And you know for a fact that he feels this way because it’s what he’s been led to believe his entire life. But it’s not true.
It would not be a quick healing process, and you know everyone that loves him agrees. It would never be easy, and you’d never get over it. Maddie would be mourning her brother for the rest of her life if their family attitude towards loss is any indication.
And every member of the 118 would be looking over their shoulder on every rescue just expecting him to be there only to quickly be reminded that he’s never going to be there no matter how many times they look.
He’s not tradeable. His actions would be commendable, no doubt about that. But not a single one of you would be happy it happened. You’d spend the rest of your lives feeling guilty and wondering what you could’ve done to save him. Wondering if you could’ve possibly found a way to beat him to the punch and be the one who wound up in the ground. There is no easy way out of something like this.
“Is he one of ours?” You can tell by the look on his face that he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Like he’s been in those same shoes, and still lives in that headspace. You don’t know if he’ll ever actually move through that. If he’ll ever believe that he’s actually something valuable.
“Yeah. We met at work.” And what an interesting time that was to be working at the 118. It was not smooth sailing to say the least. “And he’s been obsessed with wedding planning. It’s driving me crazy”
That’s something you never thought you’d miss. The ending every night with flipping through the wedding binder or scrolling through the pictures that Loretta sent him. Endless displays of flowers and place settings and seating charts. It’s all so involved, and if you never see another cake topper again it’ll be too soon.
“You’re not into planning?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“It’s not that planning is the problem. It’s that we keep disagreeing over the same thing. Flowers are fine, the cake is fine, the food is fine. We just can’t seem to get over ourselves when it comes to music.”
“The obvious answer is band.” He says at the same time you say, “DJ.”
And the man looks at you like you’ve grown another head. Like this is quite possibly the greatest betrayal he’s even endured despite only having known you for like twenty minutes.
“It’s a wedding.” He justifies, “A band is so much more romantic.” Live music, with a perfectly curated set. It’d be heaven. That’s what he’s been telling you for months, it’s still not enough to get you on team band.
“But a DJ can play all of those stupid wedding dance songs that tell you the steps. The songs that really get the party going.” You’re joking, but only slightly.
“The Cupid Shuffle is not stupid.” He defends, incredulity laced in his voice as he looks at you. And it only takes a few seconds for the two of you to start laughing because this is truly absurd.
But the laughter dies down after a few seconds, and you’re just smiling at each other. The shy kind that you try to hide with all of its inherent sweetness.
Just as his smile slowly drops, but the warmth in his eyes has yet to disappear, your phone starts vibrating on the coffee table. And both of your eyes are drawn to the screen as Maddie’s face pops up with the caller id.
“Is that-” He starts as you reach for the phone and silence the call, only for him to catch a glimpse of the photo of you and him on your lockscreen. A real sweet one, with his arm around your shoulders and a bright small on his face as you’re caught laughing. You look stupid, real cheesy, but it’s one of your favorite photos of the two of you. And you didn’t have the heart to change the photo.
“You know what, I’m actually starting to feel a little tired.” You fake a yawn as you stand, shoving your phone in your back pocket and turning towards the staircase. “I think I’m gonna go try and get some sleep.”
You rush out of there as fast as humanly possible without even chancing a look over your shoulder. That was a little too close. Scratch that. It was way too close.
— — —
You decide you should try and get some sleep as yet another hour of mindless bridal reality shows start to play on the TV. The glow from the television screen is the only thing lighting your face at this late hour, aside from the occasional glow of your phone screen when you tap it to see if you have any new messages from Buck.
You pull yourself up from the cushion with a groan, stretching your arms over your head as you sit up with your eyes fixated on the moonlight filtering in through the windows. You grab the remote and turn off the TV, carelessly dropping the remote onto the cushion beside you as you stand and slip your phone into your back pocket.
You have the sneaking suspicion that any attempt at a good night’s sleep will be absolutely fruitless. And you know that yesterday is a day you won’t be able to shake for a good long while. You weren’t actually there, you weren’t on the street, and you weren’t caught in the crossfires of the hectic ride to the hospital when Buck literally held Eddie’s life in his hands. But you were there for the after.
You were rushing into the hospital, and being told that you really needed to wait outside by the nursing staff as the number of visitors allowed inside was still limited. Besides, it didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for. And you were waiting right outside once Buck finally came outside with blood speckled forearms and shaking hands. And it only worsened the image that had been playing out in your mind ever since it came over the radio.
And you don’t envy him, not in the fact that he had to witness that or in the fact that he has to tell Christopher what happened. That he has to explain to a child that his father may not be coming home. You have no idea how he possibly conjured up the strength to manage that.
But he was home the next day, after an absolutely reckless shift, which you had already scolded him for. You’d had the day off and saw the news clip. He had a few voicemails left on his phone with a few uses of a choice word or two.
The two of you had ordered takeout and tried to settle in for as normal a night as possible. But it just turned into worried companionable silence as neither of you even touched your food. And then Ana called saying Eddie was awake and he took off running. Barely remembering to put his shoes on and grab his car keys before he was out the door. And you couldn’t blame him. You’d been worried out of your brain that Eddie wouldn’t wake up, and now knowing he was on the mend did wonders for your worries.
You’d be seeing Eddie soon enough. The day he’d be getting out of the hospital, you really didn’t feel like you could wait much longer to see if he was really alright. And as worried as you’ve been you know that Buck has been even more out of his mind.
And you know that everyone is still living in this lurch where no one really knows what’s going to happen next. They don’t know who’s responsible for all of this and they don’t know who else he might go after. And everything hanging in the balance is the most unsettling feeling you’ve ever had to stomach.
Attempting to push all of that out of your mind is the only way you have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting any sleep. Even though you know you probably won’t even have a chance of getting any until Buck is back. That way you know he’s safe, even if his only off duty stops are the hospital and Eddie’s house to make sure someone is there for Christopher through the night.
He’d sent a text when he got settled in the hospital, just to make sure you knew he’d gotten there without any incident. And you appreciated it, you really did. But it’s not the same as having him standing right in front of you alive and well. There’s no reassurance quite like it.
But you know it’ll be a few more days before you really get that reassurance, so you start the climb up the stairs towards your bed. Finger just about to flip the light switch to kill the lights downstairs with your foot poised on the bottom step as you hear the door open.
“Buck?” You ask, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of the figure coming through the doorway.
You watch him drop his keys on the kitchen counter and he turns to you. And he looks lighter than he did when he left, but only slightly. Which feels like good news.
“I thought you were staying at Eddie’s tonight.” You say, taking a step back towards the kitchen to get a better look at him.
“I am. I was on my way over there, I just really needed to see you.”
“Is everything okay?” And it sounds like the world’s stupidest question, you’re well aware. Because how could any of you really be okay right now? But there’s something a little far off about Buck at the moment, and you really want to pin down what it is, otherwise you’ll be left circling the drain until he decides he just can’t hold it in any longer.
“Yeah, I’m good. I just, um, I was reminded that life is really short. Especially in our line of work. And if we can keep waiting around for the perfect time, it’s just going to pass us by. And I’m tired of waiting, and I’m tired of letting every opportunity slip through my fingers.”
And those sound like heavy words, words that are so very weighed down by a meaning that you don’t want to notice but already have. Because this is not the time. Tonight is not the night. And this is not the headspace in which someone should be asking this kind of question. This is not the kind of decision to make after watching your best friend bleed out on the pavement.
“Buck.” You start, but he shakes his head as he walks closer to you.
“Please, I just need to get this out.” And he hasn’t asked the question yet, which means it isn’t your time to answer. And every last bit of resolve in your body is praying he doesn’t get down on one knee tonight.
He isn’t making it any easier. He’s pausing, he’s trying to figure out the exact right words to say. He’s trying to make it perfect.
That is the last thing you want.
“I love you.” He says, and then he smiles like all of the weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Like that is the biggest bomb he’s about to drop. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
And you know the feeling all too well. You know just how easy it is. It’s innate. It’s like breathing. It’s something you’ll never be able to forget how to do.
“And everything goes by so fast, you know? It’s here one second and gone the next, and I don’t want this to be like that. I want to always be right here. With you.”
It’s like your heart is about to burst out of your chest. You can practically see the question on the tip of his tongue, and you just can’t let that happen.
“Buck.” You try again, more worry creeping into your voice as you look at him. And he shakes his head, like you don’t understand. And, hell, maybe you don’t. But you don't know what else this could possibly be.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say, okay? I shouldn’t be so impulsive. And I shouldn’t make a rash decision, but it’s not a rash decision.” Something sparks in his eyes as he looks at you, and then he’s moving. “Stay right there.” He says as he runs up the stairs to the bedroom.
And you do. You stay there despite yourself. One foot poised on the very bottom step as you fight every instinct to follow him. You’re not sure what he’s doing up there, but you have the feeling it’s going to make your night a lot more difficult.
And it does. Because of course it does. Because enough earth shattering things haven’t happened this week already, God just decided he needs to throw one more thing on the pile.
Because Buck comes rushing back down the stairs with something clutched in his hand. With each step closer you get a better look at the tiny velvet box, and your heart just about stops at the sight of it.
“I bought this three months ago.” He says, fiddling with the box in his hands as he looks at you. “I’ve been trying to find the right time. And I almost asked you so many times, but I let the voice in my head talk me out of it. And I’m tired of talking myself out of it.”
And then he does it. He breaches the point of no return and he gets down on one knee with the box in his hand. Then he’s opening the box, eyes traveling to your face in some hope to gauge your reaction.
“Will you marry me?” He asks, and, god, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so hopeful. He really isn’t making this any easier.
And you don’t really know what you’re supposed to do. You’ve never been proposed to, and you don’t really know how to say no. You don’t know how to break his heart. But this is not the right time to be saying yes. This is not the right time to be getting married. And if he were in a better headspace he’d know that.
So you take it slow, you can’t bear to just rip off the band aid. This needs to be treated gently, but that feels almost impossible right now. Not when you feel like you’re on the verge of keeling over.
The silence hangs in the air between the two of you like deadweight. And he must be getting antsy because his hands start to shake. Clearly this isn’t the reaction he was expecting.
“This is the part where you say yes.” He says, his voice shaking as you take a step closer. With the beginnings of a frown etched on your face, the pinch in your brows is almost permanent as you stop right in front of him. “Or no?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. He knows.
“I can’t.” And it’s like his heart just fell to pieces in his chest. Because he truly believed that there would be a yes on the other side of this conversation. And he doesn’t know what you’re supposed to do when someone says no in a situation like this.
And maybe where you’re coming from is a little bit right because he didn’t really think this through. He’s chomping at the bit because everything is kind of going to shit right now and he’s looking for a lighthouse in the storm. A beacon. Something safe. A light to walk towards. You’ve always been that person, and he can’t help but hold on a little tighter now.
“We can’t do this right now. Not when you’re using this to run away from all the scary things that are going on right now. I can’t say yes like this.”
You can’t say yes when it’s only coming up because some asshole is out there striking fear into the hearts of every member of the LAFD. Not when you know it’s only because Buck just came so close to losing his closest friend. He can’t just hide from everything. Not like this.
The ring box starts to close in his hands and he shakes his head slightly as he starts to stand. But you stop him before he can make it to his feet. Your hands take purchase on his shoulders as you hold him in place.
“Ask me any other day and I’ll say yes. But not tonight. This is not the headspace to be in when you’re making life changing decisions.”
The sentiment of ‘any other night’ rattles around in his brain as he looks at you. The timing has been the one thing he never manages to shake, and it offers some small bit of solace this time around. Because you have every intention of saying yes so long as he’s asking under the right circumstances.
“Now, come on,” You say, reaching for the ring box in his hand as you help to pull him up off the ground. “Christopher is waiting for you.”
He’s out the door within the next few seconds, but the both of you linger in the doorway. It doesn’t feel like the right time to leave, you’re not sure it ever really will. Not after the question that is ringing in both of your ears. But life keeps moving. And, one day, that question will propel you forward instead of holding you back.
“I love you.” He says, your fingers loosely held in his.
“I know.” You say, biting back a smile at the fondness in his gaze. “I love you too.”
— — —
You almost don’t want to answer the incessant knocking at your front door, but you knew that he’d be stopping by once his shift ended. And you knew he wouldn’t stop knocking, he’d just start calling instead. So, you open the door.
