pairing: bull rider!bucky barnes x barrel racer!reader | 7.7k words
warnings: past unprotected sex, pregnancy, single mom!reader, secret baby (now secret nine-year-old oops), mentions of childbirth, rodeo injuries, guilt, miscommunication, co-parenting feelings, big emotions, second chance romance, soft dad!bucky losing his mind over a tiny barrel racer
summary: at twenty-three, bucky blows into your small-town rodeo with big-league dreams and a bull rope, leaving you with a broken heart and a baby he never knew about. ten years later, retired and back on the circuit, he’s blindsided to find you, and your daughter, waiting in the same arena where it all began.
authors note: little bit of cowboy bucky hurt/comfort to grace your feed this fine saturday afternoon! if you know anything about me, cowboy!bucky has my soul and this concept sunk its claws in me and refused to let go.
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Bucky Barnes shows up with a busted duffel bag and a bull rope slung over his shoulder like he already owns the place.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He’s twenty-three, road-weary, dust on his jeans and sun in his eyes, and he pulls into the county fairgrounds in a beat-up blue truck that rattles to a stop beside your trailer. The late June heat shimmers over the red clay, the air thick with the smell of horses, fried food, and diesel.
You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”
You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—
—and forget what you were gonna say.
He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.
You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”
His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”
You arch a brow. “Name?”
“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”
You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”
“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”
“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.
He smirks. “What should I call you then?”
You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.
“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.
“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”
“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”
You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”
He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
You hate how it makes you want to smile back.
Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.
He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.
You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.
Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.
He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.
You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.
He winks.
Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.
He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.
“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”
“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”
He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”
He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.
“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”
“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”
The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.
Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.
“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”
You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”
He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.
You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”
This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.
“It’s home,” you finish.
He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”
“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”
His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.
You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.
You don’t.
Not that night.
You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.
It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.
“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”
You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”
He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”
“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”
“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”
“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.
“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”
For him. For you.
A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”
Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”
“Like what?”
He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.
“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”
Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.
“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”
You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”
He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”
“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”
“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”
“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”
“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.
Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.
There it is.
“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”
His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”
“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”
“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”
He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.
You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.
You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.
The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.
“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.
Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.
You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.
You’ll remember the shape of his promise.
“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”
You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.
Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.
He rides the rank bull.
He covers the eight seconds.
The scout notices.
The sponsor calls.
He leaves.
You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.
You throw up in the barn two months later.
You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.
“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”
When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.
Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.
He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.
You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—
Then you stop.
You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.
You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.
Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”
You select his number.
You hover over the call button.
You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.
You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.
You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.
You delete the message.
You turn your phone off.
You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.
Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.
You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.
You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.
You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.
First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.
Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.
“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.
She is too much like both of you.
You try not to think about that.
You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.
“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.
“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”
“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”
Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.
You almost don’t see the banner at first.
WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.
The world tilts on its axis.
“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”
You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”
Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.
But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.
Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”
“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”
“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”
You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.
You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.
All the while, your stomach is in knots.
You could leave.
You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.
But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.
You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.
“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.
Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.
“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.
“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”
You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.
As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.
“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”
Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.
You look.
He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.
He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.
You do.
“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”
The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.
“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.
You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.
She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”
“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”
The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.
Your heart squeezes.
“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”
You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”
“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.
You step back.
Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.
His hand goes still on the rail.
For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.
Then Willa is flying.
She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.
The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.
You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.
Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.
She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.
When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.
Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.
“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”
You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”
She preens, glowing.
“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”
You freeze.
Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”
You turn slowly.
He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.
Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”
“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.
Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”
Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.
You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”
She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”
He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”
“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”
“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.
He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”
You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.
When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.
“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.
You hesitate.
You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.
You nod.
He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.
You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”
You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.
“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.
He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.
You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”
Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”
“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”
“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”
“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”
You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”
“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”
He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.
You flinch.
He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”
You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.
“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”
Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.
You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.
You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.
You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.
“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.
“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.
You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.
“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”
His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”
Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.
“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”
He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”
His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.
“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”
A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”
The we hits you like a physical blow.
“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”
He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”
You look up, finally.
There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.
“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”
“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”
You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.
“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”
Home.
The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.
“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”
Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”
“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”
You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.
You carry your own.
“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”
His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”
You could say no.
You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.
You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.
You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.
You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.
You sigh.
“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”
“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.
He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”
Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.
Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.
You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.
“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”
Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”
You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”
She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.
You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”
“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”
Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.
You nod.
She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.
“Cool,” she says finally.
You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.
“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”
A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”
Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”
Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”
She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”
You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”
Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.
He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.
He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.
At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.
“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.
You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”
“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”
Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.
“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”
You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”
You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”
He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”
You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.
“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”
He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”
“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.
“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.
You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”
His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”
“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”
His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.
He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”
“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”
He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”
He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.
Your heart does a stupid little flip.
He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.
His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.
You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.
Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.
Tonight, he stays.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.
"They wanted secrets. Avengers secrets," you reply. His thumb is still on your jaw, and right now, you're very aware of this. "But don't worry, Barnes. They didn't get any. Actually, I just talked about you for forty-five minutes instead."
Bucky's hand stops dead. "…pardon?"
Pairings: Avengers!AU!Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Employee!Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content (oral f!receiving & penetrative; protection used!), Edging, (historical) Semi-Public Masturbation, (mild) Humiliation, Bucky's Kinda Smug About Thirsty!Reader, Non-Consensual Drug Use (Reader is drugged; not between MCs & not during sex!), (sort of) Kidnapping, (light) Interrogation, (kinda) Porn With Plot
Additional Tags: No Y/N, American!Reader, Post-Civil War, Civil War Good Ending AU, Bucky's An Avenger, Reader Works For The Avengers In PR, Reader Gets Truth Serum'd; It Was Super Effective!, Fluff & Smut, Rom-Com Vibes, First Dates & Other Firsts 👀
Author's Note: i'm gonna keep it 100%, this one-shot brainworm mainly came about because i read New Avengers #8 last month, and it gave me ideas that morphed into something that was most-suited to a one-shot :> honestly, i was just gonna leave this as pure fluff, but i want to try and keep improving my smut writing since i personally don't think it's my strongest aspect so (*/ω＼*) that part just kinda happened oopsie, anyways enjoy!!! also GO TEAM CANADA FOR OLYMPIC HOCKEY!!!! THEIR ENERGY MOTIVATED ME TO POST THIS UP CAUSE YIPPEE GO FOR GOLD BOYS
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Telling Truths (8.6k)
'Sodium thiopental' is one of those drugs you only hear about in TV shows and movies. You had assumed that—like most Hollywood tropes—reality would turn out to be less exciting than fiction.
Turns out, you were wildly off-base, because this stuff really does work. Which is extremely unfortunate for the masked men who are presently trying their very hardest to interrogate you.
"Tell us everything you know about the Avengers," they'd started with.
Big mistake, because you started talking. And talking. And talking.
Not about security protocols or safe house locations or Captain Rogers' morning briefing schedule—no, you launched into a fifteen-minute monologue about the time Bucky Barnes held the door open for you while you were carrying three boxes of press kits, and you were so flustered you walked directly into a wall—
"—and the worst part," you hear yourself saying, "the worst part is he asked if I was okay, and I said, 'yes, thank you, you too,' like he'd just told me to enjoy my meal or something. What does that even mean—"
"—ma'am." The first kidnapper—you've mentally dubbed him 'Frustrated'—pinches the bridge of his nose. "We need intelligence on—"
"—he has really nice hands," you interrupt, because apparently the sodium thiopental has made you physically incapable of shutting up. "Like, disproportionately nice hands. Both of them. The metal one is obviously impressive from an engineering standpoint, but the other one—"
"—please," Frustrated says, and he actually sounds a little desperate now. "Tactical intelligence. Security measures. Anything useful."
You blink at him, processing this with the languid curiosity of someone watching clouds drift by. "You want useful information."
"Yes."
"About the Avengers."
"Yes."
"Okay, well, did you know that Bucky doesn't like blueberries? He says they 'taste wrong' now. Post-cryo taste buds, I guess. I brought a bunch of muffins to the staff meeting last month, and he made this face—" You attempt to recreate the sour expression, which is difficult while zip-tied to a chair. "—like this, when he tried the blueberry ones. It was adorable."
Frustrated makes a sound like a dying engine.
The second kidnapper—who is henceforth 'Invested', you've decided—leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Wait, go back. You brought muffins to a meeting, and he noticed?"
"He noticed," you confirm, nodding so enthusiastically your head swims. "He ate two of the chocolate chip ones and said—and I quote—'these are really good'. To me. Directly to me."
"That's promising," Invested says.
"I know, right?!" The zip ties dig into your wrists as you try to gesture. "But here's the thing; does he say that to everyone? Is he just really polite? Because he's been through literal decades of trauma, and maybe he's just being nice to the PR person because that's what well-adjusted people do, and I'm reading into—"
"—Yeah, but he ate two muffins," Invested interrupts. "If he was just being polite, he would've eaten one."
You gasp. This perspective has genuinely never occurred to you. "Oh my God."
"Can we—" Frustrated tries to get things back on track.
"—and he remembered you brought them," Invested continues, fully committed now. "That's attention to detail. Interest."
"But also he's a trained assassin," you counter, because the truth serum won't let you be anything less than thorough in your self-doubt. "Attention to detail is literally his job. He probably remembers everyone's muffin preferences. He probably has a mental file on the weird guy from IT who always takes the last bagel—"
"—what's his name?" the third kidnapper—'Professional', you decide, since he is still trying to salvage this—cuts in sharply.
"Whose name? Bucky's?"
"What? No. The weird guy from IT."
You open your mouth. Then close it. "I... don't know, actually."
"But you know Barnes doesn't like blueberries." Professional's tone suggests he's trying to make a point.
"Well, yeah, because I..." You stop. The implications hit you with all the subtle grace of a sledgehammer to the face. "Oh."
"'Oh'?" Invested sits up straighter. "What's 'oh'? That sounded like a significant 'oh'."
"I pay attention to him." The words float out, soft and mortifying. "Like, a lot of attention. I know he takes his coffee black, but he'll add sugar if he's been up for more than twenty-four hours. I know he runs the perimeter every morning at six, but he takes Thursdays off. I know he sits in the back row at press briefings and does this thing with his jaw when someone says something particularly stupid—"
"—Uh-oh," Invested says, grinning behind his mask. You can practically hear it. "That's a crush."
"It's such a crush," you agree miserably. "It's a catastrophic crush. I'm professionally compromised."
"Does he—" Invested starts.
"—Okay," Frustrated stands up abruptly, chair scraping against concrete. "New approach. Tell us about the Avengers compound security systems."
You look at him with the patience of a saint. "The security systems are designed by Tony Stark, so they're very advanced, but also Bucky helped consult on them because he's really good at finding vulnerabilities from his HYDRA days, which is both hot and sad, and one time I saw him reviewing camera placements with Tony, and he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom for like ten minutes..."
Frustrated walks away. Just straight up walks to the other side of the room.
"Focus," Professional says, still trying. "What were the camera placements?"
"I don't know; I wasn't looking at the cameras." You're pretty sure you're slurring now. "I was looking at his forearms."
"Legitimate," Invested nods.
"No, not legitimate," Frustrated shouts from his corner. "None of this is legitimate!"
Professional finally pulls out his phone, and you track the movement with delayed curiosity. "Who're you calling?" you ask.
"Our employer," he says flatly. "To tell them this was a massive waste of our time and resources."
"Wait." Invested holds up a hand. "Give me five more minutes."
"Why."
"I need to know if he's made a move on her!"
"He hasn't," you supply helpfully. "That's part of the problem. We're in this weird limbo where we're definitely friends, but I can't tell if he's just being friendly or if there's—" You wiggle your fingers as much as the zip ties allow. "—something there."
"Well, has he touched you?" Invested asks. "Casual touches, lingering eye contact, finding excuses to be near you?"
You consider this with the gravity it deserves. "He... steadies me sometimes. Like if I'm on a ladder hanging press banners or carrying too many things. Hand on my elbow, that kind of thing."
"How long does he leave it there?"
"Longer than strictly necessary for stability purposes," you admit.
Twenty minutes later, you're sitting on the curb outside the warehouse, still zip-tied, watching your kidnappers load themselves into a van.
Invested pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I think he's into you," he offers.
"Thanks," you say, because the sodium thiopental is still very much in your system. "This was weird, but oddly validating."
"If you don't make a move, you're a coward," he adds.
"That's fair. I'll take that."
The van drives away. You sit on the curb and wonder vaguely if you should be more concerned about the kidnapping part of this situation. Your phone's gone, your head feels like it's full of cotton, and you're wearing yesterday's blouse because laundry day is Thursday and today is—wait, what day is it again?
Then the Quinjet lands in the street with the subtle grace of a small meteor, and you decide that this is probably the least weird thing to happen to you today. Why not just land a multi-million dollar jet in the middle of the road?
Bucky hits the ground before the ramp fully deploys, his gun drawn, eyes scanning for threats with the cold efficiency that makes your stomach flip even when you're drugged and recently kidnapped. Steve's right behind him, shield up, and you feel a distant flicker of guilt that they probably had to interrupt something important for this.
His eyes lock on you, sitting on the curb, and the gun lowers. "Are you hurt?"
"No," you say honestly. Then, because the truth serum is a snitch, you continue. "Just drugged. Sodium thiopental. I always thought it was just movie stuff. Turns out it's very effective."
He's crouching in front of you now, metal hand coming up to carefully tilt your chin, checking your pupils. The touch is gentle. It's always gentle. "What did they want?"
"They wanted secrets. Avengers secrets," you reply. His thumb is still on your jaw, and right now, you're very aware of this. "But don't worry, Barnes. They didn't get any. Actually, I just talked about you for forty-five minutes instead."
Bucky's hand stops dead. "…pardon?"
"So many details," you continue, because apparently your mouth is still operating independently of your brain. "Embarrassing details. The muffin incident. Your forearms. The fact that I know your running schedule and coffee preferences and the exact shade of blue your eyes get in morning light—"
Steve makes a choking sound behind him.
"—and one of them was really invested in whether you like me back, which was nice of him considering he'd kidnapped me, very emotionally supportive for a mercenary—"
"—okay," Bucky interrupts, sounding a little flustered. "Let's get you to medical. They just left you here?"
"Yep. They let me go because I was useless," you tell him as he cuts the zip ties with a knife that appears from nowhere. "Well, useless for intelligence. Apparently, very useful for romantic speculation."
"Uh-huh. I'm sure," he says, a little faint.
You're being guided to the quinjet now, Bucky's hand steady on your elbow—longer than strictly necessary for stability purposes, your brain notes—and you lean into him without thinking about it.
"Your forearms really are distracting though," you tell him seriously. "That's not the drugs talking. That's just facts."
Behind you, Steve is definitely laughing.
Medical smells like antiseptic and the particular kind of quiet that makes you want to whisper. You're sitting on an exam table, paper crinkling under you, while Bruce shines a penlight in your eyes with the resigned air of someone who's seen too much weird stuff to be fazed by sodium thiopental confessions.
"Pupil response is good," he says, clicking off the light. "How do you feel?"
"A little floaty," you report. "And like I've made some regrettable life choices."
"The drug should work its way out of your system in another hour or two." Bruce makes a note on his tablet. "In the meantime, try not to operate heavy machinery or make any binding decisions."
"Or talk," you add.
"Or talk," he agrees, mouth twitching. He pauses at the door. "Oh—F.R.I.D.A.Y. pulled audio from the warehouse security cameras. We've got a full transcript of your interrogation, for the debrief file."
Every drop of blood in your body relocates to your face. "A full transcript."
"Every word." Bruce has the decency to look sympathetic. "Standard protocol. The team leads will need to review it."
"The team leads," you repeat. "As in Steve. And—"
"—No worries, already sent it over." Bruce taps his tablet. "I'll give you two some privacy."
You blink. Process. Turn your head—too fast, the room tilts—and realize Bucky's still here. He's leaning against the counter by the sink, arms crossed, watching you with an expression you can't quite parse.