“You’re leaving the 118?” He doesn’t even bother to spare you a glance as he walks inside your newly furnished apartment.
“Hey, Eddie. What a nice surprise. Why don’t you come in?” You mutter under your breath, gesturing towards the living room as you shut your door behind the man who really isn’t paying any attention to you at all. “How’d you find out?”
“Bobby pulled me aside before I left. Wanted to ask if I could try to talk some sense into you since you’re not answering his calls. He figured I already knew.” And you have somehow never felt so much like a child being scolded. He definitely has that whole, ‘i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed’ parent glare down pat.
But you don’t want to feel like you’re being scolded. You don’t want to be made to feel like you’re in the wrong for doing what seems like the only thing you can do. It’s not running away, it’s just changing plans. And plans change all the time.
“I was going to tell you…” You start, and watch as the glare seems to get sharper, “eventually.” You close the door, but don’t stray too far from it. Hoping that this visit will be short, even though you know it won’t be.
“When? When you asked for a ride to the airport?” There’s incredulity in his tone, you’re shocked a good old fashioned indignant scoff hasn’t made an appearance.
He’s pissed. He has no right to be.
“I wouldn’t do that.” You defend, arms crossing over your chest. “I would’ve called a cab.”
Your attempt at humor goes over like a lead balloon. Your walls are up about as high as they can possibly go and you have no intention of letting them down. Not for Eddie Diaz. Not for anyone.
You knew your decision was going to be met with opposition. You know that your friends would all throw their hat in the ring to convince you otherwise. But you just can’t take it.
“Look, I get that this is beyond shitty. But-”
“All due respect,” You interrupt, “You have no idea how shitty this is.”
How could he possibly understand it when the universe decided to be kind and bathe him in the sweet surrender of mercy? But there’s no real way to explain that without coming off like a complete asshole. But it seems like the plane is already going down, so why not make one more last ditch confession. Why not add another shitshow to the last few months of cascading failures?
“I know that what happened with Shannon was horrible, and it put you through hell. I know that you still haven’t entirely recovered, but at least you got to know it’s actually over.”
You’re treading on dangerous territory, you know that. You know that whatever you say next may be the straw that breaks the camel's back and effectively ruins your friendship with Eddie Diaz. It could end with slamming doors and this conversation would be put to bed.
You’re not sure honesty is worth all this.
“I just wish this was simpler. You know, like when you were a kid and you’d get passed those stupid notes that had the two little boxes. Check yes or no. But this isn’t simple, and I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to deal with the fact that he’s here, but he’s really not.”
He’s like your own personal ghost. Haunting each and every waking moment, even the ones that should be peaceful. He’s there in your sleep, but it’s not him from the firehouse. It’s the version of him that loved you. The one you used to wake up next to. The version you’re never going to get back.
“When I was a kid I never understood how all the other girls were planning their weddings twenty years too early. I never understood how they could be so confident in the idea that one day someone is going to fall in love with them. That someone would want to spend the rest of their lives with them. I just never thought I’d have that.”
It’s not as sad as it sounds. It’s just realistic. At least, that’s how you always used to think about it. It was perfectly rational to believe in the impossibility of love. At least as far as you’re concerned. Sure, you saw it happening for other people. The people who fell in love for the first time when they were in high school, and you would watch them with something that wasn’t quite as ugly as jealousy. But you were so very removed from it. It wasn’t longing, for you didn’t believe that it was ever something you would possibly have. Why long for something so incredibly far out of reach?
Casting yourself in any kind of romantic light just never really made any sense to you. Until you get older and realize that’s actually a bit of a tough spot to put yourself in. To believe so wholeheartedly that you aren’t the kind of person someone could fall in love with is one big mind fuck. And you’ve only just recently started to get good at unraveling it.
“And then I did. I had that. But it was better than all of the stupid little stories those kids would spin in the cafeteria. And now I know why I never let myself imagine it. I would’ve been so much better off being alone because at least then I wouldn’t have to feel this way. I wouldn’t be in this much pain.”
You should’ve stayed cynical. You should’ve never let anything go beyond that first kiss. Hell, you should’ve jumped ship before that even happened. Sure, your life would be more hollow. But you never would’ve known any better. You wouldn’t have known any other feeling.
It would’ve been better that way.
You brace yourself with your hands against your countertop, your back to Eddie as you hang your head. He hasn’t said anything in a while and the silence is unsettling. Well, he’s a quiet guy to begin with. He’s good at waiting it out. Waiting until you finally show your hand and give everything away. Until you give him something to work with.
And it’s coming. It’s on the tip of your tongue, and you can’t hold it back any longer. But it may very well kill you to say it out loud.
“I just,” You say, “I wish they called time of death at the hospital. And I know that makes me a terrible person. And that there are probably plenty of people out there who would kill for some sort of second chance at being with the people they love. But I just, I, don't know how to do this. I don’t know how to move on, how to grieve when that stupid smile I love so much is staring me in the face everyday.”
You look over your shoulder, and Eddie’s watching you. His eyes border on sad, and you think you might see a smidge of pity working its way into his gaze. And it makes you feel sick.
“It’s been months and we’re no further than we were when he woke up. And I know that you’re all trying. Believe me, I do. I’ll never be able to tell you how much that means. But I just, I can't do this anymore.”
And Eddie seems like he’s holding his tongue. Well, he’s trying to. And you know why. Because this looks like you’re giving up. Like you’re giving up on Buck. Like you’re giving up on all of them. And, hell, maybe you are. Maybe it’s just easier that way.
That is kind of your MO, taking the easy way out. Because the hard way has only ever brought transitory happiness. It’s never meant to stay around for long, but its absence and the shadow it leaves behind never seem to leave your heart.
“The doctors say he’s doing a lot better. It could be any day now. If you just give it a little more time-”
“I’ve given it time.” You say, turning to face him with a look that could kill. “Months worth of time. Months of having to see him pretty much every day. And he still looks at me like I’m just his coworker. There’s nothing there. He’s not there. And I can’t keep putting myself through that.”
Eddie shakes his head, he’s beyond disappointed. He’s long past frustrated. And you’ve been there. It’s not like this was an easy decision to make.
“I’m not asking you to understand. I doubt you ever will. But I’m at least asking you to respect my decision because I’ve made up my mind.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head in disbelief in tandem with a bit of a self-righteous scoff. And that’s answer enough for you. He’s drawn a line in the sand, and you know where he stands. He walks towards the door, his hand on the knob as he stops to look at you.
“He’s gonna remember. Might be next month, it might even be next week. How do you think he’s gonna feel when he hears that you left the second things got hard? That you ran for the hills just like everybody else.”
“I’m not running.” You say. And maybe, just maybe, if you say it with enough conviction, you’ll manage to convince yourself, too.
— — —
The uncanny thing about life is that it moves on. It doesn’t just stay shitty forever, even when you have no idea how it could possibly dig itself out of the hell hole it dropped you into. It’s one of those revelations that comes back around every few months. Once the cycle of shittiness has completed itself once more and you feel like you’ve been to hell and back.
And, such as the cycle has gone and come around once more, things are slowly starting to go back to normal at the 118. Eddie is back from his medical leave, and all of the pieces are starting to fall back into place. And that ripple effect is extending beyond the walls of the firehouse.
You and Buck have been ever so slowly creeping your way back into normalcy. Well, as close to normalcy as either of you can ever get. And it’s been a little weird. I mean, how are you supposed to be when a huge life changing question is lingering in the air between you months after it was even asked?
It’s just sitting there. It is the permanent elephant in the room and neither one of you dared to talk about it for the longest time. You just pretended like it didn’t happen. Which was probably worse than just confronting it, but that’s neither here nor there.
And it only went on for a few months. The tiptoeing around the question was short lived, even if it felt like it went on forever. Eventually, once all the dust settled, the subject was broached once more. A question was asked to much more willing ears, and a proposal was accepted.
The only problem about the aforementioned engagement is that it happened three weeks ago and you still haven’t told anybody. You’re honestly a little surprised you’ve been able to keep it a secret this long, what with everyone in that firehouse being so damn nosy.
But you know for a fact that it isn’t going to last, and it’ll be much more painless to just bite the bullet. Besides, the holiday season is right around the corner and you’re feeling a bit more like celebrating this year.
Even though the conversation you happen upon at the beginning of shift is one about the unforgiving nature of the passage of time, and the lack of holiday spirit the 118 is seeing among their families. Specifically the fact that the kids think they’re a little too old to go and see Santa.
Eddie seems to be taking this development harder than Hen is.
Don’t get it twisted, you absolutely understand that it is jarring to watch as the children in your lives get older. Because you just want to freeze time for a little while so that it doesn’t go by so quickly. But you never thought Santa Claus would be the cause of such a mind boggling crisis.
Everyone's upstairs in the kitchen with Hen and Eddie at the table, Bobby at the stove, and Buck leaning against the counter by the coffee maker. And you, as discreetly as humanly possible, sidle up next to him.
He hands you a mug of steaming coffee, which you gratefully accept as you gently bump your shoulder against his with the smallest of smiles playing at your lips. You’re more than ready for this shared secret to be common knowledge, but on the flip side it has been a little fun to have something just for the two of you.
You lift the mug to your lips, smirking all the while as you look at him until you’re brought out of it by Hen’s voice.
“What is going on with you two?” She asks, completely bringing the Santa conundrum to a halt. And you nearly snort into your coffee at the abruptness of it.
“What do you mean?” You say, glancing in her direction before finally taking a sip of your coffee.
“All of this. The little smiles, you’ve been making eyes at each other nonstop for weeks. It’s like you’re lovesick teenagers. I thought we’d move past this phase.” She sounds a little exhausted by it, but not in any real way. Hen is probably the most observant person in the firehouse, you knew she’d pick up on it sooner or later. You just figured you’d get a choice at when you guys were going to break this news.
It wouldn’t be like this. It would’ve been at a group gathering. When Maddie and Chimney were back in town and things were finally right in your world again. But you can’t just gloss over the moment in favor of waiting for another opportunity that may never work itself out perfectly.
You and Buck share a glance, a silent conversation and when you nod almost imperceptibly he steps the least bit forward to draw further attention to himself even though the group already has all eyes on you two.
“Actually,” He starts, “there is something we’ve been wanting to tell you guys.” He looks over his shoulder once more and catches your eye. Clearly not wanting to have to do this alone. So you step forward, rest your hand on his back and say:
“We’re engaged.”
There are a few seconds of nearly stunned silence before the room erupts into congratulations and tight hugs. It’s a hell of a way to start off a shift, and you grin with each hug. Sure, it’s missing a few people and it’s not the way either of you expected to do this. But it’s still good. It’s still full of love. And that’s something to be grateful for.
There’s something odd in Eddie’s expression after he hugs you guys. Something sad, something akin to acceptance. Like he’s made up his mind. And you want to ask him if he’s okay. You want to check in. But you don’t get the chance because the bell is ringing and you’re all rushing down to the trucks. It’ll just have to wait.
— — —
In all of your years working at the 118 you’ve gotten used to the relative quiet of the station while everyone is killing time between calls. The comforting quiet between shift changes when the new crew has gone out on their first call of the shift, and the rest of you are just trying your best to stay awake for the drive home. You’ve grown to enjoy it. You find solace in it.
Except for right now. Right now you could use a bit of noise. Even though you decided to wait until the rest of your shift went home to pack up your locker. Even though you know it’s best to be doing this alone, you still wish there was a little more life in the building. Then it wouldn’t feel like you’re deserting a ghost town. It wouldn’t seem like it’s so easy to leave.
Even though there’s such a weight to this silence, it still feels like it’s just begging you to leave. Or maybe that’s you. Maybe that’s you telling yourself to just get this over with, then you can finally move on with your life. Then you wouldn’t be sitting here staring at a locker like it holds the answers to every single question. As if it holds every last ounce of your being inside its walls.
Maybe it’d be easier to leave if it didn’t feel like every last chunk of your heart lives in this building.
It should be easy to leave, though. It should be simple. It would’ve been simple if Eddie hadn’t run his mouth and made sure everyone knew. Then the phone calls wouldn’t be constantly rolling in, like Maddie hasn’t already been calling you enough. Not that you usually answer them anymore, but that’s besides the point.