"You don't have to stay," you say. "I'm fine. Medically fine. Emotionally compromised, but fine."
"I know." He doesn't move, and you suddenly become very interested in the edge of the exam table paper, picking at it with your thumbnail. He watches. Neither of you speaks.
"So," Bucky says eventually. "Muffins."
You close your eyes. "Oh god."
"And my forearms?"
"I'm going to resign," you tell the ceiling. "I will submit my resignation and move to a remote island where no one has ever heard of the Avengers or truth serums or—"
"And my coffee preferences?"
"—Exactly. I'll become a hermit. I'll live off coconuts. I'll never speak to another human being ever again—"
"—hey." His voice is closer now. You open your eyes, and he's right there, standing in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. "Breathe. It's okay."
You breathe. It comes out shaky.
"For the record," Bucky says quietly. "I know your coffee order too."
Your brain stalls. "What?"
"Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot on Mondays." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "You do this thing where you wrap both hands around the cup even though it's cold. And you always smell like that lavender lotion from the dispensers on the third floor."
Oh no. Oh, no. You feel your face get warm.
"You hum when you're concentrating," he continues. "You reorganize the press clippings by colour when you're stressed. You fall asleep during team movie nights, but you always try to fight it because you don't want to be rude."
"That's..." You're having trouble getting air into your lungs properly. "That's a lot of details."
"Yeah." His eyes are very blue. "It is."
The implications of this are trying to surface through the remaining fog of sodium thiopental, but they keep slipping away before you can grab them. "So you're saying..."
"I'm saying you're not the only one paying attention." He shifts his weight, and suddenly, you're aware of how close he is, how he's standing in the space between your knees, not touching but right there. "And for the record, that thing you do when you're on ladders? Where you bite your bottom lip when you're concentrating on getting the banner straight?"
"Yeah?"
"Distracting," he says, and the single word drops straight through your stomach. "Very distracting."
"Oh," you say intelligently.
His hand comes up—the flesh one, warm and calloused—and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. The touch lingers. "I was trying to figure out how to do this without making things weird at work."
"I think we're past that now," you manage. "I told mercenaries about your blueberry preferences."
That startles a laugh out of him, soft and genuine, and your whole chest goes warm and stupid with it. "Yeah, we're definitely past that."
"So..." You're still trying to process. "What does this mean?"
Bucky studies you, choosing his words carefully. "It means when you're not drugged anymore, and you can make decisions that aren't chemically influenced—" His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so gentle it makes you shiver. "—I'd like to take you to dinner."
"Like... a date-dinner?"
"Yeah, sweetheart. Like a date-dinner."
The endearment sweetheart hits you somewhere behind your ribs. You're definitely still a little drugged, because your response isn't exactly verbose.
"Your hands really are disproportionately nice, you know. I wasn't lying about that."
His smile goes lopsided, devastating. "You can tell me all about it over dinner."
"I'm going to be so embarrassed about this later," you inform him.
"I know." He's still touching your face, still standing close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. "But for now, just... sit with it, okay?"
"Okay," you whisper.
"Good." He steps back—slowly, like he's reluctant to break contact—and the loss of proximity makes you want to protest. "I'm gonna go debrief with Steve. Bruce will check on you in a bit."
"Bucky?"
He pauses at the door and looks back.
"Thursday," you say. "I'm free Thursday."
His whole face opens up—eyes crinkling, mouth crooked, and a dimple you've never seen before cutting into his left cheek. "Thursday works."
Then he's gone, and you're alone in the medical bay with your racing heart and the lingering warmth of his hand on your face.
From the hallway, you hear Steve's voice. "So that was—"
"—not a word," Bucky cuts him off.
"I'm just saying, the forearms thing was—"
"—Steve."
You drop your face into your hands and laugh, laugh until your sides hurt.
Thursday arrives.
You've changed outfits four times. Your apartment looks like a bomb went off in a department store. The lavender dress is too formal. The jeans feel too casual. The black top makes you look like you're going to a funeral. You're currently standing in front of your mirror in option number five—a burgundy sweater and dark jeans that hopefully thread the needle between "trying" and "trying too hard"—when your phone buzzes.
📱 Bucky: Outside whenever you're ready. No rush.
Your stomach does a complicated flip. He's early. Or you're late. What time is it?
You grab your jacket, check your reflection one last time (lipstick: present, hair: cooperating, overall vibe: please god let this be acceptable), and head downstairs before you can spiral further.
The motorcycle is parked at the curb.
Of course, it's the motorcycle. You don't know why you expected anything else, but the sight of Bucky leaning against it in dark jeans and a leather jacket does something catastrophic to your higher brain functions.
He straightens when he sees you, and you watch his eyes track from your boots to your face. The tension leaves his shoulders—he softens, warms.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." You're trying very hard to act like a normal person on a normal date and not someone who recently confessed your feelings under chemical duress. "So, motorcycle."
"Problem?" There's a tease in his voice.
"No, just..." You eye the helmet he's holding. "I've never actually been on one."
"I'll go slow. Promise."
The helmet fits snugly when he settles it on your head, his fingers careful with the chin strap. He's standing close enough that you catch the scent of his soap—something clean and cedar-dark—and you have to remind yourself to breathe like a normal human being.
"Good?" he asks.
You nod, keeping your mouth shut before you can say something stupid.
His own helmet goes on, and then he's swinging a leg over the bike with the easy grace of long practice. He glances back at you and extends a hand. "Hop on. Arms around my waist."
Right. Arms around his waist. Pressed against his back. Totally normal, completely fine, not at all the kind of proximity that's been living in your head for months.
You climb on. Settle in behind him. Slide your arms around his middle, and—oh, that's solid muscle under the jacket. Okay, cool, you're being so normal about this.
"Too tight?" The helmet muffles his words.
"No, you're good—I mean, this is good, the grip is—" You're babbling. Stop babbling. "—I'm good!"
You feel more than hear his laugh. Then the engine rumbles to life beneath you, and you tighten your grip reflexively.
The city blurs past in streams of light and shadow. Bucky takes the turns smooth and easy, true to his word, and after the first few blocks you stop bracing for disaster and start actually experiencing it—the wind, the speed, the warmth of him against you.
It's terrifying, exhilarating—and very, very distracting.
When Bucky finally slows and pulls into a parking spot, you're almost disappointed. "Still alive back there?" he asks as he kills the engine.
"Surprisingly yes." You reluctantly unwrap your arms from around him and accept his hand to dismount. Your legs are slightly unsteady. "Where are we?"
"You'll see."
The restaurant is small, tucked between a bookstore and a vintage record shop on a street you've never noticed before. String lights are woven through the front window, and through the glass you can see exposed brick, warm lighting, and maybe a dozen tables.
"It's quiet," Bucky says, glancing at the empty street like he's checking for clearance. "Off the radar. Figured that might be better than somewhere we'd get recognized."
Translation, he's thought about this. About privacy, about comfort, about what would make this easier.
"It's perfect," you say, and mean it.
The hostess seats you at a corner table, and you're grateful for the low lighting because it hides the way your hands are shaking slightly when you pick up the menu.
"So," Bucky says after the waiter takes your drink orders. "On a scale of one to ten, how mortified are you about the kidnapping thing?"
You look up. He's watching you with that almost-smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.
"Eleven," you say. "Easily eleven. I told armed mercenaries about your morning running schedule."
"Could've been worse."
"How?"
"You could've told them about the time I walked into the glass door in the conference room."
You blink. "I didn't know about that."
"Exactly." He leans back in his chair. "See? Operational security intact."
"When did you walk into a glass door?"
"Not important."
"It's super important, actually. I need all the details."
His smile goes wider, more genuine. "It was after a seventy-two-hour mission. I was running on maybe three hours of sleep. And someone had cleaned the glass really well."
The mental image makes you grin. "Did anyone see?"
"Sam," he says darkly. "Sam saw. I will never hear the end of it."
"That's incredible."
"Glad my pain amuses you."
"Immensely," you confirm, and just like that, the nervousness starts to dissipate. This is Bucky. You've had dozens of conversations with him—in the break room, in the hallway, during mind-numbing press briefings. The only difference is context.
And proximity.
And the way he's looking at you right now, with the kind of focus that makes you forget there's a restaurant around you.
Dinner arrives. You talk about everything and nothing—his adjustment to modern food (still suspicious of most things that need to be microwaved), your disastrous attempt at learning Russian on Duolingo (Natasha found out and laughed for ten minutes straight), and the truly baffling email chains that circulate through Avengers staff.
"There's one going around right now about the break room coffee maker," you tell him. "Seventeen replies. People have opinions."
"Yeah? What's your stance?"
"Nice try. I stay out of break room politics," you say seriously. "That way lies madness."
"Smart."
The waiter clears your plates. Bucky orders coffee—black, because of course—and you get tea because caffeine this late will have you staring at the ceiling until 3 AM.
"Can I ask you something?" you say, turning your cup in your hands.
"Yeah."
"When did you..." You pause, choosing words carefully. "When did you start paying attention? Like that? I mean. To me?"
He rubs the back of his neck, thinking about it. "You remember the first press briefing after I officially joined the team?"
"The one where that reporter asked if you were planning to 'leverage your HYDRA experience' for the Avengers?" You mentally flinch at the memory. "Yeah. I remember."
"You shut him down in about fifteen seconds. Polite and professional, but you made it very clear that line of questioning wasn't acceptable." Bucky meets your eyes. "After, when everyone was clearing out, you came up to me. Asked if I was okay."
You do remember that. He'd looked tense, and you'd acted on impulse.
"Most people tiptoe around it," he continues. "Or they go too far the other way and treat me like I'm fragile. But you just... asked. Direct. Like you actually wanted to know the answer."
"I did want to know."
"I know," he murmurs. "That's when I started paying attention."
Your chest aches. "Bucky, that was eight months ago."
"Huh. That so?"
"You've been—" You're trying to do math through the haze of feelings. "—this whole time?"
"Didn't know what to do about it," he admits. "Seemed like the kind of thing that could go real wrong real fast, if I misread the situation. And then you got kidnapped and told mercenaries about my forearms, so..." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Figured that was a pretty clear signal."
You laugh, the sound slightly strangled. "Most people just... text, or something."
"I'm old-fashioned. Not gonna say I'm interested in a dame over text."
The check arrives. Bucky pays before you can even reach for your wallet, waving off your protest with a look that suggests arguing will be futile.
Outside, the air has cooled. You pull your jacket tighter, and Bucky's hand finds the small of your back, a warm point of contact as you walk to the motorcycle.
"Thank you," you say. "For dinner. For... all of this."
"Don't thank me yet." He hands you the helmet. "Still gotta get you home without crashing."
"Very reassuring."
"I'm good at what I do, sweetheart."
The endearment does the same thing it did in medical—your stomach drops and your hands forget what they're doing. You let him help you with the helmet again, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers.
The ride back is slower. Bucky takes the long way, and you don't complain, just hold on and watch the city lights blur past and try to commit this to memory—the rumble of the engine, the solid warmth of him, the way the night feels full of potential.
When he pulls up outside your building, you're reluctant to let go.
"So," he says after you've both dismounted, and he's walked you to your door. "How'd I do?"
"Fishing for compliments?"
"Maybe."
You pretend to consider it. "The motorcycle was a strong choice. Dinner conversation, solid and above average. Overall execution..." You tilt your head. "Eight out of ten."
His eyebrow arcs. "Only an eight?"
"Deducted points for making me wait eight months."
"That's fair." He steps closer, and your back hits your door gently. He braces a hand against the frame, leaning in. "What would it take to get to a ten?"
Your heart is hammering. "I might have some ideas."
"Yeah?" He's closer now, mouth near your ear.
"Yeah."
He kisses you. Slow and careful, like he's still figuring out what you like, and it's perfect—the warm press of his mouth, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, the way he makes this soft sound when you curl your fingers into his jacket and pull him closer.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.
"Yeah. Ten," you manage. "Definitely a ten."
"Good to know."
You both stare at each other for a few seconds.
"...want to make it an eleven?" you ask innocently.
His grin turns sly. "Depends," Bucky says. "Are you going to invite me up, or are we doing this in the hallway?"
Immediately, you fumble for your keys. Then drop them. Bucky catches them before they hit the ground—because, of course, he does—and unlocks the door himself while you try to remember how to breathe.
The apartment is dark. You shrug your jacket off and reach for the light switch, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it flat to the wall.
"Leave it." His mouth finds yours before you can argue, crowding you back against the closed door. The wood is cold through your sweater, the deadbolt rattling in its housing when he leans his full weight into you. His grip on your wrist loosens—slides away—and both hands frame your face, tilting you where he wants you, and this kiss is nothing like the one outside—it's open-mouthed and wet, his tongue pushing past your lips and licking into you like he's starving for it. You whimper, and he swallows the sound, hips rolling forward to press the full length of his cock against your stomach through his jeans.
Your hands shove under his jacket, dragging it off his shoulders. It hits the floor. He's wearing a henley underneath, soft cotton pulled tight over hard muscle, and when you flatten your palms against his chest, you can feel the kick of his pulse under your palm, uneven and fast.
"You have no idea," he says against your mouth. "How many times I've thought about this."
"Tell me." Your fingers twist into the hem of his shirt.
His grin is filthy. "Too bad you don't have the sodium thiopental, huh?"
He catches both your wrists in his metal hand—vibranium fingers cool and immovable—and pins them above your head. The position bows your spine, pushes your tits up against his chest, and the easy, one-handed control of it sends a sick throb straight between your legs.
"Thought about it during briefings." His lips drag down the side of your throat, teeth scraping, tongue pressing flat to your pulse before he sucks a bruise into the skin below your ear. "Watching you take notes. Biting your pen... wondering if you'd make that same face with my cock inside you."
Your brain short-circuits, hearing that. "Bucky—"
"—thought about it in the gym." He lets go of your wrists to grab your hips with both hands, fingers sinking into the flesh hard enough that you feel every individual fingertip, and drags you flush against his cock. He's thick and stiff against your belly, and he grinds into you, deliberately. "Every time you walked past in those skirts. Wanted to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you forgot your own name."
With your newly freed hands, you yank his shirt up, and he helps, pulling it over his head in one rough motion. And God—the expanse of his bare chest, the raised ridges of old scars, the smooth vibranium plates where metal fuses with skin...
"Is this okay?" Your fingers find the seam where metal meets flesh, tracing the border.
"Yeah." His voice is already coming apart. "Touch whatever you want. I'm all yours." One eyebrow lifts. "You did tell three mercenaries my arms are disproportionately nice. Only fair you verify in person."
"I'm never living that down, am I?"
"Oh, not a chance."
Even still, you take Bucky at his word, running your hands over the hard plane of his stomach, muscle twitching and clenching when you scrape your thumbnail across his nipple. He lets you, hands loose on your waist, his gaze half-lidded and intent, tracking every movement of your hands.
"My turn," he says, and walks you backward toward the couch. When the backs of your knees hit the cushions, you sit, and he drops to his knees between your thighs like he belongs there, his hands finding the hem of your sweater.
"Off?" You nod. He pulls it over your head, and his hands are still on your ribs. He's looking at you—the lace of your bra cutting into the swell of your tits, your skin flushed and hot—and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "Thought about this too," he admits.
Bucky leans in, presses his open mouth to the curve of your shoulder, and breathes you in—and you catch the warm smell of his skin—cedar soap and clean sweat and something underneath that's just him. "What you'd look like underneath everything..." his thumbs dig into the soft underside of your breasts through the lace, kneading, and it's not enough—not close to enough. You push into his hands, and he makes a low, rough noise, reaching around to pop the clasp.
The bra drops. Bucky sits back on his heels and just looks, and the naked hunger on his face at the sight of your bare breasts actually makes your nipples tighten. "You're staring," you whisper.
"Fuck yes, I am," he retorts, with no shame whatsoever. He leans in and closes his mouth over your left nipple, and your whole body jolts.
Bucky's tongue is obscene—broad, flat strokes over the stiff peak, flicking the tip, then sucking hard enough that your hips buck off the cushions. The right hand cups your other breast, squeezing, calloused thumb rolling your nipple between rough fingers while the metal one grips your ribcage, holding you in place. He bites down—not a nibble, an actual bite, teeth denting the soft skin around your nipple—and the sharp sting of it rips a moan out of you that you couldn't hold back if you tried.
"Fuck."
"You like that?" Switching sides, he drags his wet mouth across your sternum, and takes your other nipple between his teeth, tugging.
"Yes, God—"
"Good." His hands drop to your jeans, thumb popping the button and fingers hooking into the waistband. "Need to find out what else makes you sound like that."
You lift your hips. He tugs your boots off first, impatient, letting them thunk to the floor, then peels the denim down your legs, underwear with it—the cotton sticking slightly to the wet mess between your thighs—and tosses everything aside. You're bare beneath him now, legs spread, pussy visibly wet, and the cool air on your exposed skin makes you clench around nothing.
Bucky puts his hands on your knees and pushes them apart. Wide. Wider than you're normally comfortable with. His hands slide off your knees, and he stares between your legs with an expression that borders on reverent. You can see the exact moment his composure cracks—his left hand flexes at his side, vibranium plates whirring and recalibrating.
"Jesus Christ." His thumb swipes through the wetness gathered on your inner thigh, smearing it. "You're dripping."
The touch makes you squirm. "Bucky, please."
His palms slide up your thighs, grip firmly, and spread you open with his thumbs so he can see everything—your swollen clit and the wet mess of you smeared down your thighs. His breath is hot against the inside of your thigh. "Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you can't think straight."
Bucky drops his head between your legs and licks you from hole to clit in one long, filthy, and unbroken stripe.
The noise you make isn't dignified in the slightest. His tongue is hot and wide and thorough, dragging over every slick inch of you, spreading you open, lapping up the wetness like he can't get enough. He groans against you—a low, rough vibration that buzzes straight through your clit—and his mouth seals over your clit. He sucks, hard, and your hips nearly jerk off the couch.
"Oh fuck."
His metal hand clamps down on your hip, pinning you to the cushions. The vibranium is cold against your overheated skin, and the shock of it tears a gasp out of you. He doesn't let up—tongue working in tight, focused circles around your clit, then dipping lower to push inside you, fucking into your hole with pointed, deliberate thrusts.
"Don't stop." You're panting, fingers twisted in his hair, thighs shaking on either side of his head. "Please, please don't stop—"
—And he stops.
His mouth lifts off your clit with a slick, obscene pop, and you whine—hips chasing his face, fingers yanking at his hair. He lets you pull. Doesn't budge. He presses his open mouth to the inside of your thigh instead, unhurried, like he's settling in for a long night.
"Bucky, what the fuck?" you gasp.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" He drags his lips along the crease where your thigh meets your hip. "That transcript of yours."
Your stomach drops. You'd almost—almost—managed to forget about that detail Bruce had mentioned in passing.
"There's this one part I've read about... six times, now." His thumb digs slow pressure into your hip bone—nowhere near where you need it. "About the day I was reviewing camera placements with Stark?"
You swallow dryly.
"The part where you said you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom." His eyes find yours, and there is nothing lazy about them. "For ten minutes."
"That's not—the truth serum was—"
"—yeah, sweetheart? Then what were you doing in that bathroom?" He kisses the inside of your knee, soft and patient as a saint, his fingers trailing up and down your inner thigh without ever reaching where you're aching the most. "After you saw me roll my sleeves up."
"You know what I was doing."
"I probably do," Bucky agrees, his thumb sliding through the wetness between your legs, grazing your clit—one slow, deliberate pass—and pulling away. "But I want to hear you say it. No serum. Just you."
The sound you make is pathetic. "I touched myself," you grit out. "In the third-floor bathroom. At work. Because you rolled your fucking sleeves up."
Bucky hums. "That's my girl." He rewards you—spreads your pussy with his thumbs and drags his tongue over your clit in one long, flat stroke, then seals his mouth around it and sucks. Your hips lurch off the couch. His metal hand pins them back down, vibranium cold and immovable against your skin. One finger pushes inside you—thick, calloused, and crooking upward—and he fucks you with it in a steady, grinding rhythm while his tongue traces wet circles around your clit.
You're close again in under a minute, which must be a new record for you. The pressure in your belly winds tighter, your thighs starting to tremble, every nerve ending zeroing in on his mouth—
—his tongue goes flat. Slow. And his finger stills.
"No." You yank his hair hard enough that it has to hurt. "I was right there—"
"I know you were." He bites the soft skin of your inner thigh. "What else?"
"What else?"
"The mercenaries got the PG version." A second finger pushes in alongside the first, and he spreads them apart—slow and stretching. "I want the rest. What did you actually think about, when you thought about me?"
God. Where would you even start?
The truth is you've thought about him in every configuration your brain could render. Him on top of you. Behind you. Under you with his hands on your hips, guiding you down. You've thought about his mouth on your neck, your tits, and between your legs. You've thought about the metal hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, the weight of it, the cool press of vibranium against your pulse.
Bending you over your kitchen counter. Pinning you against the wall of his quarters. Even fucking you in the back seat of one of Stark's cars in the compound garage. You've thought about it slow and sweet, and you've thought about it mean and rough, and you've thought about every shade in between, and the worst part—the worst part—is that none of it was ever enough. Every fantasy ended the same way; alone, catching your breath in the dark, wanting the real thing so badly your teeth ached.
And now the real thing is kneeling between your legs with two fingers inside you, asking you to tell him about it.
"I thought about your mouth. This—specifically this. Your head between my legs," you babble out mindlessly.
"How detailed?" He curls his fingers and licks you in one long, merciless stroke.
"I've gotten myself off to you—" Whimper. "—more times than I can count. In my bed, with the lights off, imagining your hands on me. Both of them." His metal fingers flex against your hip. The plates shift and recalibrate under your skin. "I'd think about the vibranium. How it'd feel inside me. Whether it'd be cold the whole time or if I'd warm it up."
His fingers falter inside you—actually falter, rhythm breaking—and when he lifts his head, whatever game he was playing is over. His mouth is slack, the blue of his eyes barely visible, and there's a flush crawling up his neck that has nothing to do with exertion. "You thought about the arm, sweetheart?"
"Every night for weeks, Barnes. So don't you dare stop again, please—"
—this time, he doesn't. His metal hand replaces his right between your legs—vibranium fingers sliding in where calloused ones were. Cool at first—almost cold—then warming fast to your body heat, smooth and unyielding, precise in a way human hands don't get to be. The answer to a question you've been asking yourself for weeks. He finds your G-spot and locks on, pressing with perfect, unrelenting accuracy while his mouth seals back over your clit—sucking, licking, greedy, and graceless, and done teasing.
"Come." He says it against your pussy, the words vibrating on your clit. "You earned it. Come for me."
You come so hard your vision actually whites out. Your thighs lock around his head, your whole body curling in on itself, and you can hear yourself making sounds you'll be mortified about later—broken, desperate, his name tangled up in profanity. You clench around his metal fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses, and he keeps going—keeps licking, keeps fucking you through it, drawing every last aftershock out until you're twitching and raw-nerved and shoving at his forehead with a broken, "too much, too much—"
—Bucky pulls back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it doesn't help—his chin is smeared with you, lips puffy and shiny, and he's grinning at you like he just won the lottery. "Okay?"
"I—yeah." You can barely string the words together. "I'm very okay, thanks for asking."
He laughs at that, and drops his forehead against your knee. His thumb drags slowly along the outside of your calf, and you reach down and push his hair off his forehead, damp and tangled from where you'd been pulling it. His eyes close.
Then he turns his head and bites the inside of your knee—soft, deliberate—and when he looks up, whatever gentleness was there has gone sharp.
His belt buckle jingles as he stands and works it open, fingers unsteady, and he shoves his jeans and boxers down in one motion. His cock bobs free—flushed dark, thick, the head slick with precome. It's veined along the underside, and... he's big. Bigger than you expected, and you expected a lot.
"Bedroom?"
"Bedroom," you agree, and he hauls you off the couch.
You stumble down the hall together, naked and dripping, his cock bumping against your ass with every step. Your bed is unmade from this morning. You don't care—eight months of picturing exactly this, and the real thing is standing naked in your doorway, and every late-night fantasy you've ever had about James Buchanan Barnes is about to become a debrief liability.
Crawling backward onto the mattress, you spread your legs, and he follows you down—settling his weight between your thighs. The head of his cock slides through the wet mess of your pussy, nudging your clit, and you both groan at the sensation.
"Condom." You manage the word. "Nightstand. Top drawer."
Bucky reaches over, yanks the drawer open, and grabs a foil packet. Tears it with his teeth. You watch him roll the latex down his cock—watch the way his hand squeezes the base, the way his abs flex, and the way his hips cant forward involuntarily when the condom snaps into place. He's shaking. Barely holding it together.
"C'mere." He pulls back, plants his feet on the floor, and grabs your hips, dragging you across the mattress until your ass is at the edge, legs open on either side of him. He fists his cock, lines the head up with your pussy, and presses forward—just the tip, just enough to stretch you open around the thick crown. Neither of you moves.
"You sure?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked.
"So sure." You hook your ankles behind his back and drag him forward. "I didn't fantasize about you for eight months to be treated like glass, Barnes."
He pushes in. Slow. The stretch is obscene—his cock is thick enough that your body has to work to take it, opening around him inch by inch, the drag of latex and the pressure of him splitting you apart making your mouth fall open. He feeds it to you in a slow, grinding roll of his hips, watching your face the whole time, watching the way your eyes go glassy and your lips part. His thumb catches your lower lip, and drags it down.
"There it is," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Same face as the pen."
Every version of this you've imagined—lights off, alone in your bed, biting your own hand to keep quiet—and not one of them accounted for the weight of him, or the heat, or the way his eyes refuse to leave yours. The real thing is so much better than the fantasy, that your brain can't hold both at once.
"Breathe," he says, and you realize you've stopped. You suck in air. He sinks deeper, inch by slow inch, until he bottoms out and his hips are flush with yours.
Full. You're impossibly, achingly full, stretched tight around the base of his cock, your own pulse throbbing where your body grips him. The room disappears. There's nothing left but his breath and the stretch and the blood hammering in your ears.
"Fuck." His forehead drops against yours. His arms bracket your head, barely holding him up. "Eight months. Doesn't even come close."
"Move," you dig your nails into his shoulders. "Please move."
He pulls back—slow, the friction dragging against every nerve ending inside you—until just the head is still inside, and holds there. Your pussy clenches around the tip, greedy, already trying to drag him back in.
And Bucky slams forward.
The sound you make is filthy—wrenched out of you by the force of it, a noise you've never heard yourself make. He fills you in one hard stroke, cock driving deep enough to jolt through your stomach, and the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoes off the bedroom walls.
"Yeah?" He drives in again. Harder. "That the face you made in that bathroom?"
"Yes."
He finds a rhythm. Deep, deliberate strokes that drag against you on every thrust, his hips snapping forward hard enough to punch the breath out of you. Your fingers claw at the sheets, hips rocking up to meet him. He grabs your left leg—hooks his hand behind your knee and pushes it up, folding you nearly in half, thigh pinned to your chest. The angle opens you up. He drives in further, the head of his cock bearing down on that aching spot, and your vision swims.
"Oh God, oh fuck—right there, right there..."
"I know." He picks up the pace, hips driving forward, headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, damning rhythm. His metal hand slides between your bodies—vibranium fingers finding your clit, still tender and buzzing from his mouth—and he works it in fast, tight circles while he fucks you. Your brain gives up trying to process both at once.
Your pussy grips him so tight you can feel the drag of every vein, even through the condom.
"Look at me." Your eyes had screwed shut, and when you force them open, his face is right there—colour high on his cheeks, his mouth bitten red, the tendons in his neck standing taut. "Spent eight months picturing you like this." His hips don't slow. "Wasn't gonna miss the real thing."
"You like this," you breathe—the truth serum's ghost, or maybe just you, done pretending. "You've thought about this. Me under you. Saying your name."
His hips stutter. One uncontrolled thrust that hits deep and wrong and makes you both gasp, and the look on his face when he recovers is the most dangerous thing you've ever seen on a man who's killed people for a living.
"Bucky—Bucky, I'm—" The sentence dissolves. You're right there, seconds from it, every muscle locked—
"—then stop holding back." He doesn't slow down. If anything, he fucks you harder, driving his cock into you at an angle that makes your thighs shake. His thumb bears down on your clit, ruthless. "No more hiding it. Show me, sweetheart. C'mon."
You hold on for three more seconds. Two. One—
—and you stop fighting it. The orgasm opens through you like a wave—starting where his cock is buried and rolling outward through your belly, your chest, and the backs of your closed eyes.
And Bucky unravels, in kind.
His rhythm goes first—that controlled, deliberate pace dissolving into something graceless, hips driving forward without any of the precision he'd held onto all night. Then his voice—a sound he didn't mean to make—splintered your name in his mouth. Three more strokes, rough and uncoordinated, nothing left of the man who'd been calmly edging you on the couch—and he buries himself as deep as he can get before he finishes, filling the condom.
Pitching forward onto the mattress, Bucky barely catches his weight on his forearms before he sinks down onto you—heavy, heaving, the entire length of his body pressed to yours like he's a gigantic, living weighted blanket. His breathing hasn't slowed; it's hot and uneven against your throat. Every part of him is pressed to every part of you.
Your fingers are still dug into his back. You can't really make them let go.
The room smells like sweat and salt and the faint chemical bite of latex. Your sheets are destroyed. Neither of you moves. You're not sure either of you can.
"Okay," you wheeze, when you can form words again. "That was definitely an eleven."
His laugh vibrates against your collarbone. "Yeah?"
"Might even be a twelve."
He lifts his head. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the look on his face is so stupidly satisfied that you want to kiss him and shove him off the bed in equal measure. "High praise."
"Well earned."
He kisses you—slow, thorough, the taste of you still thick on his tongue—and eases out. You wince at the loss, the sudden emptiness after being so full, and he makes a low, apologetic sound. "Don't move." The condom gets tied off and tossed in the trash, and then he disappears into the bathroom.
A warm washcloth. His knees on the bed beside you, nudging your legs apart. He cleans you up—the come leaking down your thighs, the mess smeared between your legs, the sticky residue of lube and wetness—with careful, unhurried strokes. Gentle where you're swollen, pressing the warm cloth against your pussy and holding it there until the sting fades.
"You don't have to—"
"—I want to." The cloth folds, wipes the inside of your thigh, and then presses his mouth to the red marks his fingers left on your hip. Then he tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom, misses, and doesn't even care to fix it. Back in bed, he pulls you against him—your back to his chest, his arm heavy across your waist.
"So," you say, after your breathing evens out. "This is happening."
"Yeah." His thumb digs into the knot at the base of your neck, kneading it loose. "But it's okay, that it is, right?"
"Of course it is." You tilt your head to look at him. "But, we're going to have to tell people eventually, you know. HR has forms."
"Forms," he repeats, sounding amused.
"Oh, yeah. So many forms. There's a whole disclosure process for intra-team relationships. Did you know that?"
"Uh, no. I didn't know that." He presses a kiss to your temple. "The paperwork will be worth it."
Bucky's fingers find yours across your stomach and lace together—metal and skin, cool and warm. You settle back against him, smiling.
"Is it weird," you murmur, "that I'm kinda glad I got kidnapped?"
"...yeah, sort of. But it's not like I'm complaining about the outcome, sweetheart."
summary: The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to taylor swift for giving me the idea for this fic. i love 40s bucky and i haven't written for him much which is a crime because i want to squish his cheeks and kiss his face. anyways, here it is!
also let's ignore the fact that i would not be legally allowed to marry bucky in the 40s since i am in fact a colored woman... this is fanfiction for a reason!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, 40s!bucky, bucky and steve survive, implied torture (but nothing graphic), reader is engaged, implied that bucky has ptsd/trauma from hydra, slow burn, yearning!bucky, soft!bucky, steve is kinda a third wheel (sorry steve), fluff, angst... like angst that hurts your heart, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, happy ending
Brooklyn, Winter 1943
The diner on the corner of 39th and Flatbush is nearly empty, save for the three of you crammed into a booth by the frosted window. The radiator’s been clanking all morning, groaning like it’s got a personal grudge against the cold, but the coffee’s hot, and the jukebox hums something slow and sweet in the background. Outside, the street’s blanketed in slush, but inside, it smells like syrup and bacon grease—the kind of comfort that never quite leaves you, no matter how many things the world decides to take away.