If not for Eddie then you wouldn’t be dealing with the constant attempts of your friends trying to convince you to stay. Bobby would’ve just made up some lie about you deciding you need a little more time. But Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone.
And, honestly, it’s all just a little unfair. Well, actually, everything is just a whole lot of unfair these days. But it’s not fair that Eddie suddenly gets to decide that the 118 needs to stay together. Even though he got to leave. He got to run away. He got to let himself collapse and crumble. He fell to pieces and learned how to put himself back together again, but somehow you’re not allowed the same chance to find a way to deal with the circumstances that life has laid at your feet.
It’s just a lot of hypocrisy. It should make it easier to go. It should have put that added spring in your step to get you out the door. But it’s just not enough, because it’s hard to walk away from the future you’ve wrapped your mind around. That’s been the problem this whole time. You’re just not capable of staring that future in the face any longer.
And dragging your feet through this goodbye isn’t doing you any good. You pull the rest of your stuff from your locker and shove it into the duffle waiting at your feet. You slam the door shut behind you as you stare down at the bag. You take the zip slowly and let the sound of it be the only noise amid the all too unnerving quiet.
You could really use someone to light a fire under your ass right now because at the rate you’re going you’re not sure you’ll ever leave. You don’t remember goodbye ever feeling this lonely before. But you might as well get used to it since lonely is all you have in store for the foreseeable future.
With a long suffering sigh you stand from the bench and sling the duffle over your shoulder. The trek out of the locker room feels like wading through quicksand. It grows more and more pointless with each attempt at a step, but you keep going. Even if it feels like trying to flee is just dragging you further below the surface.
You make your way into the empty truck bay and turn around for one last good look at the 118, and it kind of feels like you can’t breathe. Like the idea of leaving this behind is an added ton of weight to your shoulders, even if you know it’s the right move. Sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy thing, you just really wish this was one of those easy things.
You catalog every little thing about this place with each sweep of your gaze along the building. You can feel the wetness prickling up in your eyes, and you blink harshly to send it back where it came from. But it doesn’t go anywhere, in fact it only gets worse as your gaze makes its way down to the left staircase and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of Buck sitting there.
“I, uh,” You stammer as you try to swallow down the lump in your throat, “I thought you went home.”
“Yeah,” He says as he stands and walks further down into the trucky bay, “I was going to, but I didn’t want to interrupt you to get my bag.” He says, and it’s so damn considerate that it feels like yet another punch to the gut. Because he’s still him. He may not be the version of him you’re hoping for, but he’s still him. He’ll always be Buck, that much you can take solace in. Somehow that makes you feel the least bit better about walking away.
“Well, then,” You start, chuckling slightly even though it is entirely devoid of humor, “I guess I’ll get out of your hair.” You adjust the strap of your duffle on your shoulder and turn to take your leave, but you only make it a few steps before you’re turning over your shoulder and looking back at him. “It was nice working with you, Buckley.”
He looks back at you with a look you can’t quite read, even though after all this time you should be able to put a name to every expression he’s ever worn. But this one manages to pass you by. There’s a thinly veiled sadness in his eyes as he looks at you, and that much you’ve seen before. You’ve seen it often. It’s just not usually focused right on you.
“You too.” He says, fixing you with a kind smile. And you smile back at him, briefly, before you’re turning back around and heading for the door. Although you don’t make it any farther than you did before. “I talked to Eddie.”
You just about trip over your feet at the sound of it, and just about lose your balance altogether with the speed at which you turn around to look at him.
“He told me why you’re leaving.” He furthers, “I’ve been trying to talk to you about it all day. But I didn’t really know how. I didn’t want you to feel like you’re being cornered.”
“Is that not what this is?” You ask, arms crossing over your chest as you take a few steps back towards him.
“No, you can go if you want to. But I’m really hoping you’ll hear me out first.” He says, and seems almost hurt that you believe he’d force you into this conversation. But what are you really supposed to expect when your friends have started going behind your back?
You step the least bit closer and shrug your shoulders in a gesture of ‘go on’, and he seems to take that and run.
“When Eddie told me about you and me, I wasn’t that surprised. You were always different with me than they were. A little standoffish and cold, but never cruel.”
And that feels like another little crack being chiseled into your heart. It feels like he believes that you’ve just exacted your greatest act of cruelty. Like hiding yourself, and the true nature of your relationship, away is the most horrid thing you could’ve ever dreamed of doing. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you’ve been kicking yourself for that very thing these last few months. And no amount of justifications ever seemed to make it any better.
“So, I guess I’m just wondering why I had to hear it from Eddie and not you.” He says it in a tone of voice that you’ve never had the misfortune of hearing. Like there’s an anger in him that is just barely contained.
And you and Buck have been through a lot of shit. The road has not always been easy, but it has always been worth it. But you’ve never made him angry, not this angry. And you understand. It is a righteous anger, it is well deserved. But it doesn’t make it feel any better to be on the receiving end of it.
“The doctor kept telling me that I needed to let you remember on your own. That it would be less jarring for you to regain everything without any pressure from any outside sources.” And that's what you kept telling yourself every single time you found it so incredibly tempting to just get your life back. It’d be so simple, all you’d have to do is say it and then it’d be real. He’d know and you could get back to making this work.
But it wouldn’t have been fair to him. You couldn’t put him through that. Because he’d only love you because he’s being told that he already does. He’s being told something that he himself does not know, and that would not be the kind of love you’d want to live. You’d always be second guessing whether or not his love for you was real or if it stemmed from trying to live the life he had before the accident.
And second guessing the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with is no real way to live.
“Well, clearly that’s not working. So why not try a different approach.” He asks, and you shrug once again.
“I didn’t want to box you into a life that you didn’t know. I could’ve been lying, and you would’ve been none the wiser. I would never try to force you into a life that isn’t your choice.” You say.
“And if that meant that I never remembered, that we never got married, you would’ve been okay with that?” He asks.
“I would’ve spent the rest of my life wondering if you really loved me. And you would’ve spent the rest of your life wondering if any of what I had told you was true. That would not have been the marriage that either of us had signed up for. Eventually I would’ve lost you all over again.”
Not to say that he would’ve cut and run because he’s not that great at the walking out thing these days. But there’s no telling just how much of that you would’ve been able to take. And you know full well that being alone is preferable to enduring the wrong thing. At least you know how to handle being alone.
He nods a few more times than is needed as he diverts his gaze from you.
“I hate this.” He admits, and you chuckle dryly.
“You and me both. But I think it’s beyond our control at this point.” And he’s never looked more pitiful. You take a few steps forward until you’re standing right in front of him. You place your hand on his cheek to tilt his face up so his eyes meet yours.
Your thumb finds its comfort in running a consistent pattern across his cheek as you stare at him. And there are a million things to say. But none of them really come to pass. Because none of those things would make this any better. This is the end and there’s nothing beautiful or poetic about it. It’s just heavy. Heavy in a way that your heart has never really known. A heaviness that you pray your heart never knows again.
You lean up and press a kiss to his other cheek and you let your lips linger against the skin for a few extra seconds. And you think you might be hallucinating at the feeling of his hand on your wrist. When you pull away and your eyes finally open you can’t help but feel like the rest of your life just entirely slipped out of your hands.
“Goodbye, Buck.” You say, a sad smile on your lips as you finally step away. And the time it takes for your hand to slip from his cheek feels like an eternity. And it feels like maybe he doesn’t want to let go of your arm.
But he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Because this decision has been made. It is final, and there is no wiggle room. There is only one way that anything changes for the two of you. And that is so far out of your control that it may never come back around.
But, you just can’t help yourself, you really hope it does. Because if it does, if you have that chance again to grab hold of the love you’ve experienced these last few years, you know that you won’t hesitate to get it back.
— — —
You’ve heard it said that the worst day of your life starts out like every other day. And that saying had always seemed so stupid to you. Because of course it does. You wake up, you follow your routine, you do the things you do every other day. Of course your worst day would start exactly the same way every other day starts.
You never thought you’d spend so much time harping on that very fact in the aftermath of Buck’s accident.
It’s all you can bring yourself to do as you sit at his bedside and listen to the heart monitor as it beeps. Everyone else was still in the waiting room, they said only one person at a time and no one even put up a fight against the idea of you being that person. Maddie hadn’t gotten to the hospital yet, she was still stuck at the call center. But god you wish she was here. Then she would be the one in here. Then you wouldn’t be stuck inside your head in the stark quiet of a stable patient’s room.
But stable isn’t even comforting right now. Because, in his case, stable means comatose. And they don’t know how long he’ll be like this. And each passing second of silence just drives the knife further into your stomach.
Because today started just like any other day.
You woke groaning at the sound of Buck’s alarm, and tried to snuggle deeper into the covers to avoid the harsh light of day for just a few minutes more. But you eventually gave up after a few minutes because you couldn’t be late for work. You rolled over to give Buck a quick kiss good morning before you headed for the shower.
And the drive to work was as stilted as usual with LA traffic and Buck’s driving habits. And the conversation resembled the exact conversation you’ve been having for the last week on the way to work. Debating the seating arrangement for the reception. Obviously the 118 is already all figured out. Since they’re making up a good chunk of the wedding party. Maddie is the maid of honor, Eddie is the best man. Hen is a bridesmaid and Chim and Bobby are groomsmen. Did anyone really expect it to play out any other way?
So that’s all squared away, that is the furthest thing from the problem. The problem is everyone else on the guest list.
Because you know your family. You know your family well, and you know that they adore Buck. And you’ve heard more than enough about Buck’s parents to know that your family won’t be able to hold their tongue if they catch wind of half the shit you know his parents will say.
And you love them greatly for loving him so much, but the last thing either of you needs is your wedding devolving into a screaming match.
Not that you really expect his parents to come, but, if they do, you want them as far away from your family as possible.
Honestly, you’d prefer Buck’s parents as far away from the whole affair as possible. The last thing he deserves is to be made to feel like he’s a disappointment on his wedding day of all days.
So, the seating arrangement has proven itself to be tricky. To say the least.
You stared longing out the window as you passed by the endless string of coffee shops, and he reminded you that there will be coffee at work with far too much affection in his voice. And once you pulled into the lot you were out of the car within a matter of minutes. You stopped off in the locker room to put your bag in your locker before heading upstairs to pour yourself a cup of coffee.
You barely got the mug to your lips before the alarm went off and you were heading downstairs to get in the truck. And that call came and went. Then you’re back at the station and you finally got your coffee. And the alarm went off again about a half hour later. And then another hour or so after that.
It was just like any other day.
There’s a knocking on the door and your head whips around to find Maddie standing in the doorway with her eyes on Buck like she’s seen a ghost. She walks over to the foot of the bed and pulls his chart from the bed. As she reads over it she just keeps nodding in this way that feels overcompensatory. It does nothing to make your heart settle in your chest.
“I’ll uh, get out of your hair.” You say, wiping your hands on your thighs as you go to stand. But she shakes her head.
“No, please stay.” She says, waving off your words like they’re one of the silliest things she’s ever heard someone say.
“But the doctors said…”
“They always say that.” She says, and she’s so blasé about it that you don’t bother to argue. You just sink back into your chair as she walks closer to where Buck’s head is resting. She brushes back the bit of his hair that is sticking up, and she watches him with such a careful eye. An analytical eye. And that worries you more than anything. Because this feels like maybe she’s never seen him this bad before.
And that’s more than enough to give you pause. Because you’ve all seen Buck through some pretty serious shit, Maddie most of all. So if she’s watching him like she’s afraid he’ll crumble in an instant, how are you supposed to feel like you’re standing on solid ground?
“I think,” She starts again, and you just can’t tear your eyes away from the two of them. You’re hanging on every word. “That he could use a little reminding that he is loved. That way he knows he has something worth fighting to get back to.”
For the first time since she walked in her eyes leave her brother and focus up on you. And she fixes you with that look of understanding. The look that is laced with the thinnest shred of pity known to man.
Because if anyone understands what this feels like it’s Maddie. And she’s reaching out, she’s reaching forward to remind you that you’re not alone in this. You have people by your side. You just have to be willing to lean on those people. Even when that is easier said than done.
After another few seconds she settles into the empty chair on the opposite side of Buck’s bed. And the two of you sit quietly and watch the heart monitor as it crests and falls.