Bucky sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of the booth, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned despite the cold. He’s been officially shipped out for months now, just home on a short break before heading back overseas. The dog tags around his neck clink every time he shifts, a tiny metallic reminder that you’re counting down borrowed time.
“You gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding at the untouched half of your pancake stack. His grin is easy, practiced—that same grin he used to use on every girl who batted her lashes at him on the boardwalk. Except with you, it’s softer somehow, the kind that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight.
“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.
Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”
“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.
“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.
“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”
Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”
“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”
You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.
“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”
That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”
You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.
When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”
“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”
He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”
“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”
There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”
Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”
“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.
Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”
He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”
You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.
---
The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.
You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.
Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.
Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”
“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”
“That’s optimism,” he teases.
“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.
When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.
You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”
You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.
Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”
You look at him. “Again?”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”
“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.
That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.
You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.
Except this time, you’re part of it.
When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”
You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”
You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”
You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”
He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”
You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”
He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”
The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.
He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”
You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”
He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.
He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”
Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”
But that’s the lie you both settle for.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.
You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”
He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.
You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.
---
The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.
He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.
“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.
He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.
Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.
There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.
Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.
When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.
Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.
“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”
He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.
When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.
That’s when he thinks of you.
The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.
He should’ve kissed you.
God, he should’ve kissed you.
He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.
He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.
He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.
Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”
Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.
Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”
Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”
Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.
He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.
If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.
---
The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.
Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.
He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.
He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.
Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.
He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.
He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.
When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.
Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”
“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”
Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”
Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”
“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”
Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”
“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.
When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.
And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.
He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.
But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.
What if you flinch?
What if you smile, but it’s pity?
What if you’ve moved on?
He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?
So he doesn’t.
He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.
It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”
Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.
---
The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.
You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.
You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…
Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.
The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.
And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.
You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.
Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”
You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.
He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.
“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”
You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”
He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.
“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.
“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”
His gaze softens. “So do you.”
Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”
You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”
“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”
“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”
Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”
The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.
When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.
It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.
When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.
“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”
Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”
“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.
You smile. “Good. I missed this.”
Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”
“Among other things.”
For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.
Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”
Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”
Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”
Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.
You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.
Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”
You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”
Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.
When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.
Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.
You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.
---
The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.
For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.
It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.
He hides it well. He always did.
What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.
He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.
You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.
He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.
There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.
Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.
Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.
“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.
The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.
He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”
Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.
You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.
He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”
“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”
He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”
You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.
And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”
You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”
You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”
He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.
When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”
He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”
You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”
His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.
When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.
But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.
---
There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.
You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.
Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.
He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”
You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”
“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.
You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”
Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.
“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.
A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”
“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”
“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.
“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.
Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”
When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”
Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”
After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.
The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.
He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.
Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.
A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.
Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.”
The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”
Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”
Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”
Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”
Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”
“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.
They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.
That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.
He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.
---
Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.
You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.
Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.
And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.
He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.
It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”
Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”
You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”
“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.
Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”
You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”
He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”
“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.
Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”
The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.
But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.
It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.
He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.
Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”
Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”
Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”
“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”
Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”
He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”
You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.
That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.
You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.
You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.
Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.
He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.
But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.
Even if it kills him.
---
The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.
You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.
The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.
Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.
You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”
He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”
You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”
“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”
“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.
You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.
He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.
Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”
You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”
“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”
Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”
Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”
Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”
“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”
“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.
You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.
He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.
It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.
He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.
After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”
He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”
You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”
You glance over at him. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”
“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”
You blink. “What?”
“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”
You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”
“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”
You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”
At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.
Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers.
And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.
---
It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.
Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.
You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?
You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.
It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.
But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.
And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.
You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.
You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”
You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”
“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.
“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.
He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”
The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.
It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”
The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”
You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.
Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.
You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.
When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.
He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.
You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”
He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”
He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”
He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.
---
The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.
The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.
You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.
Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”
You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”
The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.
Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.
You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”
Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”
You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”
You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”
He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”
“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”
He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”
The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”
You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.
But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”
You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”
“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”
You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”
“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”
You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”
You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”
He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.
When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”
He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”
“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.
He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.
That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.
You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.
---
The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.
You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.
The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.
You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.
Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.
You exhale. “You look—”
“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”
You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”
“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”
He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.
Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.
Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”
Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”
“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”
For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.
But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”
“Bucky, I don’t think—”
He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”
Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.
You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”
You nod. “Two months.”
“You nervous?”
You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re happy.”
You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”
You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”
Your breath catches. “Bucky—”
He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”
You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”
He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.
When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.
But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.
The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.
You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.
“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”
The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”
“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”
You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.
The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”
He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”
“Bucky—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”
You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”
“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”
“You already have,” you whisper.
He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”
You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”
He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”
You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”
You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”
He swallows. “I know.”
You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”
“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.
For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”
He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”
You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”
He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.
When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.
Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”
Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.
That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.
You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.
It felt like the start.
---
The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.
But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.
Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.
You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.
You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.
You can’t marry him.
You used to laugh with your whole body.
I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.
You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.
Bucky is none of those things.
He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.
But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.
You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.
When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”
“Can I come in?”
He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.
You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.
He nods once. “Probably not.”
Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”
“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”
You swallow. “Andrew—”
“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”
“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”
You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”
He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”
“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”
“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”
You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.
“Not what?” he asks softly.
“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”
You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”
He takes a step closer. “Say it.”
You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”
“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”
Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”
“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”
The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”
“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”
You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.
By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.
That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”
“She come by?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”
Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”
Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.
But you know who you want to face it with.
---
It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.
Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.
When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.
Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.
He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.
But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.
He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”
You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.
Bucky freezes. “You what?”
You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”
You nod once. “I told him the truth.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.
“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.
He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”
You don’t look away this time. “You.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.
And then he’s kissing you.
It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”
You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.
Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”
“Can’t help it.”
“I know.”
You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”
He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”
“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”
He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.
The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.
But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.
Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.
It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.
You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”
You grin back. “Morning.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”
You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”
“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”
You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”
He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”
You smile against his skin. “Good.”
Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.
extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3
Prompt: Sending or Receiving Love Letters
Pairing: Nerdy Best Friend Bucky x Reader
Galentine's Party Masterlist
AN: Happy February 1st from this side of the world! This is my first writing event to join at and again want to thank Isla and Pink for this! As of writing im only at Day 9 and fighting for my life to finish this hafsjhjah overall have written over 10k words already for the event and im so excited and nervous to share my work with everyone. Hopefully i finish these in time. With that, here's day 1!
It started in sophomore year.
New school year, new state. Your parents uprooted your entire family's life again for a job, claiming it was final this time.
You were reluctant, it had happened too many times already since you were still in your diapers. Still, you came with.
Not like you had a choice.
You were used to it at this point. Ever since you moved away and lost contact with your childhood best friend you became more detached. Reminding yourself not to get attached to anyone because getting attached when you eventually move away means losing a part of your heart again.
It was safe, you remind yourself. Because you don't know when your parents' job would have you moving again.
This time you found yourself in New York.
Your family moved into a small two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. The neighborhood was safe enough that your parents can leave you unattended as they work their jobs to provide a good future for you. Also in walking distance to the subway line to your school.
All was going too well until your Science laboratory class had you partnered with one James Buchanan Barnes.
You tried to stay away, you really did. But the universe seems to have a cruel reminder that no man really is an island as it kept partnering you to the shy quiet boy who always had a piece of Star Wars merch on him.
Now in senior year, your parents stayed true to their words and haven’t uprooted again. Graduation was on the horizon and you and James, who much rather be called Bucky, is now your best friend.
Mysteriously, sweet love letters telling you how amazing and beautiful you are started appearing inside your locker. At first you had a hunch it was Bucky but when you opened it up he started to tease you about it, sealing in your head that maybe the harboring feelings that had grown over the years was one sided.
“New letter from your mysterious admirer?” Bucky joked as he swiped the latest love letter from your hand.
“Hey, give it back!” You yell out as you try your best to reach for the sweet note but Bucky kept his hand up high, his other hand on your waist to keep you from reaching it.
The years have been kind to him, the once skinny and scrawny kid you got as a partner is slowly growing into a tall and handsome man.
Bucky grins down at you, that stupid lopsided smirk of his making your stomach do a weird flip. “What? I just wanna see who's trying to woo my best friend,” he teases, dangling the letter just out of reach. His thumb brushes over the folded paper—too casually—like he doesn't know every word written on it.
“You know what’s wild?” He leans in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Somebody keeps leaving these for you and yet nobody ever claims them.” A pause. “Suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Don't be a dick.” You huff at his teasing voice and thankfully due to how close he let you be just to whisper to your ear, you were able to jump and grasp the letter back in your hands.
"I'm not being a dick," Bucky quips back. "I'm protecting you, like any good best friend would."
He's still holding you close to him. Your back is flushed against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. This shouldn't be making you feel things you remind yourself but it does. He smells like the same body wash that you’ve grown accustomed to when you have sleepovers at the Barnes’ household and a hint of spice from the perfume you bought him, it’s so explicitly Bucky.
His hand is still at your waist, still trailing his finger over your hip bone leaving shiver on its wake.
You sigh and open the letter again so he could also read, "he said I looked like an angel when he saw me at the library." You say softly as you reread the letter out loud this time, "I wish he would approach us."
Bucky hums in response to your words, his chin on your shoulder still. He was a little too comfortable at the moment, having you pinned against him like that.
He reads the note, fingers still tracing circles on your hip. "An angel, huh," he muses. "Pretty words." There's a hint of something in his voice, but you can't quite place it. "And yet, he never actually talks to you."
"He's probably just shy." You say fondly.
Bucky hums in agreement and for a moment, you two were lost in your own little world as he continued leaving shivers in your skin's wake.
For a second as Bucky held you, he considered coming clean about the letters. How he feels but before he could say anything you turn to face him.
"Anyways," you say with an exhale putting a little distance much to his dismay. "Are we still on for after school?"
Bucky couldn't have held back the disappointed look on his face even if he wanted to. He was secretly relishing the close proximity but now that you'd stepped away, he had to mask his true feelings behind a cool facade.
"Of course," he responded, shoving his hands into his pockets to appear nonchalant. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
He tried to act unbothered, but you've known him long enough to see through his facade. It was no surprise then when he tacked on with an almost whiny remark. "Just us?"
“Of course” you smile, play pushing your fist to his stomach, “who else would join us? Unless you invited Sam and Steve?”
Bucky grunts slightly at your playful punch, but he gives you a quick smirk in return. "Nah. This is a you and I thing." He leans a little closer and adds in a quieter, more serious tone, "I don't like sharing you." The hint of seriousness leaves butterflies in your stomach.
You roll your eyes to hide your smile as you push him back a little, "alright Bucko, you got me to yourself later."
And with that the school bell rings, signaling that you both needed to hurry to your respective class.
"I'll see you later Bucky!"
Bucky gives you a crooked half-smile as he pushed his glasses back up to his nose, watching as you hurry off to class. He's left standing in the hallway, fighting the urge to call you back. He really should tell you the truth that he was behind the letters—the words were right there on the tip of his tongue. But he chickened out, like always.
"Later, smartie." He calls out to you before reluctantly heading off to his own class. Still longing and pining for his best friend.
summary: after a messy divorce, you try to find yourself again in a new town—between streets smelling of salt and sun, workshops and a pond full of boats slowly mending, life starts showing you that beginnings aren't always loud; sometimes they're just the world asking you to try again.
warning/tags: divorce, mention of cheating, emotional recovery, light angst, emotional vulnerability, references to past trauma (not graphic), mentions of grief and self-discovery, sam wilson being a tease as always.
a/n: so this idea has been bugging me since new year's eve, and here it is. if you guys would like a part II i'll be happy to write it, I've already started sketching out the idea. thanks a lot to my beta readers (@herejustforbuckybarnes & Denice who's not currently on tumblr) for making this possible.
read it in AO3
The low hum of your car stopped once you turned off the engine, the only sound filling the silence of the night was the slight movement of the fishing boats against the pier. You rested your forehead over the steering wheel, sighing in the dark.
You ran away from Baton Rogue after the messiest moment of your life, a divorce after a four year marriage with Noah, who was supposed to be the love of your life, the person you would spend your life with.
It started in February, the day you decided to go and surprise him at his office; little did you know you would be the one surprised, when you found out he was banging his long time best friend Theresa on his desk.
You were in shock for a week or so, and once you snapped you filed for divorce, trying to work things out peacefully. The only thing you wanted was to get out of his life for good. But he wouldn't let go that easy, after all, he was an important CEO, his family owned an energy conglomerate and they were traditional, a divorce would look bad, even a silent one.
Noah tried winning you back for the sake of his reputation. Promised the moon and stars, to not cheat again… Theresa, the resentful one, couldn't stand it so she got revenge and leaked a sex tape for everyone to see.
It was like pushing down a piece of domino in order to watch the whole thing fall down.
After six months of back and forth in the courthouse, avoiding the press and trying to put your life back together you decided Baton Rouge wasn't a safe place to stay anymore. You felt that you've become the entire city's clown, and you could sense people's pitying looks every time they crossed paths with you.
That's when your aunt offered you her house in Delacroix, a quiet place where you could start off your new life. Which honestly, you needed.
You had to figure out what to do next, whatever that meant.
Suddenly everything you've planned with your life was gone.
Destroyed.
It haunted you every single night when you laid on your back and tried to fall asleep.
'Maybe we can travel to Europe once we have our first child'. 'You think it would be a he or a she?' 'I just hope that he has your eyes'.
You pulled your head away from the steering wheel, looking around. It was lonely. Quiet. Peaceful. No one was there to ask any questions. It was perfect, for now.
The main door creaks once you open it. The lights were on, just like you were told they would be. There's no one waiting for you inside. You walk slowly to the couch, leaving one of your suitcases by the wall. The clock ticking on the wall is the only thing keeping you accompanied.
You don't allow yourself to cry. Not yet.
The truth is, you've been holding back for months now. Your family told you to keep your chin up and look forward, to not show any vulnerability because people would tear you apart if you did. Now, you were numb.
The air is filled with the smell of floor cleaned. Everything is so tidy that it feels wrong to break down, as if your feelings were something dirty to let out.
You take off your shoes, sitting down on the edge of the bed without unpacking and you finally accept that nothing nor anyone is going to magically do this easier.
Everything was over.
You didn't know how many days passed, when a firm knock was heard on the other side of the main door, finally breaking the silence. It was a surprise, since the only thing that you've heard in the past few days were the fishers getting ready to start their days by the morning, and them unloading their ships at evening when the sun set.
Not that you would've seen with your own eyes the sunset. Or anything at all. You just guided yourself by the slight lightning filtering through the curtains. You have been eating once a day and you only remembered showering four times since you arrived here.
Another knock, and then someone trying to force the knob.
"I swear to god if you don't open this door I'm going to kick down the door", the well known voice of your best friend, Natalie, filled the whole room. Before you could do or say something else, the door opened completely.
You heard the dramatic gasp leaving her lips as she gauged the disaster you were.
There were instant soup packages in the coffee table, your luggage was scattered all over the floor and you… well, you have been crying on a daily basis. Your eyes were swollen, and your spirit broken.
"Enough", she said, practically dragging you into the bathroom. "You've been ignoring my calls for days, it's time for you to get back on your feet and… holy shit, when was the last time you showered?"
You don't even have time to respond or feel ashamed when she turns on the shower and throws you over there as if you weighed nothing, which honestly, could be true by this point by the way you've been neglecting yourself.
The cold water hit your skin, making you squeal. "What the hell, Natalie?!" you yell, trying to scramble out of the shower, but she simply closes the bathroom gate and stays near, guarding the door. Once you stop trembling you find strength to adjust the water temperature, taking off your soaked clothes and putting it on the shelf.
A few hours later, the house is as tidy as it was when you first arrived. Natalie had went to the local market and stuffed your fridge and the cabinets with enough supplies for a month or so and cooked some comfort food, practically staring at you until you ate the last drop of it.
"You okay?"
You were about to nod, but you ended up shaking your head. "I don't think so. I just… I just don't know what to do anymore."
"Live. Not neglect yourself to death while you're isolated", she says bluntly. "Your sheets stink, by the way. You gotta do some laundry urgently or else people are gonna think you've died."
"That, I know" you mumble, rolling your eyes, finally feeling a small glimpse of yourself coming back. "I know that I gotta live, what I don't know is… how should I do so. I just… I planned my whole life with him, you know? And now that he's gone, I don't know what I am anymore, what should be next for me. I've been holding back for so long because people practically forced me to be strong…"
She reaches for your hand, squeezing it softly to reassure you. "You're allowed to grieve. What you shouldn't do is throw everything away and sink on your misery. Girl, you are a damn millionaire, thanks to that cheating scumbag. It's not like your life is over for good. You just have to find a different path for you. Being a wife wasn't the only thing meant for your life, gotta make yourself clear on that."
You knew deep down she was right, but it was so scary at the same time.
"But if you don't want that money I certainly know of someone who happens to dream about visiting Europe and would appreciate a donation to her cause." She added, with a lopsided grin that made you chuckle.
Well, it was a genuine first one after months of feigning joy.
Natalie stayed for a couple weeks, until you were noticeably better.
She cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and helped you unpack and re-decorate the space to make it more vintage chic and less Victorian ghost (her words, not yours). She also forced you to get up from bed every single morning to walk by the pier and see the sunrise while doing some stretches, until one day you were finally doing it on your own.
It was November 16th now, you realized it thanks to the tear-off calendar she gently brought for you, one gift to make sure you lived one day at the time. She made you promise you will reintroduce yourself to the world before going back to the city.
Delacroix was a small town, it was the kind of place where no one was a stranger for long and everyone noticed when someone new showed up.
You were currently at one local coffee shop, hearing the murmur of distant conversations, while taking a deep breath.
You could leave if you wanted to. No one would judge you or claim about it. But you had to do it. One step at a time, you reminded yourself.
Before you could turn around and leave, your phone buzzed on your pocket. You pulled it out only to see a text message from Natalie.
Please tell me you've met a hot guy already.
That made a smile tug up your lips and decided it to do it for her. Not meeting the guy, just order a coffee and breathe fresh air while drinking it on the sidewalk table.
The barista takes your order, your regular order for autumn—a maple pecan latte. Something painfully familiar that makes your stomach churn with the memory, but you try to shake the thought. That was something yours, even before you met Noah. It didn't matter how many times he bought one for you.
Once you have your latte with you, you take a few steps back and turn around without hesitating, colliding with a solid wall of muscle. The cup slips down and spills all over the floor.
So long, starting a new life.
"Oh my god, I'm really sorry", you said by reflex, after staring at the whole mess on your feet. The hem of your white coat was splashed with coffee.
"No, no…" he says, almost at the same time. "It was my fault."
His voice doesn't match his aspect. You were expecting something rougher, maybe raspier. Instead, he speaks low, careful, as if he measures every word before letting it slip past his lips. Then you notice his eyes. Piercing blue. He doesn't make eye contact with you for long, his gaze drops shyly while he rushes himself to fix the situation, taking some napkins from the counter.
He crouches down instinctively, blotting at the floor like the coffee might somehow crawl back into the cup if he apologizes enough. "I really didn't see you," he adds, quieter now. "I wasn't paying much attention."
"It's okay," you say again, though your hands hover uselessly in front of you, unsure whether to help or just… disappear. "It was my fault too."
Your eyes flick to the mess on your coat, then back to the ruined latte pooling between your shoes. You swallow, chest tightening—not because of the spill, but because it feels stupidly symbolic. Of course this would happen the first time you try to exist again.
The barista is already grabbing a mop. "I'll go ahead and remake that for you," she says kindly, like she's learned not to ask questions in a town like this.
The man straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. Up close, you notice he looks… tired. Not in a dramatic way. Just someone who hasn't slept enough, who carries silence around him like a habit.
"I can pay for it," he offers quickly.
You shake your head. "You really don't have to."
"I insist," he says, then winces slightly, like he's worried insisting might be too much. "I mean— only if that's okay."
A pause stretches between you. It's not an uncomfortable one exactly. Just something unfamiliar.
"…Okay," you finally say.
He nods once, relieved, and steps to the counter. While he does, you move to the side, dabbing at your coat with napkins that don't help that much. Coffee stain: undefeated.
When he comes back, he doesn't hand you the cup right away.
"Looks like they added an extra napkin," he says. Then softer, almost like an afterthought, "and a lid this time."
You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. It surprises you almost as much as him.
"There you go," he says, holding it out.
Your fingers brush his when you take it. The contact is brief—nothing electric, nothing cinematic—but you feel it anyway. Maybe because it's the first time in a long while someone has touched you without expectation.
"I'm—uh—" He hesitates. "I'm sorry again. About your coat."
"It's fine," you say, and this time you mean it. "I guess I am an infallible ingredient for disaster."
Those words take both of you by surprise and you blush, realizing you just thought out loud. Another pause stretches between you.
"Bucky", he says after a while. "That's what they call me, at least. My name is James."
You blink. Then: "I'm—"
You stop for a second, saying your name feels heavier than it should. Like introducing yourself is quite a big deal in this new version of your life. You say it anyway.
He repeats it once, quietly, like he's testing how it sounds in his voice.
"Well," Bucky says, rocking back slightly on his heels, "I should probably—" He gestures vaguely toward the door. "Stop causing public disturbances."
You smile, small but real. "Probably."
He takes a step back, then another, clearly unsure if the moment is over yet.
"It was nice meeting you," he adds. "Even… like this."
"Yeah," you say. "It was."
When he finally leaves, the bell over the door jingles softly behind him.
You stand there for a moment longer, latte warm in your hands, heart doing something unfamiliar—not hope, not excitement. It just… feels.
Your phone buzzes again.
So… any hot townie?
You glance at the door once more before typing back.
spilled some coffee on a stranger. Didn't cry. I'm counting it as a win.
After a minute or so, you take your latte outside and sit at the small table by the sidewalk, letting the November air bite gently at your cheeks.
Bucky has been sanding the same spot for the third time when Sam finally says something.
"You know," Sam starts casually tightening a bolt, "if you keep doing that, the boat's gonna end up with a hole."
Bucky doesn't look up. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Sam squints at the hull. "Cause from where I'm standing, you've been attacking the same six inches of wood for ten minutes."
Bucky pauses and looks down, then shifts the sander a few inches to the left.
"Better," Sam says, satisfied. He wipes his hands on a rag. "So, why are you brooding now? You only get like this when something's stuck in your head."
Bucky exhales through his nose. "I spilled coffee on a woman. That's all."
"Uh-huh." Sam hums. "And then you came back here, stared at this boat for ten straight minutes, and sanded the same spot into oblivion."
Bucky turns the sander off. "I was thinking."
"About the boat?" Sam asks.
"…Yes."
Sam raises an eyebrow, Bucky just shoots him a look and Sam just shrugs, completely unbothered.
"I'm just saying," Sam continues, picking up another plank, "you've been walking around like you forgot where you put your brain. That usually only happens when something interesting shows up."
"You done?"
"Oh no," Sam says brightly. "I'm just getting started. And I'm dying to know what mystery lady has finally cracked the code in that Robocop brain of yours."
Bucky flipped him off without even looking and kept sanding on the same spot.
The community center is quieter than you expected.
Not silent—just low. The hum of lights and scrape of a chair somewhere down the hall are occasionally heard. Sunlight stretches the floor in pale bands, stopping just short of your shoes.
You linger by the bulletin board longer than necessary, reading the same few flyers twice. Three times. You tell yourself you're comparing options, but really you're stalling. Letting your body catch up to the decision you already made by walking through the door.
A step sounds beside you. Not rushed. Not trying to be quiet.
"Those change every couple of weeks." You glance over at the source of the voice.
She's holding a stack of papers, hair pulled in a way that looks practical rather than intentional. Her voice is calm, conversational —like she's commenting on the weather.
"Oh," you say. "I didn't know."
She nods, eyes flicking briefly to the board before settling back on you. Not with scrutiny, just curiosity. "Yeah. Some of them come back around".
There's a comfortable pause. She doesn't fill it. "I'm Sarah," she adds eventually. You give her your name. It still feels strange, but not bad. "First time?" she asks.
You hesitate, then nod. "I'm new in town. My aunt Gracie lived by the pond, she let me borrow her house for a few months."
Her face lit up at the mention of your aunt, but it's not surprising. People loved her. "That makes sense, I mean… I can see the resemblance. Well, If you ever need anything, front desk is usually the best place to start."
You swallow and nod again. She smiles and steps back, already turning as if the moment has reached is natural end.
"Nice meeting you," she says.
"Yeah," you reply. "You too."
She disappears down the hallway without fanfare leaving you alone with the board again. Nothing about it has changed. Same flyers, same crooked corners. But your shoulders drop a fraction anyway.
You pull one page free and go over to the front desk. Yoga class was some way to start, it could help you relax. You also sign a clipboard for updates, and organize a few faces by the time you step back, not enough to call them familiar, but enough for you to nod if you passed them again.
Outside, the town moves at an unhurried pace. A couple of kids ride past on bikes, laughing too loudly. Someone waves from across the street, and it takes you a second to realize the gesture is meant for you—not because they know you, but because that's what people do here. You return it, awkward but sincere.
By the time you reach the water, you realize something quietly important: you're not watching anymore. You're participating. In pieces. In fragments. But still.
That's when you notice the boat.
It sits close to the dock, larger than the others, unmistakably mid-repair. The paint has been sanded down in uneven patches, bare wood exposed where someone stopped and started again.
You slow, drawn in by something you can't explain.
The boat rocks gently with the water, steady despite its rough edges. It creaks when a wave nudges it too hard, but it stays afloat. The parallel settles in quietly.
Still here. Still holding. Still in progress.
You stand there for a moment longer, breathing in the smell of freshwater and sun-warmed wood, then continue on, the town behind you and around you now: not fully yours, but no longer detached either.
"Progress isn't linear." Your therapist doesn't say it gently.
You stare at the spot on the rug between your shoes, tracing the pattern with your eyes. You've heard versions of that sentence before—on social media, in well-meaning advice— but this one lands different. Maybe because you've spent almost two days rooting in bed… again.
"You can have good days," she continues, "and still fall apart later. That's how healing works."
You nod, even though something tight in your chest resists. "It feels like… like every single step I've taken just… dissipated"
"I know," she says. "That's usually the hardest part. But every single step you've taken counts."
You almost laugh at that. Almost.
When the session ends, you leave with that sentence following you out the door, clinging lightly, like it doesn't want to be forgotten.
Progress isn't linear, you repeat it to yourself later, as you stare into your coffee until it's gone lukewarm. The cup is warm in your hands, but the comfort doesn't quite register.
You take a sip. It tastes faint, diluted. You must've added too much cream. You're right here, upright, trying to participate in the day—and yet, part of you feels slightly out of sync, like you missed a step and never found the rhythm again.
Across the street, Bucky pauses.
He's mid-conversation with Sam, carrying a toolbox when his attention drifts slightly. He notices you staring into your cup, the tension on your shoulders, posture folded as if you were trying to take up less space.
"…you listening?" Sam asks.
"Yeah," Bucky says automatically. He isn't.
Sam follows his gaze, then smirks. "Oh. That her?"
Bucky blinks. "What?"
"The mystery lady," Sam continues easily. "The one you were brooding about the other day because you spilled her coffee."
Bucky stiffens. "I wasn't brooding."
"You absolutely were brooding," Sam cuts in. "You almost threw our load back into the pond and made a hole to the boat. Tell me that's not her."
Bucky exhales, like he's humoring this conversation more than engaging in it. "You're reading too much into it."
Sam laughs softly. "Uh-huh. That's why you're still watching."
"C'mon," Bucky says shifting his grip on the toolbox, already turning back toward Sam's house. "We're gonna be late".
Sam doesn't argue.
They make it a few steps before Bucky slows, just enough. He tells himself it's nothing—just checking his footing, just habit— but when he glances over his shoulder, his breath catches anyway.
You're still there. Still wrapped around that coffee like it's anchoring you to the moment, gaze unfocused, presence gentle and distant all at once. Sunlight hits the side of your face, softens the line of your jaw.
For a second, everything else fades. And he hopes —quietly, unexpectedly— that he'll run into you again.
The days begin to settle into something recognizable. You start going back to the community center once or twice a week. At first, you arrive early and leave quickly, slipping in and out before anyone can expect too much of you. Over time, you linger. Long enough to help fold flyers. Long enough to learn which chair doesn't wobble.
People begin to nod when they see you. Some of them remember your name. The ones who don't, smile at you anyway.
Some days you feel present, grounded enough to join conversations halfway through. Other days, you hover at the edges, content to listen, to exist without contributing more than a nod or a laugh.
Both kinds of days count.
Without even noticing, Sarah starts to be a part of your routine. You think Natalie would like her if she met her. She often asks how the yoga class is going, inviting you to new workshops.
She starts introducing you to everyone at town.
Between errands and classes, you find yourself walking by the docks more often. The boat you saw the other day is still there.
It changes slowly—planks replaced, paint smoothed, rust disappearing inch by inch. You don't linger, not really, but you register the progress, how it's slowly becoming solid again. Reliable. Whole.
Weeks pass like that — small conversations, familiar routes, the steady presence of something being repaired without urgency.
One afternoon, as you're helping stack chairs, Sarah leans against the doorframe beside you.
"We're doing a cookout this weekend," she says. "Family, friends. Low-key… you should come, if you want."
You glance at her, surprised.
"I will think about it."
Sarah smiles. "Well, if you come to a decision, it will be right by the docks. Just follow the smoke and the smell of the grill."
And there you were.
Standing in front of the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting nothing, questioning everything. The dress —too much? Not enough? You tell yourself it's just a cookout. Plates of food, loud voices, kids running around. Normal.
Still, your hand hovers over the door handle like it might burn.
By the time you arrive, the yard is already alive. Music drifts through the air, something warm and familiar. Smoke curls lazily from the grill, laugher rising and falling in waves. Sarah spots you immediately and her face lights up like this was always part of the plan.
"You made it," she says, pulling you in before you can second-guess yourself. A plate appears in your hands. Someone introduces themselves. Someone else asks where you're from. You answer in autopilot, smiling when prompted, nodding at the right moments, but it all feels slightly muffled, like you're underwater.
Sarah notices immediately, but she doesn't crowd you. When you excuse yourself to stand near the edge of the docks, she follows with her gaze, then turns quietly to Sam.
"Hey," she says low, nodding in your direction. "She's sweet. Just… a little checked out."
Sam glances over. "I see that. You want me to do something about it?"
"Think you could talk to her?" Sarah asks. "Invite her out sometime. Coffee, town stuff. She's trying."
Sam hums, thoughtful. "I guess I can do that."
Bucky hears it mid-step. He's passing by with Cass and AJ—one tugging at his sleeve, the other arguing about dessert—when the words land. He freezes so abruptly the kids nearly walk straight into him. He glances in your direction, processing Sarah's words.
"Uncle Bucky?" Cass looks up. "Why did you stop?"
He doesn't answer.
Sam turns, catching the way Bucky has gone still, like someone pressed pause on him. The realization hits, and Sam's mouth twitches.
"Oh," he says. "You mean… her?"
Sarah follows the glance, then smiles—slow, knowing. "Is that the one?"
Bucky blinks, finally registering what he's done. His expression shutters instantly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Cass an AJ, sensing blood in the water, immediately pivot their attention to Bucky. "Uncle Bucky has a crush!"
"I do not," Bucky mutters.
Cass cranes his neck. "You look nervous."