And each moment of silence eats at you more and more until you just can’t take it. Because this feels like false pretenses. Because you don’t deserve her compassion. You don’t deserve to have her by your side through this. You don’t deserve the support of your team.
Not this time.
“Maddie.” You start, trying to work up the courage to actually speak when her gaze moves to you. And there are a million things to say. A million ways to spin it. But the only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” She asks, like she wasn’t one of the few people in your ear during the call. Like she doesn’t know exactly how this happened. Even if she knows where the blame truly lies.
“This is my fault. If I had gotten us out of there a minute earlier…”
You and Buck had been partnered up in the field for the last few months. Since Eddie left you two were usually working together.
It was an apartment building fire, and it was mostly contained. At least you all thought it was mostly contained and that the structural integrity of the building hadn’t really been compromised. You were very wrong about that.
It was like any other call. You’d done your job and were doing one last sweep of the building on your way back to the lobby. He was trying to talk his way into Bobby picking up fast food on the way back. He was laughing.
It was the same as every other day.
You’d turned back around for a brief second to tell him to focus, even if your warning lacked any seriosity. But then it all went completely to shit. The ceiling over your head started to crack and he noticed it before you did.
You were in the middle of your sentence when he pushed you out of the way as the ceiling tiles came crashing down. The air was knocked from your lungs as you landed on the floor and looked at the remains of the apartment above you.
The fire had spread more than they thought, and it was eating through the building. But that wasn’t the only problem because Buck wasn’t moving. He hadn’t stood, he hadn’t brushed himself off. He was just laying there. And it was like your heart stopped in your chest.
You were probably in shock, and you know you waited a minute too long before you landed at his side and checked for a pulse. And you found a strong one. Which was a comfort enough, but he still wasn’t moving.
You grabbed hold of your radio and opened the line to Bobby. And your own voice is still ringing in your ears with the phrase:
“Firefighter Buckley is down.”
Help came barreling through a few minutes later, and you weren’t alone anymore. Even if it still felt like you were.
And you’ve been sitting here beating yourself up over it for hours. And you’re sure everyone else is holding their own little nuggets of guilt. Especially the former coworker sitting out in the waiting room.
And the worst part about it is you’re kind of mad at Eddie. And you know it’s entirely illogical because none of this is his fault, but it still kind of feels like it is. Because he and Buck were partners in the field. And Eddie might’ve noticed the ceiling before you did. Eddie might’ve gotten the both of them out of there faster.
It’s all wrapped up in the millions of scenarios you’ve spun in the last few hours. And the resentment seems to grow stronger with every “what if”, even though you try not to let it fester.
You just wish everything was like it was before. With the team being the exact way it was supposed to be. Without crazy god complex paramedics and a revolving door of firefighters trying to fill his place. You just want work to feel like the place you know again, but that becomes more and more like a distant memory every day.
And you hate all of it. You hate every last thing that has made these last few months so out of body. And you hate the fact that this is the payoff.
You’re pulled from your thoughts at the feeling of someone’s hand on yours, and nearly jump out of your skin as your gaze flicks to Buck’s face to see if he’s awake only to find that he isn’t. You look back at your hands only to let your gaze trail up the arm the hand belongs to just to find Maddie staring back at you from where she’s stood from her chair.
“This is not your fault. We both know my brother, and he made the decision he felt was right. He risks his life for the people he cares about. It’s who he is. You can’t take the blame for that.”
The blame game will eat you alive, you know it but you just can’t help yourself. Not right now, not even with Maddie’s unnervingly understanding gaze fixated on you.
“This is not your fault.” She repeats, and you nod although it’s choppy. She watches you for a second more as her thumb rubs across the back of your hand. Then she sits back in her chair and you watch over Buck together.
— — —
You’d left the 118 about two months ago, and your life started to look the way it did before Buck. You’ve been crashing with a friend and doing a temp gig at the restaurant she worked at. It looked the way your life did when you first came to LA, and it was honestly a little sickening.
Said friend was also encouraging you to fully get yourself back in the swing of things, and you obliged for no other reason than to get her off your back. So, you’ve been on a few dates. Each one with another person she swore up and down you were perfect for. Not one of them felt right.
And you’ve kept your contact with the 118, and all adjacent parties, very brief. You’ve missed calls and responded to texts with terse, sometimes one word, answers. Arms length felt like the only realistic option. Even if it’s painful.
You’ve had to mute all notifications from Eddie, even if the ones you receive are few and far between. Because blocking him felt like it was a bit too much, but you just don’t have it in you to read his texts.
And you’ve tried to keep your focus away from social media and the lives of all your friends because it makes it that much easier to move on. Even if moving on hasn’t been easy at all. Because you really aren’t trying that hard.
You’re still walking around with Buck’s ring on a chain around your neck and each person you sit down to dinner with can never manage to measure up to the bar he set when you were together. When you’ve found the right one no one else will ever quite be able to satisfy.
But when you can’t have the right one you have to try and find someone who’s at least a little close to being the next right one. Even if it doesn’t feel like that person exists. Even if it feels like you’re short changing your heart in the process.
And you’ve been pretending like this life of yours is exactly the one you want, and it is getting exhausting. It’s the end of your last shift for the week and you’ve finally made it back to the apartment when your phone rings in your hand. You’ve just gotten yourself comfortable on the couch with your head lolled back against the material, and you’re almost too exhausted to check it.
But you look down anyway.
You find Athena’s picture staring back at you. It nearly stops your heart in your chest. Athena was the only person who had yet to call. She’s not the persistent type, at least not when it comes to the personal lives of her friends. It’s usually more of a gentle nudge, or a less than subtle push in the right direction.
She’d yet to reach out, so you knew she was waiting for the right time. She was waiting to give you whatever message she’s been holding onto. And you’re not sure you’re ready for that.
But you swipe your finger across the screen to answer the call against your better judgement, and lift the phone to your ear with a slightly shaking hand.
And that’s how you find yourself barreling into the emergency room waiting area of an LA hospital twenty minutes later. The rest of your team is scattered amongst the chairs, Athena is beside Bobby with his hand clutched tightly in hers. Her head is the first to lift at your entrance, and she sends the shortest nod in your direction.
And it feels like a pat on the back. It feels like pride. But it also feels hollow at a time like this.
You spot Hen in the next row over, she’s leaned forward with her head in her hands and Chimney is sat beside her with his foot tapping rapidly against the floor.
Your eyes move to the pacing figure further back in the room. You watch Eddie make a few laps across the linoleum, and that little bit of anger flourishes in your chest. It should be the last thing on your mind, it should fall very far down your list of priorities. But you can’t help it.
Eddie is supposed to have Buck’s back. And now Buck is in the hospital, so how well was Eddie watching?
You’ve had the weight of a loved one’s life on your shoulders before, and it is a sickening stone in your stomach. But you can’t bring yourself to be overcome with sympathy. Not this time.
“What the hell happened?” You ask, not even bothering with politeness and pleasantries. There isn’t enough time. Because Athena hadn’t gone into detail over the phone. She’d given you the basics, the cut and the dry. Everything she knew, and she kept it brief. You never tell someone more than the facts in this situation. And you never make a promise you can’t keep.
But you’ve all already missed that last rule by a long shot.
Bobby’s gaze is finally ripped away from the corner of the room and moves to find you standing before him. You’re a little worse for wear, that’s for certain. Your eyes are a little wild, and your jacket is haphazardly thrown on. You were in a rush.
But no one else seems to be in the same kind of rush, they’re already stuck in this. It’s like quicksand, and it’s going to drag them down anyway so why bother to fight against it. You’re still struggling. You’re still reaching for the nearby vines to try and pull yourself out because the last thing you’re willing to do is drown. Not again.
The room seems to still around you. Chimney’s foot stops tapping, and Eddie’s pacing slows as he turns in your direction. Hen’s head lifts from her hands, but only barely as she moves to rest her forehead on clasped hands. Bobby’s hand untangles from Athena’s, but he makes no move to stand. He offers no indication that he has any explanation.
And you know that he’s been trying to find the right way to break the news to you. He’s been racking his brain this entire time, and you’ve arrived entirely too soon for him to find the right way to tell you that Buck nearly got himself killed for the second time in nine months. Or, hell, maybe he’s gearing up to tell you something worse altogether. Maybe it wasn’t just a close call this time. Maybe that would explain the grave expressions and the guilt seeping into their shoulders.
You’re not sure you can take worse news than a close call right now. Even if you thought it would’ve been easier in the first place, you know that you could not handle that grief on top of these last few months.
Bobby stands from his chair, his hands hang at his sides as he takes a small step closer to you. He opens his mouth, and just as he’s about to try and find something to soften the blow a voice pipes up from behind him that draws the attention of the entire group.
“It was an apartment fire. It got out of hand, and it was eating its way through the building.” Eddie starts, and you watch as Athena steps back to give you a clearer view of him. “Buck and I were evacuating tenants. We found an unresponsive man in the hallway, he looked like around seventy. We were taking him outside when he started coming around. We’d gotten about three flights down by that point, and he was coming back to himself. He fell, and we tried to help him back up. Buck tried to get him talking, but the guy didn’t respond. He was disoriented. He didn’t know where he was, what was happening. He didn’t know us.”
You didn’t notice it as you did it, but you’ve gotten closer to Eddie. Wanting to make sure you don’t miss a single word. You don’t like where this is going. And you already know that it’s not going to get any better. You’re just worried about how much worse it might get.
“He was agitated. Buck tried to help him calm down, but he wasn’t having any of it. He pushed Buck off of him from where he was at the top of the next flight of stairs. Buck lost his balance.”
He can’t bring himself to speak it. To fully tell that part of the story, but you don’t need him to. The blank is filled in.
“He hit his head on the way down.” He says, and your breath catches in your throat. You can add that to the laundry list of possible injuries he may have sustained on his way down.
“But,” Hen pipes up as she stands from her chair, “He was stable the entire way here. He just hasn’t woken up yet.”
It’s not that bad. She could’ve said he flatlined in the ambulance. She could’ve said they had to fight tooth and nail just to bring him back. Again. It could be worse. It could be worse. Then why don’t you feel any better?
This still feels like just as much of a death sentence as him crashing on the ride over. Because they don’t know anything. They don’t know his condition. They don’t know what his scans looked like. They don’t know a thing.
“Maddie?” You ask, and Chimney sends you a sad glance as he fiddles with his watch.
“She’s on her way. She got stuck in traffic.” And you don’t really know what you’re going to say to her when you see her. You’ve been dodging her calls for months. The last real time you saw her was in Buck’s hospital room. It just doesn’t feel right.
None of this feels right. This can’t be happening to all of you again. But life isn’t fair, you’ve learned that much by now. And there is nothing you can do except sit and wait. So that’s exactly what you do.
You sit yourself down at the chair closest to the automatic doors of ED and let the weight of the day push down heavy into your shoulders. You rest your head against your clasped hands and with your eyes shut tight you begin to pray.
You can’t remember the last time you did that. Maybe it was when you last found yourself at Buck’s beside with his unmoving hand clasped in yours. It would make sense. They say desperate people find faith, and maybe that’s why you never feel like God is listening to you. Because you only ever talk to him when you need something.
But it’s just not as easy to believe in the things you can’t see anymore. It’s not tangible, it’s not provable. It’s just an entity, it’s just air. It’s words on a page. And you don’t know how to take those things as gospel these days. You’re not sure you want to.
You’re not sure how long you’re sat there with your eyes closed, but at some point someone is gently placing their hands over your clasped ones and pulling them away from your forehead. You lift your head to find Maddie staring down at you with so much grief in her eyes, yet she still manages a kind enough smile as she looks at you.
And it feels like your heart splits open in your chest at that moment. Because you’ve gone about all of this so wrong. You left Maddie out in the cold when all of this first started. He woke up and then you were practically unreachable. You and Maddie were playing phone tag. She’d call you, you’d let it go to voicemail. Then you’d call back when you knew she wouldn’t be able to answer.
It was all very calculated. And you know she knew it. And she respected your grieving process enough that she never pushed you. She never backed you into a corner or put you in a position where you’d be forced to confront what was going on. And when it was happening you appreciated it. But now you just regret letting the relationship become so strained.