"I'm not," he says, trying to resume his walk like nothing happened. Sam gets in his way, grinning.
"Relax, man. I was just gonna invite her out… Unless you want to?"
Bucky opens his mouth—then closes it again.
That's when you approach, still a little distant, still polite, unaware you've just become the subject of discussion.
"Hey, Sarah," you say softly. "Sorry—um, I think, I'm gonna head out. Thank you for inviting me. Really."
Sarah's face softens instantly.
"Of course, sweetheart." She clears her throat once and nudges Bucky's arm with purpose. "Why don't you walk her home?"
He startles. "What—?"
You glance at him at the sound of his voice and pause. It takes half a second. Maybe less. But recognition flickers across your face, subtle and unguarded. Not shock. Not tension. Just a quiet realization.
"Oh," you say gently. "You were—um. From the coffee shop".
He nods, a little stiff. "Yeah. That was me."
"It's almost dark," Sarah continues, already turning back to you. "And he was just heading that way anyway."
You hesitate. "I don't wanna be a bother."
"You're not," Bucky says, too quickly—then reins himself in. "I mean. It's no trouble."
Sarah presses leftovers into your hands and gives Bucky a look that's equal parts warning and encouragement.
As you walk away together, the noise of the cookout fades.
The street is dim, lit by porch lights and the soft glow spilling from windows. Somewhere behind you, laughter drifts from some of the houses you pass by, but it fades with every step until it's just the sound of your shoes against the pavement.
Bucky breaks the silence first.
"So," he says, voice low, almost tentative. "How you've been doing?"
You think about it for a moment, eyes on the ground. "Okay," you say finally. "I think. Some days better than others. Everyone here is very welcoming, I think I made the right choice by coming here."
He hums softly, a sound of agreement more than anything else. "That's kind of the reason why I'm still here."
You glance at him, surprised. "Still here?"
He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah, I'm staying with the Wilson for now. Helping out, fixing the boat."
"Oh," you say, the pieces clicking together. "So you both are working on the boat that's in the middle of the docks?"
"Yeah," he replies. "Mostly Sam. I just… hand him tools and get in the way."
That earns a small smile from you. You walk a few steps before adding, quieter, more to yourself than to him, "I like watching it change. The boat, I mean. Little by little."
Bucky glances at you, something thoughtful passing through his expression. "Me too."
Your place comes into view sooner than expected. You slow without meaning to, steps growing smaller as the porch light casts a warm circle on the sidewalk. The night feels different here.
"Well," you say softly, stopping at the door. "This is my place."
Bucky nods, hands tucked into his jacket like he doesn't quite know where to put them. He looks around once, then back at you.
"I'm glad you're here," he says, and then, as if worried it might be too much, adds, "I mean… around, in town."
You hesitate, then speak, almost under your breath. "I'm still figuring things out."
Bucky meets your eyes. "Yeah," he says. "So am I."
"Goodnight, Bucky." You say, unlocking the door and stepping inside without turning around.
"Goodnight," he replies as you close the door gently behind you.
For a second, you just stand there. Then you lean back against the door, the wood cool through your clothes, and finally let yourself breathe. Your heart is pounding loud, insistent, like it's trying to remind you that you're still here. Still capable of feeling this way. You press a hand to your chest, half amused, half overwhelmed by it.
Nothing happened, and yet you think of the way he looked at you when he said he was figuring things out too. The quiet in his voice. The steadiness.
Outside, footsteps fade down the street.
Inside, for the first time in a long while, your heart races for something that doesn't scare you.
January
The bell above the door chimes softly when you step inside, the sound familiar enough now that it doesn't spike your nerves. It feels like you're slipping back into a version of yourself you almost forgot existed.
The holidays have come and gone. Two weeks away. Two weeks of family dinners, forced smiles, familiar bedrooms that no longer feel like home. Delacroix looks the same when you return—quiet, unbothered by your absence.
You order your usual without hesitating, warming your hands inside your coat sleeves while you wait for your coffee. January has thinned the place out. Fewer people. Lower voices.
"Hey," Bucky greets standing a few feet away, jacket half-unzipped, hands tucked into his pockets.
You look up, then smile before you can help yourself. "Hey."
"You were gone," he says, then winces slightly. "I mean… I didn't see you around for a while."
That makes you blink, caught off guard. "Yeah. Holidays. I went to visit my family."
"Right," he says, nodding. "That makes sense. I noticed."
Something in your chest softens at that. The idea that your absence left a shape somewhere.
"I, uh—" He continues, then stops. "I was actually hoping I'd run into you."
Your chest tightens, just a little. "Oh?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, not in a weird way. I just—" He pauses, taking a deep breath. "I was wondering if you'd wanna get coffee sometime. Like… on purpose. No accidents required."
You look down at your hands, at the counter, anywhere but his face. The instinct to retreat flickers. The voice that says careful. The one that says don't rush.
But there's another one now, the slurred words from Natalie after getting wasted on New Year's: You're not trapped anymore. You're free to start rebuilding your life.
Finally, you lift your eyes back to him. He's watching you, open and unguarded, not pushing. Just waiting.
"I…" You hesitate then let out a breath that feels like stepping forward instead of back. "I think I'd like that. But gotta warn you… I might be a little awkward."
His shoulders ease, like he didn't realize how tense he was until that second. A small smile pulls at his mouth before he shrugs lightly. "I already spilled coffee on you. I think we're past pretending we're cool."
He hesitates, then adds softly, "I'm… not great at dating either."
The admission hangs there between you. Just brutal honesty.
That makes you smile, something warm loosening in your chest. The barista calls your name and you reach for your cup, fingers warm around it.
Bucky steps aside to let you pass, then hesitates. "I'll—uh… I'll wait for you out of the community center. Sarah told me you're volunteering at the library."
"Yeah, I'm free this Wednesday. I usually stay around at the community center hosting bingo for the elders."
Sam chimes in, apparently getting out of the bathroom, while drying his hands with a rag. "Then Bucky's joining you for bingo," he says grinning. "He's practically a relic already."
"Sam," Bucky warns.
"I'm serious," Sam continues. "Thank god you're back. He's been death-staring into the pond like it personally wronged him, like you were—"
"Okay," Bucky cuts in, a little too quickly. He reaches out, grabs the back of Sam's jacket, and starts dragging him toward the door. "We're leaving."
"Oh, come on man! I was mid-sentence," Sam protests, laughing as the bell jingles overhead.
"You were done," Bucky says pushing him outside without looking back. The door swings shut behind them, cutting Sam off mid-laugh.
You're left standing there, coffee in hand, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsteady. A moment later, Bucky reappears at the window. He hesitates, then lifts a hand in a small, almost sheepish wave.
"Wednesday?" he mouths.
You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself and he nods back before disappearing down the street.
You take a sip of your coffee while looking outside. There's an old instinct still there; your shoulders subtly tense, your breath held just a second.
But then, you remember his voice. The way he looked slightly flustered while Sam was practically saying out loud the way your absence affected him… and something else stirs.
A careful hope, tentative as his voice had been. A warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee in your hands.
You don't name it yet.
You just recognize the feeling of beginning again, unfolding slowly, right were you are.
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Note: After seeing this picture, I just have to write something related to it.
Word Count: 7k.
The wagon lurched over another rut in the road, and she pressed her palm against the worn wooden side to steady herself. Four weeks. Four weeks of rattling bones and dust-caked skirts, of sleeping in way stations that smelled of unwashed bodies and stale coffee, of watching the landscape shift from the familiar greens of home to something vast and unforgiving.
Her fingers found the letter in her pocket, the paper soft now from constant folding and unfolding, the ink slightly smeared where her thumb had traced over Mayor Powell's signature. A man she'd never met, in a town she'd never heard of until her brother had come home one evening with news of the position. White Creek, Montana. Teaching position. Room and board included.
Montana? As if she were some scandal-plagued woman fleeing her past, rather than simply someone whose eyes had marked her as cursed from birth.
She pulled her hand from her pocket and adjusted her bonnet, though there was no one to see her out here except the driver, who hadn't spoken more than three words since they'd changed horses at the last station. The brim cast her face in shadow. A habit now, after twenty-six years of watching people's expressions change when they noticed. The confusion first, then the recognition, then the sign of the cross or the averting of eyes or, worse, the whispered conversations that followed her like a cold draft.
One brown, one green. The devil's mark, some called it. Witch-eyes.
She'd tried not to let it define her, but it had anyway.
She'd spent her childhood with her nose buried in books. Her parents had known, even when she was small, that finding a husband would be difficult for a girl with devil's eyes. So they'd scrimped and saved to pay for her to sit the teaching examination, to give her the means to support herself when no man would.
Her marks had been good. High enough that she'd earned her certificate without issue.
For all the good it had done her.
The schoolhouses in town wouldn't hire her, parents didn't want a woman with the devil's eyes teaching their children to read. The families who could afford private tutors took one look at her face and found other candidates. She'd been reduced to taking on the children no one else wanted to teach: the slow learners, the ones whose families could barely scrape together pennies for her services.
It hadn't been enough. Not nearly enough.
Her brother had made that clear the night he'd presented her with the letter. I can't keep supporting you, he'd said, not unkindly but with the weariness of a man who'd reached the end of his patience. You're twenty-six years old. What you make as a pupil teacher barely covers your thread and fabric. This is an opportunity. One I had to call in more than a few favors to get for you. You know how hard it is, given... how you are.
He'd married six months ago. A nice enough girl who kept a clean house and didn't complain about taking over the cooking and washing that had been her domain for years. But three people in a small house meant thin walls and the kind of awareness that made everyone uncomfortable. Her brother wanted privacy with his new wife. Wanted to start a family without his spinster sister listening to every creak of the bedframe through the wall.
She'd wanted to tell him that traveling alone to the frontier, to some tiny settlement she'd never heard of, seemed less like an opportunity and more like an exile. But he'd been right, hadn't he? She was a burden. An unmarried sister with nowhere else to go, taking up space that should belong to his growing family. And to be honest, living with Jeremiah after their parents passed, under his rules, hasn’t been easy. Ever.
So she'd packed her things. One trunk with her few dresses, her winter cloak, and the quilt her mother had made before she died. And the carpetbag at her feet now, heavy with books and slates and the few precious pieces of chalk she'd been hoarding.
The landscape had changed as they traveled west, but it hadn't emptied. If anything, the trees had grown denser: tall pines that stretched toward the sky, their trunks thick enough that three men couldn't wrap their arms around them. Timber country. That's what the last station master had called it when she'd asked about White Creek. Logging town, he'd said. Rough place. You sure that's where you're headed?
She'd shown him the letter, and he'd shrugged.
----
The wagon began to slow. She leaned forward, peering through the gap in the canvas cover, but all she could see from her side were trees. Endless trees, their shadows long in the late afternoon light.
"We're here, miss," the driver called back.
Here? She turned to look out the opposite side and felt her stomach drop. There was a structure, barely. A rough cabin set back from the road, smoke rising from its chimney. Stacks of cut lumber lined one side, and she could see the worn paths where wagons had come and gone. But no town. No church steeple or row of buildings or anything resembling civilization.
"This isn't the town," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The driver was already climbing down. "No, ma'am. But this is where your fare was paid to."
"I don't understand." She gathered her skirts and moved toward the back of the wagon, where he was already pulling down her trunk. "My brother paid passage to White Creek. The town. Where the school is."
"Don't know nothin’ about that." He set her trunk down with a heavy thud that sent up a small cloud of dust. "Just know the fare was paid to the lumber post. Happens sometimes, a fellow arranges for someone to meet a passenger here and guide them the rest of the way into town. Common enough."
She climbed down carefully, her legs unsteady after so many hours sitting. "Then... someone is supposed to meet me?"
He shrugged, already reaching for her carpetbag. "Couldn't say, miss. I just drive where I'm paid to drive."
The late afternoon air was cooler here, flooded with the scent of pine and fresh-cut wood. She looked around, seeing no one. No horse tied up waiting. No helpful guide ready to escort her the rest of the way.
"How far is the town from here?"
"Few miles, I'd reckon. Not a terrible walk, but you don't want to be doing it in those skirts." He handed her the carpetbag, and she took it automatically. "You could wait here, see if someone comes along."
"Could you-" She swallowed. "Could you take me the rest of the way? I can pay. I have-"
"Sorry, miss." He was already moving back toward the driver's seat. "Got to turn around, head back to Clayton. This wagon's needed for the evening stage. They're waiting on me to swap out horses and-"
"Please." The word came out desperate. "I'll pay whatever you ask."
But he was shaking his head, gathering the reins. "Can't help you, miss. Schedule's a schedule."
She watched him climb back up, her heart beginning to pound in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. "Wait. At least, could you wait until I knock? Make sure someone's here?"
The look he gave her was hard to read. Something between pity and impatience, maybe. Or perhaps just the desire to be done with an uncomfortable situation.
"You'll be fine," he said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Like I said, happens all the time out here."
It was only then that she noticed the sign. Rough wood, nailed to the post beside the cabin door. The letters were uneven but clear enough:
WIVES WANTED
She stared at it, her mouth going dry.
"What is this?" she asked, turning back toward the wagon.
The driver was already urging the horses forward. "Just an advertisement, miss. Same as you'd see for seed or dishes or whatever else folk are looking for. Don't mean nothing by it."
"But-"
The wagon was moving. She took three steps after it, but the wheels were already picking up speed, and her skirts caught around her ankles. She stopped, watching helplessly as the driver guided the horses back onto the road without so much as a backward glance.
And then she was alone.
She stood there, carpetbag in one hand, staring at the sign until the words seemed to blur together.
Wives wanted.
Her gaze moved to the cabin itself. Sturdy enough, from what she could see. Logs chinked with what looked like moss and mud, a stone chimney with smoke rising steadily into the darkening sky. Then to the woods surrounding her on all sides: dense and deep, full of shadows that were growing longer by the minute.
She had three choices, really. Wait here by her trunk like a piece of abandoned luggage and hope someone comes along before nightfall. Start walking toward where she assumed the town might be, and risk getting lost in a remote place she didn't know -maybe being eaten by the wildlife- or… knock on that door.
The guide, she thought, trying to hold onto reason. If her brother had truly arranged for someone to meet her here, they wouldn't necessarily be waiting at the door. How could they know which day she'd arrive? Which hour? It wasn't as if she'd come by train with a published schedule.
That had to be it. Someone from the town was meant to collect her here, and she'd simply arrived at an inconvenient time.
She picked up her carpetbag, left her trunk where it sat -too heavy to carry to the door anyway- and walked toward the cabin. The packed earth was hard under her boots, worn smooth by years of foot traffic.
She raised her hand and knocked. Three raps that sounded too loud in the quiet.
Nothing.
She waited, counting slowly to twenty in her head. The smoke continued to rise from the chimney. Somewhere in the woods, a bird called out, the sound strange and unfamiliar.
She knocked again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
She muttered a string of curses. Who could reprimand her in this god-forsaken place, an owl?
Someone had to be here. You didn't leave a fire burning unattended, not out here where everything was wood and tinder-dry despite the season. It was dangerous. Foolish.
She knocked a third time, harder still, and called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then she heard it, movement from inside. Heavy footsteps. The scrape of something being moved.
The door opened.
----
The man who did it was tall -way easily over six feet- and for a moment, all she could process was the size of his body filling the doorway. Then the details came into focus, each one more mortifying than the last.
He was bare from the waist up.
No shirt. Not even an undershirt. Just skin and muscle and a fine sheen of sweat that caught the fading light despite the cool air. His suspenders hung loose at his sides, still attached to his work pants but doing nothing to preserve any sense of modesty.
A thin, dark trail of hair ran south of his belly button, beneath the waistband of his pants, which sat lower than they should without the garters holding them up. She could see the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his shoulders filled the entire frame of the door.
She tried to keep her eyes on his face, but they betrayed her, dropping to his chest before she could stop them. It was like those sketches in her history books, the ones of Roman statues that she'd studied with purely academic interest. Except this wasn't marble. This was flesh and warmth and the kind of raw physicality she'd never encountered outside of her imagination.
Her gaze snapped back up, heat flooding her cheeks.
Blue eyes met hers. Glassy, slightly unfocused. His face was covered in several days' worth of beard, dark and unkempt, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
He blinked at her slowly, his brow furrowing.
"Can I help you?"
His voice was rough, scratchy in a way that suggested he hadn't used it much today. Or that he was unwell.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I-" The words stuck in her throat. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she'd never seen a man without his shirt before, and certainly not one who looked like he'd been carved from stone and then somehow given life. "I'm sorry, I-"
Get it together.
She forced herself to meet his eyes and keep them there, even though her face felt like it was on fire.
"I'm the new teacher," she managed.
----
He had to be hallucinating.
That was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. The fever had finally cooked his brain enough that he was seeing things, hearing things, and apparently talking to them now, too.
He was in bad shape when he'd decided to stay at the post instead of making the walk back to his own cabin. That trek through the woods, uphill most of the way, had seemed impossible when he could barely stand without his head spinning.
The other men had already cleared out by the time he'd dragged himself here, off to their own places or down to the saloon for Saturday night drinking and cards and whatever else passed for entertainment in White Creek.
He'd managed to strip off his shirt and suspenders before collapsing onto one of the cots, and he'd been drifting in and out ever since. The fire needed tending, but the thought of getting up to deal with it made his muscles ache in protest.
The knocking had started a while ago. He'd heard it through the haze of fever. Three sharp raps that he'd tried to ignore. Could've been anyone. A peddler, maybe, though what kind of fool tried to sell goods at a lumber post on a Saturday evening, he couldn't say. He'd burrowed deeper into the thin blanket and willed whoever it was to go away.
Then he'd heard a mumble.
A woman's voice.
That's when he knew the fever had him good and proper. There was no reason for a woman to be at the post. No reason for any woman to be out here at all, except maybe Mary when she came up with the sheriff to deliver mending, and that wasn't until- when? Monday? Tuesday? Hell, he couldn't remember.
The knocking came again, harder, and the voice called out.
Hello? Is anyone there?
Christ.
He'd forced himself upright, his head immediately protesting the movement with a sharp spike of pain behind his eyes. His body was slick with sweat despite the chill in the air, and when he stood, the room tilted sideways for a moment before righting itself.
He'd made his way to the door, his bare feet heavy on the wooden floor, and pulled it open.
And there she was.
A woman. An actual woman, not a fever dream. Young. Dressed like she was heading to church, all buttoned up and proper with a carpetbag in one hand. Pretty enough, though it was hard to tell with most of her face in shadow from that bonnet.
She was staring at him.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and realized belatedly that he was shirtless. That he probably looked like hell. That he was swaying slightly on his feet.
"Can I help you?" The words came out rougher than he'd intended.
She just kept staring, her mouth opening and closing like she'd forgotten how to speak. Her eyes dropped -just for a second- and then snapped back up to his face.
Finally, she managed: "I'm the new teacher."
He frowned, his fever-addled brain struggling to make sense of the words.
Teacher?
He wrinkled his nose, trying to think through the fog in his head. He'd been in town just three days ago, had walked past the bulletin board outside the general store like he always did. There'd been the usual postings: requests for labor, advertisements for patent medicines, a notice about a town meeting he'd had no intention of attending. Nothing about a school. Nothing about hiring a teacher.
And he would've heard. White Creek was small enough that news traveled fast, especially news like that. The women would've been talking about it. Hell, the men would've been talking about it too, complaining about the cost, probably, or arguing over where they'd even put a schoolhouse.
"Didn’t know we were openin’ a school," he said, and even to his own ears, it sounded doubtful.
She looked taken aback, her brows drawing together beneath the brim of her bonnet.
"Open?" she repeated. "No, it's not- it's not a new school. I'm here to replace the previous teacher. Miss..." She paused, clearly trying to recall the name. "Miss Hartley? She married and left the position."
Bucky shook his head slowly, which was a mistake, the movement made the world tilt again, and he had to brace one hand against the doorframe to steady himself.
"Ma'am," he said, trying to keep his voice gentle despite feeling like his head was splitting open. "There ain’t no school here. Maybe Sunday school at the church for the kids when the circuit preacher comes through, but that’s..." He trailed off, watching her face.
Something was changing in her expression. The confusion was still there, but it was being joined by something else. Something that looked a lot like dawning horror.
"That can't be right," she said, but her voice had gone thin. "I have a letter. From Mayor Powell. He hired me specifically to-"
"Mayor Richards," Bucky corrected automatically, then wished he hadn't when he saw her face fall further. “Look, don’t mean to be rude, but the mayor -Richards- he’s more interested in spendin’ town funds on fixin’ up the saloon than on education. Ain’t been talk of hirin’ any teacher."
She was staring at him now, but not the way she had been before. This was different. This was the look of someone watching their world come apart at the seams.
"No," she said quietly. "No, that's not- my brother, he said-"
Her hand went to her pocket, fumbling for something, and she pulled out a folded piece of paper, already soft and worn at the creases. She stepped closer -close enough that he caught a faint scent of lavender and travel dust- and held it out to him.
"Here. It's all explained in the letter. If you could just read-"
He took it, his fingers clumsy, and that's when he saw her eyes.
One brown. One green.
Different colors, clear as day now that she'd stepped out of the shadow of her bonnet and into the light spilling from the cabin behind him. He blinked, thinking maybe the fever was playing tricks on him, but no. They stayed the same. Mismatched and striking and...
He didn't react. Didn't have the energy for it, honestly, and besides, he'd seen stranger things. There'd been a fellow in his unit during the war who'd had six fingers on one hand. People were born looking all kinds of ways.
He focused on the letter instead, squinting at the words. His head was pounding hard enough that reading was a chore, but he managed to pick out the important bits.
White Creek. That was right, at least.
Teaching position... previous teacher departed... room and board included...
Mayor Powell.
And there, at the bottom, a signature that could've been anyone's scrawl.
Shit.
He looked up at her, then back down at the letter. She'd been tricked. That much was obvious. Whether it was her brother's doing or someone else's, he couldn't say, but this letter was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
"Ma'am," he started, trying to figure out how to say this without making everything worse. "I’m real sorry, but... none of this is true."
He watched her face carefully, saw the way her breathing was starting to come faster.
"Mayor’s name is Richards, not Powell. And there’s no teachin’ position. No school at all, ‘cept like I said… sometimes on Sundays." He held the letter out to her. "Don’t know who wrote this, but somebody’s been dishonest with you."
She took the letter back with shaking hands. Her chest was rising and falling too quickly now, like she couldn't quite catch her breath.
Damn.
His head gave another vicious throb, and he had to close his eyes for a second against the pain. When he opened them, she was still standing there, looking like she might either scream or faint or both.
"Look," he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could manage. "Don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sick as a dog right now. You’re welcome to come inside and sit for a minute. There’s coffee I can heat up, and it’s warmer than standin’ out here." He paused, seeming to remember himself. "Name’s Barnes. James Barnes. Most folks call me Bucky."
She introduced herself quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she hesitated, her eyes darting past him into the cabin, then back to his face. Then down to his bare chest. Then, unmistakably, to the sign nailed up beside the door.
WIVES WANTED.
Her gaze came back to him: shirtless, sweating, standing in the doorway of a shady cabin in the middle of nowhere, and he saw the calculation happening behind those mismatched eyes.
He couldn't exactly blame her for the doubt.
----
The world tilted sideways.
Not literally, though given how light-headed she suddenly felt, it might as well have been. Everything she'd held onto for the past month, every miserable mile in that wagon, every night in those filthy way stations, every moment of doubt she'd pushed down because at least she was going somewhere, to something-
All of it. Gone.
A lie.
No school. No position. No Mayor Powell.
She looked down at the letter in her hands, the paper now trembling visibly. The ink hadn't changed. The words were still there, neat and official-looking. But they meant nothing. They'd never meant anything.
Her brother had done this.
Jeremiah had looked her in the eye, had handed her this letter, had told her he'd pulled strings with an old friend to get her this opportunity. Had watched her pack. Had put her on that first stage with her trunk and her carpetbag full of books and the last of her savings sewn into the lining of her skirt.
Had sent her here. To nothing.
The urge to laugh came suddenly and sharply, but she swallowed it down because if she started, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. And then what? She'd fall apart in front of this half-naked stranger while standing in the middle of the wilderness as the sun set behind the trees?
She forced herself to think. To push past the panic that was making her chest tight and her breath come too fast.
The money she had left wouldn't get her back home. She'd counted it three times already during the journey, watching it dwindle with each fare and meal. Even if it could -even if by some miracle she could afford the return trip- what was waiting for her there?
Jeremiah had made his position clear. He didn't want her. His new wife didn't want her. She was a burden, an embarrassment, a spinster sister with devil's eyes taking up space in their house.
If he'd been capable of this -of lying to her face, of sending her across the country to God knows what- what would he do if she showed up on his doorstep again?
She looked up at the man in the doorway. He was still watching her, his expression difficult to read. Concern, maybe. Or just discomfort at having a strange woman on the verge of hysteria standing outside his door.
The light was fading fast. The woods around them were already deep in shadow, and she could hear sounds she couldn't identify. Animals, probably. Or the wind through the trees. Or something worse.
She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. And night was coming.
The man -Mr. Barnes- had invited her inside. Had mentioned coffee. Warmth. He'd said he was sick, which was obvious enough from looking at him. Fever-bright eyes, that sheen of sweat, the way he'd braced himself against the doorframe like standing was an effort.
A sick man was probably less dangerous than whatever was in those woods.
Probably.
Her eyes flicked once more to the sign. Then back to him, shirtless and swaying slightly, clearly unwell.
She didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I..." Her voice came out thin and unsteady. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that. The coffee, I mean. And somewhere to sit."
He nodded and stepped back from the doorway, gesturing her inside with a movement that looked like it cost him effort.
She crossed the threshold, her boots loud against the wooden floor, and set her carpetbag down just inside the door. The cabin was sparse, a few cots along one wall, a table with chairs that had seen better days, the fireplace with its dying fire. It smelled of smoke and sawdust and something else she couldn't quite place. Sweat, maybe. Or illness.
She turned back toward the door.
"Ma'am?"
But she was already stepping outside again, back into the rapidly cooling air. Her trunk was still sitting in the middle of the road where the driver had left it, and she wasn't about to leave it out there overnight. Everything she owned was in that trunk.
She heard him behind her. "What are you-" but she'd already reached the trunk and was bending to grab one of the handles.
She'd barely lifted it an inch off the ground when she heard boots on the packed earth and a muttered curse that sounded more exasperated than angry.
"Christ, just- leave it."
She looked up to see him coming toward her, still shirtless, still clearly unsteady on his feet.
"I can manage," she started to say, but he was already there, shouldering her aside with less force than he probably intended but enough that she stumbled back a step.
He grabbed both handles and lifted the trunk like it weighed nothing, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched. Fever or not, he was strong, she'd give him that.
"You shouldn't be-" she tried again. "You're sick. I can-"
"Inside," he said shortly, already turning back toward the cabin. "Both of you."
She followed, feeling useless and foolish and still trying not to stare at the way his back muscles moved under sweat-slicked skin as he carried her trunk through the door.
----
He set the trunk down just inside the door, letting it drop the last few inches with a heavy thud. His breathing had gone rough, and when he straightened, she saw him close his eyes briefly, like he was fighting off a wave of dizziness.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said quietly. "You're clearly unwell."
"It's fine." But his voice was strained, and the way he moved suggested it was anything but fine.
She looked around the cabin properly now. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, and there was a dented coffeepot sitting on the edge of the stone. Cups on the table. A water bucket near the door.
"Let me," she said, moving toward the fireplace before he could protest. "You said there was coffee. I can heat it up. You should sit down before you fall down."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but another wave of something -pain, nausea, dizziness- seemed to pass over him, and he sank onto the nearest cot instead.
"Wood’s by the hearth," he managed. "Should be enough to get the fire goin’ again."
She nodded, already moving. It felt good to have something to do, something practical that didn't require her to think about the fact that her entire life had just collapsed around her ears. She could build a fire. She could heat coffee. These were things she knew how to do.
She crouched by the hearth, finding the pile of kindling and split wood where he'd indicated. The embers were still glowing faintly, and she carefully added the smaller pieces first, blowing gently until they caught.
Behind her, she heard him shift on the cot, heard the creak of the frame.
The fire began to grow, flames licking up around the new wood. She added a larger piece, then another, until it was burning steadily. Then she reached for the coffeepot.
----
He should close his eyes. Should try to sleep off this fever before it got any worse. But he found himself watching her instead, lying on his side on the narrow cot, his head pillowed on one arm.
She moved purposefully around the small space, her skirts swishing softly as she tended the fire, reached for the coffeepot, and positioned it over the flames. Every movement was made with focus, like she was grateful to have something to do with her hands.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been under the same roof as a young woman. Mary didn't count; she was the sheriff's sister-in-law. The girls at the saloon didn't count either, for different reasons.
But she, buttoned up in that traveling dress, her hair neat beneath her bonnet despite the long journey, there was something about her that made it hard to look away.
Even though he was as sick as he was. Even knowing he probably looked like death warmed over.
He wondered if after all that traveling, the corset bothered her. It had to, didn't it? All those whale bones and laces, squeezing her flesh. How did women even breathe in those things? What would she look like without it? Without all those layers of propriety and fabric-
Christ.
He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself. The poor woman had just had her entire life pulled out from under her, had traveled God knows how far only to find out she'd been lied to, and here he was, thinking about getting under her skirts like some kind of animal.
His ma had raised him better than that.
But his ma had been gone a long time now. And he'd been out here in the wilderness for two years, working himself half to death six days a week and spending his Sundays trying to remember what it felt like to be something other than tired.
He opened his eyes again and they reached for her. Couldn't help it.
----
When she looked over her shoulder a few minutes later, he was asleep.
Or unconscious. It was hard to tell. His breathing had gone deep and uneven, and he was lying completely still except for the occasional twitch of his fingers.
She turned back to the fire, waiting for the coffee to heat through. After a moment's hesitation, she reached up and unpinned her bonnet, setting it carefully on the table. There was no point wearing it indoors, especially not at this hour, and she doubted he'd object even if he were awake enough to notice.
Which he clearly wasn't.
The coffee was hot enough. She poured herself a cup, the bitter smell filling the small cabin, and retrieved one of the hard biscuits from her carpetbag. Not much of a dinner, but she'd eaten worse during the journey. At least it was something.
She sat at the table, breaking the biscuit into smaller pieces to soften in the coffee, and found herself looking at him.
Really looking, now that he couldn't catch her at it.
Underneath the grime and the sweat and the obvious illness, he was... handsome. Striking, even. Strong features, dark strands of hair that curled slightly where it was damp against his temples. The beard made it hard to see the shape of his jaw, but she could imagine it well enough. And his body… well. She'd already seen more of that than was proper.
No ring on his finger. Not that it meant anything. Plenty of men out here probably didn't bother with rings, even if they were married. Though given the sign outside...
He made a sound -half groan, half whimper- and shifted restlessly on the cot.
She put down her cup and crossed to him, crouching beside the cot. Up close, she could see the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his skin seemed to radiate heat even from a few inches away.
Carefully, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
Burning.
He was burning up.
She pulled her hand back, biting her lip. He needed water. Cool cloths. Someone to watch him through the night to make sure the fever didn't get worse.
She looked around the cabin: at her trunk by the door, at the dying light outside the windows, at the complete absence of anywhere else to go or anything else to do.
Well then.
She stood, moving back to the water bucket near the door. If she was going to be stuck here until morning anyway, she might as well make herself useful. And honestly, what else was there to do? Sit and think about how thoroughly her life had fallen apart?
No. Better to stay busy. Better to help someone who actually needed it, even if that someone was a half-naked stranger who lived in the woods.
----
She found what she needed easily enough. The post was clearly meant to be a waystation of sorts, there were basic provisions stored in crates along one wall. Extra blankets, some dried meat, and a few tins of beans. And, mercifully, some clean rags that looked like they'd been meant for cleaning tools but would work just as well for her purposes.