But now it has nowhere else to go. Now you both just have to sit in it as she takes the chair next to you and slides her hand into yours. And you sit there in silence with your joined hands dangling from the armrest as you wait for word from the doctors. As you hope for any kind of notion that Buck is going to recover.
You don’t know how much time has passed, you just know that several people have left the waiting room with news of their loved one’s condition. And you’ve watched several nurses leave after the end of their shift. Hen’s gotten off the phone with Karen. You’ve even heard Eddie on the phone with Carla.
Life is going on around you, but it doesn’t feel like there is any real forward movement. The clock keeps ticking and time keeps moving. And all you can do is sit with your head leaned back and stare at the ceiling tiles and listen to the beeping of nearby heart monitors.
Until you hear the beginnings of a scuffle at the other end of the room. A commotion from the nurses behind one of the curtains, and all of you have sat up a bit in your seats at the sound of it. They aren’t calling for a crash cart, they seem to be arguing with their patient. Something about asking them to calm down. For them to lay back down. To allow them to examine the person. The patient doesn’t seem to be listening.
Athena is the first one to her feet, and she’s already walking towards the curtained off bed halfway down the room. And you don’t know what it is about this that makes the rest of you get up and follow not too far behind.
And you don’t get too much closer, but you can feel Maddie’s hand tighten on your wrist with each step. And you’re just close enough that you can finally hear the nurse’s voice more clearly.
“Mr. Buckley, please lay back down.” She sounds exhausted. She sounds like she’s at the end of her rope at the end of a very long day and he isn’t making it any easier on her. “We still need to examine you.”
Bobby steps closer to the curtain before the rest of you can even take another step. But it still feels like the crowd has moved on and left you in its wake. Maddie, who was once standing behind you, is now a few feet in front of you with her hand by her side instead of wrapped around your wrist.
You’ve fallen back somehow, without even realizing it. The fact that he’s awake makes a pit settle further in your stomach. Because you shouldn’t be here. He won’t want to see you. Him seeing you would only make things worse, and that’s the last thing you want to do.
Besides, it already felt more than a little wrong to be sitting in the waiting room sharing in their grief after you ran a few months ago. You don’t feel like a part of the family anymore, and that’s no one’s fault but your own.
And most of them didn’t even seem mad. Hell, Athena extended the invitation. But you just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the right place anymore. You’re not the right person anymore. There’s just no going back this time.
You’re stepping back into the waiting room and grabbing your things from your chair as the curtain is ripped open. And you choose to keep your head down as you unravel your jacket sleeve from the strap of your purse. You choose to ignore the sound of Bobby’s voice as he talks to Buck. You ignore them until you hear your name.
“Bobby, please. I need you to call her.” Your eyes prick up despite yourself, and you freeze with your fingers wrapped around the cuff of your sleeve. “I need to see her.”
There’s a little more than that. A bit of a ramble about how he tried calling but it went straight to voicemail. Which is probably a product of the fact that your phone is sitting somewhere at the bottom of your bag. But it doesn’t seem to really matter anymore, because aside from Buck’s voice you can practically hear a pin drop due to how quiet the group has grown. You lift your head to find that the 118 have parted like the red sea with their heads turned in your direction.
Tears are shining in Maddie’s eyes as she looks at you, and you try to brush it off because you can’t take that right now. You can’t handle the possibility of hope again, you can’t stomach it.
Buck seems to be the last person to notice that everything around the two of you has stopped. At least it feels like it does once he catches sight of you just beyond Bobby, and it shuts him up then and there. Bobby seems to notice as he turns slightly and takes a few steps back to fall into place beside Athena as you stand before your chair.
You still can’t bring yourself to say anything, the idea of yet another rejection is too much to bear. But that look in his eyes doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like awe. It feels like reverence. It feels like something you haven’t seen in eight months. It feels like coming home.
Suddenly everyone’s eyes on you feels heavier than it ever has before, and you feel like there’s nothing else you can really do except take that first step. The spell is practically broken as soon as the heel of your shoe makes contact with the next square of tile. The groups’ eyes shift slightly from you, they linger a little more on Buck and you’ve never been more grateful for the attention being taken off of you.
The distance between the two of you seems to close all too quickly, because before you know it you’re standing right in front of him. The tip of the toes of your shoes are nearly touching the toe of his boots. It’s closer than you’ve been in months, it’s the most scared you’ve ever been to be close to him.
“Hi.” You say, quiet enough that he’s the only person who can hear it. And it’s enough to bring the smallest of smiles to his face.
“Hi.” He says, and you bite back a tiny smile as your gaze travels back to your shoes. There’s too much to say that you don’t really know where to start. You don’t really even know what to do. But he seems to have an idea of where to start.
He reaches forward slightly and takes hold of your left hand, his thumb rubbing over the stone of your ring. The one that had left its place on the chain around your neck and has been nicely settled back onto your ring finger. It had been slipped into your purse on the select few dates your friend convinced you to go on. But it always felt wrong.
“You kept it?”
“I almost threw it in the river a few times, but I couldn’t really bring myself to part from it.” You say, chuckling just barely as the ghost of a smile dances on his lips.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” His eyes finally meet yours once more as you lift your head, and he looks like the absolute opposite is true. He’s more than delighted that you've held onto it this long through all of the bullshit that’s been thrown your way lately.
He’d have been shattered if you didn’t have it. Because that would’ve meant you’d be ready to let go of him, and he has to hope that timing can’t possibly be that cruel to two people in love.
With your hand still in his he pulls you the least bit closer so you’re standing between his parted legs and your right hand lands on his shoulder out of pure reflex. And it feels as right as it always has. And you’re certain that you’ve returned to a time where the world is right side up again. But it still feels a little too good to be true.
“You know, this isn’t what I was expecting when I proposed.” He says, and there’s humor written all over the statement to hide the impossibly deep sincerity packed right under the surface. Because how could either of you expect that things would have turned out like this.
“Yeah, me neither.” You say, your hand has absentmindedly moved so your fingers can fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. “But, I think the person you really owe an apology to is Loretta. I think she missed you more than I did.”
And then he’s laughing, and his smile is so big that it has to hurt at least a little bit. It’s the first time you’ve really felt like you can breathe in eight months. And he lets go of your hand after a few seconds, and you move it to rest on his cheek with your thumb brushing back and forth. His eyes fall closed at the familiarity of the gesture.
“I missed you.” He says, and tears finally prick your eyes at the sound of it. You don’t really know how you’ve managed to keep it together for so long without this, how you ever thought you could maybe get used to life without this once more. Not when this does your heart good and makes everything feel worthwhile in a way it hasn’t in so long.
And you really just can’t help yourself as you lean the slightest bit forward and press your lips against his. It feels like the moment slows and like the world around you has come to a stop. Your hand travels from the back of his neck and to his cheek so that you’re holding his face. You feel a hand on your waist that gently pulls you the least bit closer.
It feels right. It feels like snapping the last piece into the puzzle. It feels like a lifetime. It feels like closure. It feels like letting the door hit complicated in the ass on its way out. It’s a homecoming. And it’s so much better than all the times you’ve let your mind wander these last few months.
It’s not big or dramatic. It’s not epic. It’s quiet. And stable. It’s a comfort. It’s the future molding itself into the present in astounding fashion. It’s a million different things all at once.
You pull away from the kiss, but you don’t separate yourself from him. You just lean your forehead against his, grin into the space between you and say:
Summary : Congressman Barnes falls in love with a fiercely progressive senator. What happens when he starts regretting going into politics at all?
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x senator! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Cursing, Fluff!!!! Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Sexual references, sexual themes, and implied sex, though no overly graphic descriptions. hurt/comfort. Based on the spoiler-y leak from cinema con that Bucky barely lasts half a term as a congressman.
Word count : 9k
Note : This is based on the song of the same title by Sam Fender. I am on a roll, folks. Enjoy!
Bucky Barnes never meant to get involved in politics.
He’d done the hero thing. The therapy thing. The ‘try to date but freak out in the middle of brunch’ thing. He even tried the ‘live in Brooklyn and pretend to be normal’ thing, which mostly involved awkward small talk at the local bodega and staring at walls for unhealthy amounts of time.
Running for Congress had been… weird.
It was just a dare that people gave him, and he took it half-seriously.
He didn’t think he’d actually get in.
It was supposed to be one term, a few speeches, some votes. Smile for the camera, shake some hands, look like a functioning member of society. Do enough to convince the world—and maybe himself—that he wasn’t just a broken weapon trying to pass as a man.
And then he met you.
An independent senator born into old money—exactly the kind of person he was supposed to be suspicious of. Legacy Ivy League, tailored suits and dresses that probably cost more than his first apartment, and the kind of name people recognised from museum wings and political dynasties.
But you were something else entirely.
You were a walking contradiction: born into wealth, but ferociously progressive. The kind of person who argued that people like you should be taxed more. That inherited wealth was a societal rot, and the system was rigged in your favour. You were intelligent, articulate, relentless— and you meant every word.
He first saw you during a bloated committee hearing on national defense spending. Bucky had spent most of it zoning out, trying not to twitch every time someone mentioned “strategic elimination” like they were ordering lunch. And then you walked in— heels clicking, shoulder squared like you were preparing to box a colleague.
When you took the floor, you destroyed a five-star general with nothing but a mildly uninterested tone and a stack of paper.
Technically, he was supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes, even engaging in conversation. But his brain short-circuited somewhere around “our national priorities are upside down,” and all he could think was very sinful thoughts about you.
It was deeply humiliating.
He wasn’t some starry-eyed intern. He was a hundred-year-old super soldier with a metal arm and enough emotional trauma to fill several Olympic-sized swimming pools. But you had him blushing like a teenager and rethinking every life choice that led to this moment.
“General,” you said, voice sharp as glass, “let me get this straight. You’re asking for a thirty-two billion dollar increase to the black budget, and yet you can’t provide so much as a redacted audit?”
He opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the space. Not yet.
“I have constituents rationing insulin and getting evicted over hundred-dollar rent hikes,” you continued, “And you’re sitting there telling me you need more stealth bombers?”
“Senator, we need to keep foreign powers in check—”
“Oh?” You tilted your head and smiled a scalpel. “Since you’re asking for a blank check, let’s have a little transparency. I want a full accounting of every regime change operation we’ve bankrolled with taxpayer dollars. How many foreign elections have we meddled in this year, General?”
The room shifted. You heard the uneasy scrape of a chair leg, felt the flicker of glances darted like knives.
The general’s teeth clenched. “Senator—”
You leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood, spine straight as a bayonet.
“This isn’t about national security,” you said, like the room belonged to you. “This is about institutional gluttony. This is about feeding the military-industrial complex while our infrastructure rots and veterans sleep on the streets.”
That one hit him.
Bucky shifted on his feet, pulse getting too quick for comfort as your words carved clean through the theater of power like you had no time for pageantry.
God, you were so pretty.
Not pretty like a diamond on a pedestal. Pretty like lightning. Pretty like the kind of woman who left men aching and terrified all the same. Pretty like you’d taste like red wine and righteous fury.
Bucky adjusted his tie. Bad move. His hand was shaking.
“Until then,” you said to the general. “you’ll have to win your wars with the money you already wasted.”
Then the general backed off, and Bucky watched the way your mouth pressed into a faint, satisfied line. You turned slightly, eye sweeping the room. You didn’t look at him, not really, but it still hit like a sucker punch.
It was his first week. He hadn’t voted yet. He hadn’t been whipped into line by the party. And there you were, ruining and making his day at the same time.
The first person in the chamber who didn’t sound like a politician.
He watched you sit down, watched your blazer slide just enough to flash the curve of your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone, and he thought:
Oh, I’m fucked.
—
It didn’t stop there.
He started noticing your name everywhere. Not just in headlines or on committees, but stamped onto action. He did some research, and found that your office quietly funded a network of off-the-books health clinics in rural counties the state wouldn’t touch. Through your “charity”—technically a nonpartisan foundation—you rerouted your family’s trust fund into safe needle exchanges, mobile mental health vans, domestic violence shelters in red districts, and reproductive care buses that crossed state lines.
He soon realised you didn’t wait for the system to work. You circumvented it.
And then you got back on the floor, dragging corrupt policy into the light with a dangerous smile.
“If we have money for drones, we have money for dialysis. If we can find $14 million to research a new combat exosuit, we can find money to put roofs over people’s heads,” you said once. “Let me be clear: I'm not against defense. I'm against waste. I'm against empire. I'm against bleeding the people dry while contractors get rich off fear. Patriotism isn’t writing blank checks to private corporations. It’s making sure kids don’t go to school hungry.”
And when anyone tried to counter, quoting national security you said, “Fine. But fund healthcare. Fund education. Fund the VA. Fund cyber security that doesn’t involve selling civilian data to private firms. Don’t sit here and sell me a war machine when our bridges are collapsing and towns still don't have clean water.”
And every time, Bucky felt something deep inside him unravel.
He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to stay quiet, play the game, and vote his party’s way.
But you weren’t playing. You were rewriting it.
And he was obsessed.
He’d scroll through C-SPAN footage like it was porn, watching you deliver moral beatdowns with the prettiest smile he’d ever seen in his overextended life. He caught himself lingering outside your office more than once, pretending to check his phone, knowing your aides saw him. Knowing you probably did, too.
—
AFTER HOURS
U.S. Capitol – Private Committee Room
It was Bucky’s second month in Congress when you called for a private meeting.
You just put your name on his schedule— no context, no agenda.
He told himself it was probably routine. Some strategic alignment thing. You were an independent— you needed people you could count on.
Or perhaps, it was a courtesy meeting. Maybe you wanted to trade notes on legislation or something.
Bucky spent the three days leading up to the meeting nervous. He didn’t know why.
You were younger than him, one of the youngest senators ever sworn in. Smaller than him, too—he was a six-foot hunk of super soldier beef, and yet you were the one who made his palms sweat.
He wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door to the meeting room you booked out.
Definitely not this.
The room was dark, save for the warm glow of a desk lamp and the shimmer of DC lights bleeding in from the window.
You were at the head of the long table—blazer off, sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar loosened just enough to show a line of cleavage that made his thoughts derail immediately.
You looked up when he entered. “Close the door, Barnes.”
He froze for a second.
You arched an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to hear how badly I’m going to make you admit what you really think.”
His heartbeat spiked.
He closed the door and locked it.
You didn’t stand, didn’t even offer a seat.
He sat anyway, opposite you.
“You’ve been voting neutral on defense amendments,” you said, voice smooth as butter and sharp as the stiletto heels you always wore. “Even when they gut oversight. Even when they reroute billions to black ops programs.”
“I’m not here to make waves.”
“That’s a coward’s answer,” you said calmly, though he could hear the grit through your teeth. “And you are not a coward.”
His muscles flexed. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you haven’t said a damn word in committee,” you said, “I know you abstained on the surveillance expansion, but signed off on the military budget with a barely legible signature.”
You stood.
Bucky sat straighter, his breath hitching.
Fuck.
He watched you walk as you circled the table.
“I’ve read your file,” you said, now behind him. Your voice was close, borderline intimate. He could feel your breath in his ears, feel his body trying not to react. “Not the redacted fluff they released to the public. The real one. I know what you were turned into. What they did to you. What you could be.”
His fists clenched in his lap. Where were you going with this?
“I’m not trying to use you, Barnes,” you murmured, and your tone shifted— now gentler, more empathetic. “I’m trying to wake you up.”
You leaned in. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear, and that was when he stopped breathing.
“You’re not a weapon anymore,” you whispered, “But you could be a bomb, placed exactly where they won’t see it coming.”
He let out a deep breath through his nose. “And what?” he managed to rasp, “You light the fuse?”
You moved in front of him now, stepped between his knees, hands braced on the table behind you.
It was so casual, so maddeningly dominant, towering over him without ever needing the height.
It was devastating.
“I fund clinics they won’t touch. I move money across invisible lines to make sure queer kids in red states stand a chance. I've bought entire warehouses full of Narcan to smuggle into countries that don't believe in harm reduction,” you slammed a first in the table behind you, “I’ve turned every cent of my family’s blood-soaked money into a spear— and I’m not done yet. I have already lit the fuse, Barnes. I just need someone to spread the fire with me.”
Bucky knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t virtue signalling— you were trying to set a standard. You need him to know what that standard was.
He stared, chest heaving, locked on the soft dip of your throat, on the way your shirt pulled just a little too tight across your chest, how your lipstick hadn’t smudged even a little.
“You… is this even allowed?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“I’m free to do as I wish with the money I inherited,” you told him.
You leaned down again, just enough to let your neckline dip further—just enough for him to realise how much he wanted to fall to his knees for you and stay there.
“Tell me something, Barnes,” you said. “When you look at all those men selling war—do you want to follow them?”
“…No.”
“Do you want to stop them?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
You smiled a wicked smile then. It tasted like victory.
“Then stop compromising for your party’s sake. You’re not Switzerland, James. You’re a powder keg with a heart,” you sighed, brushing dust off his shirt, “Be useful.”
And just like that, you stepped back, smoothed out your sleeves, picked up your folders, already reading through your next meeting like you hadn’t just dismantled his thoughts.
But before you opened the door to leave, you paused.
“Next time you vote,” you said, looking back. “Try using the part of you that’s still dangerous. Not the part that wants to be forgiven.”
Bucky knew he shared values with the party he belonged in. But for the first time, he wondered if they lacked the spine.
—
ONE WEEK LATER
House Floor – Defense Authorization Act Vote, Section 42: Expansion of Overseas Military Facilities
This was the kind of amendment that slipped under most radars— buried in bureaucratic language, pretending to be“regional stabilisation.” On paper, it looked harmless. Just another billion-dollar expansion of drone bases and “forward operating stations” in oil-rich regions that happened to be politically unstable.
For most in the room, it was routine.
For Bucky Barnes, it was a line he couldn’t cross. Not after he was used as the Winter Soldier.
He sat there, card in hand, listening as name after name was called. Every “yea” felt like a drumbeat, a reminder of how easy it was to slip back into the machine, how easy it was to disappear into the grind of votes until your hands were bloody and your conscience ran dry.
He could see all these men in suits who’d never seen war, pushing buttons that sent kids to die. And then he saw you, across the chamber, watching him like you already knew.
You didn’t blink.
“Congressman Barnes?” the clerk called out.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Nay.”
The room didn’t react all that much. One no vote in a sea of yeses. The machine kept churning.
But you heard him.
—
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
Antechamber off the Rotunda
You didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stepped in like you had every right—which, of course, you did.
You found him leaning against the far wall, jacket off, tie loose, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance.
“You broke party line,” you said.
He didn’t look at you. To be honest, he didn’t know what to say.
You walked in slowly, like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to punch him or drag him into your office. Maybe both.
“You know what you just voted against?”
“I read the whole thing,” he said, looking down. “The base in northern Syria is going to displace an entire village. The one in Nigeria is three miles from an elementary school. And the contractors running ‘support services’ are private militias with a human rights record almost as bad as Hydra’s. I recognised one of their tattoos, actually. The head of the program used to work for the winter soldier program.”
You stared at him.
He finally turned to look at you.
“I watched them build empires with blood,” he said. “I’m not signing off another one.”
You let the confession just sit there for a few seconds, untouched.
Then, you stepped closer, “You think you’re a good man for finally seeing it?”
“No,” he said. “I think I’m already too late.”
You were close now— almost chest to chest.
His breath was shallow, but steady, as if stepped into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.
You tilted your head, “Then why do it?”
He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. “Because you asked me to stop pretending.”
And that—that did something to you.
He wasn’t apologising. He wasn’t posturing.
He was offering.
Not a clean conscience. Not redemption.
But loyalty to the version of himself that you saw.
Your hand came up, fingers brushing the lapel of his shirt.
And then—because this wasn’t the time, and because you both knew what would happen if you gave in now—you let go and stepped back.
“You’re not off the hook,” you said, already walking toward the door. “You’ve got a long way to go before I believe you’re not still sleepwalking.”
He didn’t follow.
But when you glanced back just once, he saw your… approval.
The kind that could either kill a man or remake him.
Bucky was excited to see which he would fall under.
—
After that, tension built.
Every committee hearing, every closed-door strategy meeting, every hallway brush of shoulders was… charged now.
He started showing up more— to panels you hadn’t invited him to, to press conferences where he had no reason to be. He stayed just outside your orbit like he was waiting for permission to fall into it.
And when you challenged someone in session, his eyes would find yours like he was feeding off it.
Like he wanted to kneel in the wake of your ambition.
But it wasn’t just the glances. It was the touch.
It started small. His hand would graze your lower back when he passed behind you in a hearing room. His fingers brushed yours when he handed over a folder. One late night, he reached around you to grab a glass and let his knuckles drag across your waist. You never stopped him.
He was bolder after that.
“You know,” he whispered once, as the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder behind the Senate chamber, “you could tell me to behave. Just once. I’d probably listen.”
You didn’t look at him, but chuckled, “You wouldn’t.”
And he laughed and leaned closer, like he couldn’t help it. “Only one way to find out.”
Another night, at a policy summit out of town, he found you in the hallway of the hotel after your keynote. He was loose-tied and grinning, one hand pressed against the wall beside your head. He couldn’t really get drunk, but he was a little drunk on you. A little desperate for permission he hadn’t figured out how to ask for yet.
“You keep looking at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve,” he said.
You raised a brow. “You are a problem.”
“And what if I want to be?” His tone dropped. “For you.”
You just stepped forward, close enough that he had to either move back or let you invade his space. He didn’t move.
“You really think you’re ready for that kind of trouble, Congressman?” you whispered, sultry, fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt.
He shuddered.
And just like that, you knew that he liked it when you were the one in control.
—
After that night, he became flirty in a way that barely skirted on professional, but always left you wondering if he’d drop to his knees the moment you told him to. He called you “Senator” with that smooth Brooklyn drawl, as if he knew it drove you insane. He touched your fingers when he passed you documents. Let his thigh press against yours under the table during closed sessions.
And every time you checked on him, you felt him fold just a little more.
He was waiting, waiting, and wound tight around your little finger, loving every second of it.
—
THREE MONTHS LATER
U.S. Capitol – Outside the Senate Floor
It started with a vote.
Of course it did.
He blindsided you on the floor. Not by going against the party line—that wasn’t new anymore—but by attaching an amendment you hadn’t signed off on. One that would gut your infrastructure bill if the wrong committee caught wind of it.
You barely made it off the Senate floor before you turned on him.
“Barnes,” you snapped, heels sharp against the marble.
He slowed to a stop, irritatingly casual.
You shoved open the door to an empty hearing room and walked inside, not even checking to see if he followed. You knew he would.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, turning to the supersoldier. “You went behind my back.”
He didn’t flinch. Just crossed his arms, standing his ground. “I strengthened your bill.”
“You undermined it. That amendment will kill support in Appropriations, and you know it.”
“I know the version you want passed is safer for everyone except the people who need it most.”
You stared at him, breath hitching.
“You’re not the only one who gets to steal the show, Senator.” His voice was low, controlled. But there was heat behind it. It sounded almost…. reckless, almost hungry.
You stepped in closer.
“Don’t you dare— ugh, fuck!” You raised your hands, exasperated. “You could’ve talked to me! You chose to pull that stunt in public. You wanted to make a point.”
He tilted his head, smiling a beautiful smile. but it was all teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push you.”
Shit.
There it was.
You were toe to toe now. You could feel the tension rippling off him in waves. It barely contained under the surface that unruly front he liked to wear for everyone else. Not for you.
Never for you.
“Even if I did tell you,” he said to fill the silence, “Would you have listened?” he said again, almost smug.
Fuck him.
You should’ve torn into him. Told him he was reckless, self-righteous, impossible to work with at times.
Instead, you grabbed the folder from the table beside you and flipped it open—anything to put distance between you and that fucking look on his gorgeous face.
But the moment your eyes read the amendment again, the realisation hit like a gut punch.
Damn it.
It was good.
Not just some posturing idealist’s rewrite—it actually filled in what you hadn’t been able to get past the budget committee.
He proposed relocating funds from defense surplus, rebalanced long-term projections so the bill could stretch further without tanking in Appropriations.
But you still hated that he’d gone behind your back.
You hated even more that it worked.
You looked up slowly. “Goddamn you, Barnes.”
You threw the files on the fucking floor.
And before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how wrong this was, how stupid—you grabbed his lapel, yanked him down, and kissed him.
His hands were on you in an instant, his metal one gripping your waist like he’d been waiting for this moment for months, the human one cradling the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth met yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.
You made a sound—half a growl, half a whimper—and pushed him back against the wall, biting his lower lip as he groaned into your mouth. Your hands were under his jacket, fingers brushing the belt at his side, trying to pry it off before giving up and letting your palm run under his shirt instead, feeling every plane of muscle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This was a scandal waiting to happen.
But you liked the feeling of him moaning in your goddamn mouth too much to care.
And then—knock knock knock.
You froze.
“Senator?” your secretary called through the door. “They’re looking for you upstairs.”
You jerked back instantly, heart beating too fast for your ribcage to handle. Bucky blinked down at you, lips swollen.
Shit.
Your hand pressed to his chest firmly, pushing him back. “Don’t—don’t say anything.
He raised a brow, still dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“No one can know,” you hissed, “No one.”
He just nodded, eyes raking over you. “Whatever you say, Senator.”
You adjusted your suit jacket, tried to fix your hair, ignored the heat still thrumming between your thighs.
And as you opened the door to leave, you thought to yourself—
Fuck. What did I just do?
—
The week after the kiss was brutal.
You shut him out.
No meetings. No calls. His name popped up on your calendar twice and both times, you had your scheduler cancel. You claimed conflict: Travel got in the way. There were urgent committee matters. Anything to avoid sitting across from him.
Because you didn’t trust yourself to be around him.
You didn’t trust the way your body reacted at the thought of his mouth on yours. How it replayed on loop when you closed your eyes. You didn’t trust that if he gave you that look again, that you wouldn’t grab him and make an even bigger mistake.
But Bucky noticed.
And it wrecked him.
His expression wasn’t quite as cocky. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And in the one hearing you couldn’t avoid, he was burning a hole through the side of your head with his stare, as if daring you to acknowledge him.
You didn’t.
—
TWO WEEKS LATER
The Freedom Forum Benefit
It was an annual auction event, all champagne and schmoozing and high-dollar promises. You wore black and entered with your head high, your staff two steps behind you.
You felt untouchable.
Until you saw him.
Bucky stood near the bar, fake-laughing at something a donor said, until he saw you.
His expression instantly changed.
He looked like he’d been sucker-punched.
He was in a gorgeous black suit that hugged his shoulders sin incarnate, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you remember exactly what you’d tasted last week. His hair was slicked back, his stubble rough.
He barely lasted an hour before finding you again.
You’d just stepped out into one of the gallery’s quieter hallways, wine glass in hand, needing a break from the circus when you heard his footsteps.
You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucky said quietly.
You took a breath, controlled. “I’ve been working.”
“Bullshit.”
You turned to him and sighed. “This isn’t the time.”
“Then tell me when the time is,” he said, exasperated, “because I’ve been trying to give you space, and you’ve been using it to pretend none of it happened.”
“We kissed,” you narrowed your eyes and finished the rest of your wine. “It was a mistake.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth like he didn’t believe a word you said. “Funny. Didn’t feel like a mistake when your hands were under my shirt.”
“That was—” Your voice hitched. “We weren’t thinking clearly.”
“I was.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been thinking about it every second since.”
Your back hit the wall before you even realised he’d cornered you there. He didn’t touch you—he wouldn’t—but he stood so close you could smell the spice of his cologne.
“You looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said. “And what, now you’re telling me you don’t feel the same?”
Your pulse thundered in your temple as he pushed in closer.
“Tell me to back off,” he said. “Say the word and I’ll walk away.”
You didn’t.
Instead, you whispered, “Come home with me.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Tonight. After the gala,” you told him, “if you want to talk this out, I’d rather not do it in public.”
His breath caught.
You could see him recalibrate—like every wire in his body short-circuited, then surged back online.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, okay.”
—
LATER THAT NIGHT
Your Residence
And when the gala ended, the motorcade took you back to your place, careful not to attract any unwanted attention.
You locked the door behind you, turned, and gave him that look.
That look that made his knees weak and his mouth dry.
He followed you into the kitchen like gravity had shifted in your favour.
You poured yourself a glass of water to sober up, not that you were too drunk to begin with. “You wanna talk?” You asked, “Then talk.”
What?
“That’s it?” he asked, almost hurt. “You shut me out for a week, pretend it never happened, and now I’m just—what? Why did you even bring me here? You want me to be your secret late-night one night stand?”
You turned slowly, arms crossing as you took him in.
“No,” you said coolly. “You’re a scandal waiting to happen.”
He flinched.
You stepped closer. “A walking PR nightmare, and those pretty eyes could cost me reelection. You’ve got a mouth that’s going to get you in trouble if you don’t stop pouting.”
“I’m not—” he started, defensive, but his voice cracked.
“Poor Congressman Barnes,” You tilted your head. “Thought one kiss made him special?”
He opened his mouth, but you were already closing the space between you.
“Because you’re right. You fucking are,” you said through gritted teeth. Your hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling around the silk of his tie. You tugged. “Because you know you’re a good man now, Congressman Barnes.”
He gritted his teeth. “I never said that.”
You tilted your head. “But you voted like one. You voted against drone strikes in civilian zones. Against privatized cyber warfare. Against mandatory surveillance of activist groups.”
You stepped closer, “You stood on the floor yesterday, opposing my proposition of keeping tabs on vigilantes and said ‘a government that fears its people more than it protects them is not a democracy—it’s an empire in decline.’ And you changed my mind. Do you know how hard it is to make me change my mind?”
He was breathing hard now.
“And fuck, darling…” you drawled, “I just can’t resist a good man,” your voice was so sweet and sour, like you wanted this but knew you shouldn’t let yourself have it. “You think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve spent every day this week trying not to picture you on your knees between hearings.”
He took a deep, shaky breath. His hands clenched at his sides.
“I’ve been rewriting statements while imagining how pretty you’d look with my hand in your hair between my legs. I’ve been arguing tax reform while wondering if you’d whimper when I told you to open your mouth.”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again. Not because I didn’t want to,” you leaned in, lips at his ear, “but because you’d let me. And I just. Can’t. Resist. A. Good. Man.”
He was trembling now.
You stepped back, “But here you are. In my home. Looking at me like you need me to take control.”
“I do,” he said, voice hoarse, wrecked. “I do.”
You shoved him back against the island kitchen and climbed on top of him like a campaign you meant to win. Your mouth found his ear, hot breath slipping into the space where his composure used to live.
“Then be good, congressman,” you purred, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “Can you do that for me?”
He groaned, deep and wrecked. It didn’t take long before he was grabbing and tearing.
Clothes came off in pieces. Buttons hit the floor. His tie stayed wrapped around your wrist because you yanked it free and didn’t want to let it go. Zippers were wrecked like decorum— ripped right through. He switched over your position, lifting you up and laying you out across your marble kitchen island instead.
His hand slid down your thigh and then up, right where you needed him.
“You’re so wet,” he breathed, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “You wanted this.”
You arched beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other fisted in his hair.
“I wanted to ruin you.”
His eyes shot to yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“You already have.”
That night, you learned that Bucky Barnes fucks like he fights. He was precise. He was relentless. He was a machine, a man trained to outlast anything.
So you rocked together there in your marble kitchen like the Capitol couldn’t burn fast enough. You bit his lip. He swore against your throat. He grabbed your hips like you were both anchoring him and tearing him apart.
At one point, you leaned in close and said, “I should filibuster you. Keep you here for hours. See how long it takes before you break protocol.”
He whimpered.
And when it was over—when you both were trembling and flushed and too ruined to speak—you dragged your nails down his chest and whispered, “Still think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?”
He could only shake his head.
“You ruined me,” he said, quiet. “And I liked it.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “Don’t get poetic,” you reminded, “You still tanked my vote yesterday.”
He leaned his forehead against your chest, groaning.
“Fuck, I know,” he laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna destroy me in committee next week.”
“I might.”
He looked up again, playful while still managing to be sincere. “Will you at least destroy me like this again afterward?”
You tried to be annoyed. You tried to remember all the ways he drove you insane. But his voice was a little hoarse, his hands were still on your hips like you were the only solid thing left in the world.
And you knew what that meant— loyalty.
Not weakness. Not worship.
But it lived in between.
You slid off the sticky counter, standing on shaky legs, and he caught your hand before you could step away fully.
“Stay,” he said.
You looked at him. Bare, naked, still burning from the inside out.
“You’re in my house,” you chuckled.
“I know.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrists.
Fuck, this wasn’t just politics anymore.
This wasn’t strategy or tension. This was something you could walk away from unscathed.
You pulled him up with both hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth— much softer this time.
“I’ll stay,” you said, “if you do, too.”
And he did.
—
And things… evolved.
He kept it clean in public. Professional.
Well… mostly. He’d place the occasional hand on your lower back, he’d give you kisses on your temple when no one was around.
But behind closed doors, your townhouse became home base. He cooked surprisingly well.
He’d make pancakes on Sundays. Steak when you were pissed off. Toast and black coffee after sex so good it felt like treason.
You’d read from draft bills while lying across the bed in nothing but his flannel shirt. He’d rest his chin on your thigh, half-listening, half-worshipping.
Sometimes you'd argue between kisses, about anything and everything. Foreign policy. Trade sanctions. Use of force authorizations.
Once, after a particularly vicious day on the floor, you were pacing the living room, still in heels, when he sank down to his knees in front of you, hands sliding slowly up your calves.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, eyes dark with devotion, “I’m just a humble public servant.”
Then you made him shut up and prove it.
And he did. On the floor. With his mouth. With his hands. With everything he had.
His house was no better off.
The bed smelled like sweat and parchment. There are bills marked with lipstick smudges. A copy of the Intelligence Committee’s black-budget proposal lay under the couch with a condom wrapper on top of it.
He read your notes. You wore his shirts. He’d eat you out mid-argument, face between your thighs while you’re yelling about how best to handle money-driven foreign ambassadors.
“I’m not voting for that amendment,” you’d gasped.
He dragged his mouth away from you for just one second.
“I’ll change your mind.”
You didn’t win that one.
—
AFTER MIDNIGHT
Your Office
Even your place of work wasn’t safe from Bucky Barnes.
You’d tried to draw a line—several, in fact—but Bucky never much cared for red tape. Or rules. Or doors, apparently, because he stepped into your office without knocking, shutting and locking it behind him with a soft click.
A Homeland Security report sat open on your desk, pages half-read and already bleeding red ink from your pen. You tried to stay focused, legs crossed.
But then he was there and he dropped to his knees in front of your chair like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
He pushed your skirt up with both hands—one warm and calloused, the other cool and metal— like it was his constitutional duty.
“I’ve got a briefing in the morning,” you said, trying to keep your voice even and failing.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, his mouth was anything but.
He was thorough. He took his time, tongue tracing patterns into you like your pleasure was classified intelligence and he was breaking into it for the first time.
When you came undone, legs locked tight around his shoulders, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other gripping the armrest of your chair—you didn’t scream his name. You threw your head back, tried to remember how to breathe, and with the last shred of composure you could muster, you said, “Recess adjourned.”
He grinned into you, smug and satisfied, like he’d just won a vote with both sides of the aisle.
And just like always, he made you wonder which of you really held the power.
—
SIX MONTHS LATER
Barnes' Residence
Even now that he had you, Bucky still found congress to be a little… too much.
The marble halls, the cameras, the backroom deals— none of it felt like him. Not really.
You found him in his house, suit jacket crumpled on the floor, tie discarded somewhere on the kitchen counter. His metal hand rubbed slow circles over his tired temple as he sat slumped on the couch. He looked so out of place in his own home.
You padded over quietly, barefoot, your old oversized campaign shirt hanging off your body.
“You didn’t even make it to the bedroom,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair.
He leaned into your touch immediately. He craved you.
“They're pissed,” he said, eyes closed. “My whole damn party. Said I vote too… independent. That I don't ‘play nice.’ As if any of this should be about sides.”
Your heart broke just a little. You hated what this job did to him— how it wore him down and made him question if he was doing enough. You climbed onto the couch without hesitation, curling into his side until your head was tucked under his chin and his arms were around you.
“You’re not here to play nice,” you whispered against his chest. “You’re here to do what’s right. And that means they’re going to be mad sometimes. But I’m proud of you, James.”
He let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—as his arms tightened around you.
“This is so fucked,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I spent a year of my life trying to get elected only to regret it.”
You pulled back just enough to cup his cheek, guiding his eyes to yours. His blue eyes were tired, but still full of fire.
“You don’t have to pretend,” you said. “Not with me. If you want to leave politics tomorrow, I’ll be the first to pack up your office. If you stay, I’ll be in the front row of every speech.”
A slow smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your nose. You giggled, and he did it again, because he loved the sound— because it reminded him that he managed to tame a senator with knives for a tongue.
God, how did he even end up in a relationship with a career politician?
His metal hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he kissed you.
And later, as you lay tangled in each other beneath a blanket on the couch, he whispered sleepily, nose brushing yours. “Hey.”
“Hm?”
“You know what I’d vote for?”
You smiled. “What?”
“More nights like this. Just you and me. No debates. No bills. Just… us.”
You kissed him softly. “Unanimously approved.”
He smiled his real smile—the one he only saved for you. And for the first time in days, he looked like he could breathe again.
—
ONE MONTH LATER
House Floor – Supersoldier Proposal Hearing
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked into that chamber.
And when the CIA director came in, people listened.
Her heels clicked like gunfire against the polished marble.
She presented her proposal like it was already law. A radical new supersoldier program. No more Avengers.
You watched it unfold with ice in your veins. Her plan took fear into account, and weaponised it. It was disguised as strategy.
And Congress—both parties—ate it up.
Except Bucky.
He stood alone.
“I’ve been in that program,” he said, and you heard the crack in his voice even if no one else did. “You don’t force heroes. You don’t use people. You don’t turn them into weapons just because you’re scared of the next big threat.”
Val didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward him with that shark-like smile and ripped into him.
Not his policies.
Him.
His past. His record. The Winter Soldier. The man who was programmed.
“You, of all people, are going to lecture us on this?” she sneered. “You’re a reminder of why this program is necessary.”
He stood there, eyes glassy, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.
He just walked out.
—
LATER THAT NIGHT
Your Residence
You found him hours later in your dark bedroom, after a social event. He hadn’t turned anything on. No lamp. No TV.
Bucky was sitting on the edge of your bed, his back hunched, hands limp in his lap. His suit still clung to him like a cage. His tie was crooked and loose, shirt wrinkled like he’d pulled and scratched anxiously at it. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths he only took when he was trying his hardest not to break down.
He didn’t even look up when you stepped inside, he just kept staring at the floor like it stretched miles beneath him.
You stepped inside the room and knelt in front of him carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. You reached for his shoes, slipping them off one by one. He blinked slowly, as if only now noticing you were there.
You took the suit jacket away gently, as if it were battle armour. In a way, it was.
The tie followed. Then the first few buttons of his shirt. Bit by bit, until only the man remained.
And that’s when he broke.
A quiet sound escaped him— a sound that broke your heart. His shoulders trembled, and his hands came up to cover his face. “I can’t do this,” he choked out, barely audible. “I can’t—this place, these people… they don’t want me. Not really.”
You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees on either side of his hips, arms sliding around his neck
“They’ll never trust me,” he went on, breath catching, hot tears leaking past his finger before burying his face in your neck.
“No matter what I do. No matter how many times I show up, or fight, or play by their goddamn rules. I’m still the monster in the room.”
“James,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his temple as his arms wrapped around you. “You are not a monster.”
He held onto you like he was drowning, his tears soaking into your blouse. “I thought if I did everything right… if I followed every step they gave me, every rule, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could fix me.”
You pulled back just enough to cup his face— your thumbs brushing at his tear-streaked cheeks.
“You are not broken,” you said, driving the point home. “You are brave. And kind. And you’ve saved more lives than they’ll ever understand. You carry more pain than they ever will—and still, you choose to fight.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.
“And I love you for that,” you breathed. The words escaped before you could second-guess them. “I love you, Bucky. All of you. Not just the soldier. Not just the survivor. But the man who still believes there’s something worth fighting for.“
His breath hitched —and then he was crying in earnest. He was not hiding begin silent tears anymore.
Was that the first time you’d said it?
He didn’t answer right away. Just buried his face in your shoulder and cried like he hadn’t in years, because he knew, no matter how intimidating you seem to be on the house floor, it was safe to fall apart here, with you.
“I just…” he finally whispered, voice barely there. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to face them again. I just want to be with you.”
You pressed a kiss to his hair, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Then be with me,” you whispered, a small smile breaking through the ache in your chest. “We’ll figure it out together.”
His metal hand came up and settled between your shoulder blades.
He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut.
—
Later that night, when he was done crying his heart out, he became… calmer.
Still exhausted and red-eyed, but calmer nonetheless.
You found him in the kitchen, his shirt still unbuttoned, stained faintly with some red sauce from the food you ordered in for him. He’d forgotten to take his socks off, and one sleeve was slightly rolled higher than the other.
There was still plenty of food on the counter.
And next to it was a printed copy of Valentina’s proposal.
She sent it to him, not because he asked. She wanted to taunt him.
He must’ve read it a dozen times. Couldn't stop. Couldn't help touching it, even though every word made his skin crawl.
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
“You know…” you said finally, your voice steady. “I know what you’ve been doing,”
He didn’t turn around, but he froze.
What were you talking about?
“I’ve known for a while,” you went on, stepping closer. You had found the files accidentally, when you were looking for a pearl necklace in one of his drawers. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up… until now.”
You watched the tension ripple through his shoulders.
“You’ve been keeping tabs,” you continued, “The former Red Room Widows. The Soviet super soldier who’s still off the grid. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who can phase through walls. Even that fucking dollar store Cap. You’re thinking of building something, are you Bucky?”
He still didn’t face you, but his hand dropped to his sides.
“You’re… putting a team together,” you said, more gently now. “I… don’t need to know the details. But I see what you’re trying to do.”
He turned then.
He hadn’t known how to bring it up to you. Hell, he hadn’t even known if it was really going to happen. It had all started as just instinct— keeping an eye on the kind of people most had written off as monsters or mistakes. People like him.
And what was he supposed to say, anyway? To you—his girlfriend, a sitting member of the Senate? That he was considering building a team made of people with blood on their hands and trauma in their bones? That he was offering them redemption not because he was certain they deserved it, but because he hoped they did?
He couldn’t picture your reaction. Would you be proud? Horrified? Would you see him as foolish… or as the same broken man they once turned into a weapon?
So he had said nothing… until now.
“You’re right.” The words fell out of him like a confession.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussed and sauce-stained and tired as hell. “This… this whole thing,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos of the kitchen—the proposal, the uneaten food. “Politics. Committees. Playing nice with people who smile while they sharpen their knives behind your back.”
He looked down at himself, and for a second, you thought he might shatter all over again. “I never wanted this,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought—if I did this job, played the game—maybe I could protect people. Maybe I could stop people like Valentina from getting a foothold.”
“But this isn’t it,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is for you. God, it is. Every time I see you on that floor, you own it. You belong there.”
His breath caught, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips.
“I… don’t,” he whispered. “Fuck, I try—I… I sit in those chambers and pretend I’m part of it, but I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. This is not who I am supposed to be.”
You came up and slid your arms around his waist. His breath hitched, and his hand came to rest at the small of your back—metal fingers curling in tight.
“Then who are you supposed to be, darling?” you asked, not caring that your blouse was now stained, too.
He hesitated. The answer had been in him for so long, it was almost scary to say out loud.
“I’s supposed to be in the field,” he admitted. “Tracking these threats. Taking them out before they grow roots.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But I don’t have Stark money. Or a tower. Or a government stamp of approval. Half the people in D.C. still think I’m one bad day away from a murder. It would be impossible to get fucking funding for this.”
“Well…” You smiled the kind of smile that could wage wars and stitch hearts back together. It always made his chest ache in the best way. “I transferred… a little something to your account,” you said with a shrug.
Bucky blinked. “You… you what?”
You chuckled, and it was insane how mundane you were going on about this. “It’s from my discretionary fund. Technically it’s filed under ‘independent research security initiative,’ if anyone’s asking.”
His brows furrowed, “You’re—wait, you’re funding this?”
You stepped in closer and kissed his jawline. “It’s barely a dent in my inheritance,” you said. “And if it means I get to sleep at night knowing you’re out there doing what you were meant to do? Then, yeah, sweetheart—I’m backing your project.”
He stared like you’d just handed him the world on a silver platter, then kissed the nape of his neck and told him it had been his all along.
“You’re… serious,” he breathed.
You gave an amused laugh, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Do you even know me?” you whispered. “I am always serious when I believe in something.” You leaned in, close enough that your lips ghosted over his. “And I believe in you, James Buchanan Barnes. I always have.”
He sighed— along with a half-sob, half-laugh—and crushed your body in his arms like he was terrified you weren’t real. He kissed you like you were the only clean air left on Earth and he’d been suffocating for years.
And when you pulled back, your hands cradling his face, your thumbs gently chasing the dampness from under his eyes, your voice was nothing short of conviction.
His eyes glistened with tears— and finally you saw a spark return.
A purpose.
“I don’t deserve you,” he choked, barely holding himself together.
You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “No, sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”
Your fingers reached up and slipped into his hair, combing through it, grounding him one tender touch at a time. “But it needs you anyway. So quit Congress if that’s what it takes. I’ve got this— I can hold the line in the halls. You take the field, yeah?”
His arms wrapped around you tighter, like he was afraid you were too good to be true.
He held onto you with everything he had left, bending down and burying his face in the curve of your neck like your skin was the only place in the world he felt safe.
He still smelled like stress, coffee, and metal but under it all, he smelled like home.
And then—barely a whisper, he told you. “I love you.”
Oh.
Your smile bloomed as you pressed your forehead to his, fingers curling at the nape of his neck like you never wanted to let go. “I know,” you whispered back, “I know, darling.”
—
By morning, his resignation letter was written. You proofread it over pancakes, still wearing one of his t-shirts, a pen tucked behind your ear and syrup on your fingers.
He read through it again at the kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep. He hadn’t even bothered to put on any trousers.
But his eyes were more focused than you’ve seen in weeks.
You even brought him coffee in his favorite mug (the custom one you got from Etsy that said I Fought Hydra and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug), and pressed a kiss to his temple before handing him a pen.
“You sure?” you asked.
He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue and nodded.
By afternoon, his first mission plan was already sketched out on the back of a napkin—next to a plate of half-eaten fries and a mostly empty bottle of ketchup.
“This is not normal,” you muttered, staring at the haphazard yet oddly brilliant strategy chart scribbled in blue ink and crumbs. “You’re literally building a rogue ops unit on a paper towel.”
“It’s got character,” Bucky said, popping a grape in his mouth like a smug little gremlin.
You helped him map out every potential recruit. The names rolled off your tongue like a to-do list: Yelena Belova. Alexei Shostakov. Ava Starr. Antonia Dreykov. And—because the universe had a sense of humor—John fuckin’ Walker.
Red tape covered your living room floor like crime scene string art. The place looked less like a D.C. home and more like a joint ops bunker. A Post-it with “Call Sam” was stuck to your microwave. You had government dossiers, encrypted USB drives, and half a dozen color-coded sticky notes labeled ‘THREAT LEVEL: Eh, manageable.’
It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous, late-stage-caffeine chaos.
All of that, and you were still in your pajamas.
Bucky looked at the mess of documents, then at you—hair tangled, chewing the end of a pen, a folder in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.
“You sure you don’t want to fund a think tank like a normal senator, sweetheart?” he asked with a smile.
You shook your head. “Think tanks don’t get to blow stuff up with their hot ex-assassin boyfriends.”
He laughed as he leaned over and kissed your forehead. “You’re absolutely out of your mind,” he murmured.
“I’m in love,” you said simply, poking his chest. “Which is a lot more dangerous.”
By evening, the resignation was submitted. The burner phones were ready. You’ve tracked every recruit to their last known location.
Bucky Barnes was no longer a congressman.
But for the first time in a long, long time, he was exactly what the world needed.
Not a suit. Not a symbol.
A good man.
With a good heart.
-end.
Extra Note : so many tag requests got buried in all your wonderful comments! if you'd like to be tagged in the general Bucky masterlist, please message me either personally, or write to my inbox! <3