She soaked one in the water bucket, wrung it out, and returned to his side.
The heat from the fire was already making the cabin warm. Too warm, especially after she'd built it back up. She could feel sweat beginning to gather at her temples, at the small of her back beneath all her layers.
She pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, and he made a small sound that might have been relief.
The cabin grew warmer still as she worked. She'd need to reach his wrists, his ankles, under his arms. She remembered that much from when her mother had been sick, years ago. Fever had to be brought down from the extremities, not just the head.
Her collar felt like it was choking her.
She sat back on her heels, glancing at him. Still unconscious, still burning up.
No one was going to see. And she could barely breathe.
She reached up and unfastened the top three buttons of her high collar, letting the fabric fall open enough that she could take a proper breath. Better. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows -carefully, precisely, the way she'd been taught- and secured them there.
There. Much more practical.
She wet another cloth and carefully lifted one of his arms, pressing the cool fabric against the inside of his wrist, then higher, into the hollow of his armpit. His skin was slick with sweat, burning hot under her fingers. She tried not to think about the impropriety of it, about the fact that she was touching a man she didn't know in ways that would have scandalized everyone back home.
He needed help. That was all that mattered.
She moved to his feet next, unlacing his boots with fumbling fingers and setting them aside. His socks were damp with sweat. She peeled them off -tried not to notice how strangely intimate even that felt- and pressed cool cloths to his ankles.
"You need to drink," she murmured, though she wasn't sure he could hear her. She retrieved her cup of coffee -now lukewarm- dumped it out, and filled it with fresh water from the bucket.
Getting him to drink while unconscious was harder than she'd anticipated. She lifted his head as carefully as she could, supporting it with one hand while she brought the cup to his lips with the other.
"Come on," she said softly. "Just a little."
Most of it ran down his chin and neck, soaking into the pillow beneath his head, but she thought some of it made it into his mouth. Enough, maybe.
She set the cup aside and reached for another cloth, wiping the water from his face and neck. His beard was rough under her fingers, and she found herself wondering absently what he looked like clean-shaven.
The fire crackled. The cabin was stifling now.
She unbuttoned her cuffs entirely, pushing the fabric up past her elbows. Her hair was coming loose from its pins -she could feel it, sticking to the back of her neck- but she didn't care.
She'd deal with propriety in the morning.
For now, she had work to do.
----
The hours blurred together.
She lost track of how many times she soaked the cloths, how many times she pressed them to his burning skin. The fire needed tending. The water bucket needed refilling from the pump outside.
By the time she collapsed into the chair near his cot, she was exhausted.
Her hair had long since given up any pretense of being properly pinned. She could feel it falling around her shoulders, sticking to her neck and temples with sweat. The cabin was stifling despite the cool night air outside, and she'd unbuttoned her dress almost to her sternum just to be able to breathe.
Improper didn't even begin to cover it. But there was no one to see, and she was too tired to care.
She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.
This was her life now. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with a sick stranger, no money to get home -not that home wanted her anyway- and no prospects beyond hoping the town might take pity on her in the morning.
If there even was a town.
If any of this was real.
The thought hit her suddenly, sharp and overwhelming: Jeremiah had sent her here specifically to get rid of her. To dump her somewhere so remote, so impossible, that she'd have no choice but to-
What? Marry the first man desperate enough to overlook her eyes? Disappear into the wilderness and stop being his problem?
A sound escaped her throat -half laugh, half sob- and then the tears came.
She pressed her hands over her face, trying to muffle the sound, trying to hold it together, but it was useless. Everything came pouring out: the humiliation, the betrayal, the bone-deep terror of having nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
She didn't hear him wake up.
Didn't realize he'd moved until his voice cut through her crying, rough and confused.
"Hey- hey, don't-"
She jerked her head up, swiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. He was sitting up on the cot, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wall for balance.
"You shouldn't be up," she said automatically, her voice thick and unsteady. "You need to rest."
"Ma’am you're crying." He said it like it was a problem he needed to solve, like he couldn't quite process why she'd be upset.
"I'm fine." She stood, wiping her face again, trying to pull herself together. "Please, just lie back down. You're still-"
But he was already on his feet, moving toward her with the unsteady determination of someone who wasn't thinking clearly. Fever-bright eyes, unfocused but concerned.
"Listen, I-" He stopped in front of her, too close, near enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I know this is bad. I know you got dealt a shit hand. But we’ll figure somethin’ out in the mornin’, alright? The town… someone'll help. You won't be-"
"You don't know that." The words came out sharper than she intended. "You don't know anything about me or what I-"
"I know you came all this way for nothin’," he said quietly. "I know that ain’t fair. And I know-" He swayed slightly, and she reached out instinctively to steady him, her hands landing on his bare arms. His skin was still too hot, slick with sweat. "Ma’am, I know you’re scared."
She was. God, she was terrified. And having him say it out loud, having someone acknowledge it, made her throat close up all over again.
"I'm sorry," she managed. "I don't usually- I'm not-"
"It's alright." His hand came up -she thought maybe to touch her shoulder, to offer some awkward comfort- but then his expression changed. The concern shifted to something else. Confusion. Alarm.
"I don't- He blinked hard, like he was trying to clear his vision. "I don't feel very well."
"I know," she said gently, still holding his arms. "That's why you need to-"
"No." He shook his head, which seemed to make everything worse. "No, I mean I really don't-"
His knees buckled.
She saw it happening but couldn't react fast enough. One second he was standing, and the next he was falling forward, his full weight crashing into her.
She tried to catch him, tried to brace herself, but he was huge and completely deadweight. They both went down hard as his body drove her to the floor.
She screamed, the sound echoing in the empty shed as she fell. Pain exploded at the base of her head, and a brilliant white light flashed behind her eyes.
Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, bff!bob, cheerleader!nat/wanda , football!sam/steve/walker, emo!ava, freshman!peter, Bucky is an asshole like actually, slow-ish burn, tension, inexperienced but slightly freaked out reader
Word Count: 8.1k (sorry not sorry)
Series Masterlist
A/N: kind of edited but not rlly bc i was too excited . Yes i was up til 3am writing this what about it
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You backed away from the peephole, heart thundering like you’d just been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Which… technically, you hadn’t. But standing there in nothing but an oversized t-shirt? Felt incriminating enough.
You glanced down at the hem, tugging it uselessly as if you could magically conjure pants. No such luck.
“I can hear you breathing, Specs,” he murmured through the door—far too clearly.
You mouthed a quiet shit, hand flying to the doorknob. You cracked the door just wide enough to poke your head out, eyes immediately dropping to his grey sweats. Definitely not event attire. Definitely not date-with-Sharon attire.
“W-What are you doing here?” you managed, your cough doing nothing to hide the wobble in your voice.
“I left my water bottle earlier,” he said, like this was the most normal thing in the universe. His eyes dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your bare thighs and oversized shirt. “Wanted to grab it before practice tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
In your defense, it was the only word your brain supplied.
“You didn’t answer my text.”
His voice was casual, but it hummed with something underneath—something that made the back of your neck spark.
“I was, um…” You nudged the door open wider, stepping aside so he could slip in. “Busy.”
“With?” he asked, not even pretending he wasn’t nosy as his eyes swept the kitchen. They landed immediately on the forgotten water bottle sitting by the sink, but he didn’t move toward it.
“I told you—homework,” you started, but your voice cut off as he walked right past it and headed down the hall.
“Hey!”
You scrambled after him, socks sliding traitorously on the wood floor. By the time you caught up, he’d already let himself into your room, standing inside like he owned the place.
You stopped in the doorway, breath catching at the sight of him calmly surveying your space—the rumpled bed, your open laptop, your headphones still pooled like a crime scene, and the pillow you’d screamed into lying face-up on the floor.
Your brows knit together, mouth falling open.
“What,” you demanded, “are you doing?”
“Just seeing what you were busy with.”
He finally turned toward you, clearing his throat like he’d said something neutral. “Where are all your books?”
“My what?” You planted a hand on your hip, staring him down.
“Your textbooks. Notebooks.” His chin tipped toward your perfectly neat desk. “You’re a disaster when you’re actually working, so… where are they?”
“Uh…” You blinked, brain momentarily buffering. “In my bag.”
“Thought you were doing homework.”
You let out a frustrated breath, shaking your head. “Okay—what is this?”
He didn’t flinch. “Are you here alone?”
“Yes?” It came out like a question. Because seriously—what the hell?
His eyes dropped, pointedly, to your bare legs. “Then where are your pants?”
Your cheeks ignited. Right. Those.
You tugged uselessly at the hem of your shirt, like two inches of cotton were going to magically fix this. “In my dresser.”
“Why aren’t you at the event?” he asked, jaw ticking.
You huffed. “Why aren’t you?”
“I asked you first,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “I told you, I didn’t feel like going.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Neither is ‘I left my water bottle,’ but here we are.”
His eyes flicked over your face, lingering like he was trying to decode you. “You avoiding me?”
“That’s a reach.”
His eyes narrowed at you. “What the fuck was that earlier?”
“What was what?” You crossed your arms, annoyed, defensive—mostly because you had no idea where he was going with this.
“With Wanda’s brother.” He said it like a diagnosis. His eyes flicked around your room as he talked, catching on the newly rearranged posters, the cleaner desk, the subtle signs you’d tried to pretend you weren’t spiraling alone in this space. Something in his stare made your stomach twist, like he was seeing more than he should.
“He was all over you,” Bucky muttered.
“There’s nothing between me and Pietro,” you half-laughed, half-exhaled.
“That’s not what it looked like at Blip.”
“What do you care?” you shot back before you could stop yourself. “You had a date for the event anyway.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “How are you this dense, Specs?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was lying, okay?” He said it fast, like it physically pained him. “I didn’t have shit to do besides sit at home.”
You blinked. Your arms slowly dropped from their defensive fold. “Why would you lie?”
He looked everywhere but at you, tongue pressing against his cheek in frustration—at himself, not you. “Because he’d fucking asked you to go,” he finally said, voice low, flat, like it was obvious. “And I didn’t wanna show up looking like an idiot with nothing.”
Your breath tangled in your throat.
He didn’t move closer, but the room suddenly felt smaller anyway. He shoved his hands into his sweats pockets, jaw tight.
“I didn’t want you walking in with him,” he muttered. “Happy now?”
“Probably not the word I’d use,”
“Why did you ignore those texts?” His voice was low now, like he could pretend you didn’t hear the question.
“Which texts?” you asked, your stomach knotting.
“You know which ones,” he said, jaw tight.
Your tongue went numb. You’d been trying to forget those words, pretending they were nothing, but now they were here, alive and dangerous in the small space between you.
“I… I didn’t think—” You faltered, twisting your fingers together. “I thought maybe you were just drunk, or… or saying it to mess with me.”
“Drunk?” His laugh was short, almost bitter. “I wasn’t drunk. I meant it. I meant all of it.” His eyes softened slightly, but the heat underneath didn’t fade. “And then I saw you with him,” he gestured vaguely toward your walls as if Pietro’s presence haunted the room, “and I… I didn’t want to look like a fool, so I stayed quiet.”
You froze, heart hammering, mind spinning. “Wait… you—”
“I wasn’t gonna let anyone else get to you first,” he admitted, voice dropping to a low growl. “Not him, not anyone.”
The weight of it pressed against your chest. You wanted to protest, to explain, but the words caught in your throat.
“And that’s why I’m here,” he added, stepping a fraction closer. “Because I can’t… I can’t just let you sit there thinking I didn’t care.”
Your face twisted then, scoffing. “You’re so fucking confusing,”
His brows raised. “Me? I’m confusing?”
“One minute you’re acting like nothing matters, like I’m just part of your weird orbit, and the next you’re—” You gestured haphazardly toward the memories piling up in your mind. “…here, saying things that make me think maybe you do care. Or maybe you don’t. I can’t tell, and it’s exhausting.”
He blinked, eyes flicking to your hands nervously fidgeting, then back up at your flushed face. “I’m not… I don’t mean to confuse you. I just…” He paused, voice rougher, quieter. “I don’t know how to do this right. You’re not easy to ignore, Specs. Not for me.”
You stared at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, your chest tight. “Not easy to ignore,” you echoed, almost under your breath.
“Yeah,” he admitted, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking. “Not easy at all.”
The weight of his gaze, the intensity in his voice, made your heart stutter. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse entirely, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t walk away from this. Not now.
“Can we just go back?” he asked, voice low, almost careful, like he wasn’t sure he wanted your answer.
“To what?” you whispered, voice small, caught under the weight of him staring at you like that.
“Just… not this,”
You nodded quickly, eyes falling to where his lip darted to wet his lips. They slid into a grin before his eyes flickered down a final time. “Good. Now go put some pants on. This is inappropriate.”
You frowned, cheeks burning as you yanked at the hem of your shirt like it would somehow save you. His smirk widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing—and that only made your pulse spike faster.
You spun around, yanking a pair of sweatpants from your dresser before ducking into the closet. Behind you, the soft thump of the twin bed sinking echoed through the room—he’d hopped on, just like he always did.
The tension in your chest eased slightly, a quiet relief settling over you as he slipped back into his familiar, teasing-but-not-threatening self.
When you stepped back out, you caught sight of him—leaning against the wall, legs dangling off the side of the twin bed, earbuds in, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. The second he noticed you, his gaze snapped up, a small, crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“You know,” he started as you made your way over and eased onto the bed beside him, “they make these without wires now.”
“I know that, asshole,” you rolled your eyes, a small smile betraying your annoyance. “They’re also expensive.”
He hummed, glancing down at your phone lying on the pillow you’d dropped earlier. “I like this song.”
One earbud popped free, and he held it out to you. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, slipping it into your ear. The chords of Linger by The Cranberries floated in, and instinctively, you scooted closer, keeping the wire from pulling taut.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just the music, the faint brush of his hand against yours, and the quiet closeness that felt heavier than anything either of you had said.
“Surprised you’d like a band like The Cranberries,” you murmured, voice barely above the music. “Doesn’t seem like your thing.”
“If it’s your thing, it’s my thing, Specs,” he said softly.
Heat rushed to your cheeks—you knew you were blushing, and now there was nowhere to hide it.
“Do you even know my name?” you scoffed, trying to break the tension, to distract yourself from the closeness pressing in.
But then he said it. Your name—low, familiar, yet like a breath of fresh air. It pulled you in, your gaze locking with his, so close you could feel his breath on your face. His eyes flicked to your lips and back up to yours, and suddenly the music around you faded, drowned out by the rapid beat of your own heart.
Slowly. Achingly slowly, he leaned in—and you didn’t pull away. His lips brushed yours, soft, testing, lingering for the briefest moment before he pulled back just enough to look at you.
The shift in his expression made your stomach dip.
For a heartbeat, panic flickered. Did I do something wrong?
Your hands lifted on instinct, fingers brushing the frames of your glasses, thinking maybe they were the problem—
His voice stopped you cold.
“Don’t you dare take those off.”
Then you met his eyes. Blue flecks burning with something fierce, something wanting. And just like that, he was on you again, lips pressing harder this time, hands sliding to your forearm, squeezing gently. A shiver raced down your spine, and for the first time all night, you felt the weight of his attention, of his desire, fully on you.
He pressed closer for a moment longer, letting the heat of his lips and the intensity in his eyes anchor you in the moment. Then, almost cruelly, he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, though your chest still heaved and your lips tingled from the contact.
“Okay there, Specs?” His grin was slow, teasing, the kind that promised he knew exactly the effect he had on you. His hand stayed on your forearm, thumb brushing along your skin, a silent tether.
You wanted to complain, to shove him away, to call him every expletive you knew—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you just blinked up at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and wanting more.
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” He commented, fingers still tracing circles on your arm.
“I,” You gulped, feeling the heat on your face from his attention. “I’ve only…done it once.”
He blinked, a slow, deliberate blink, like he was processing your words. “… you’ve only done it once?” His voice dropped low, almost a growl, and the faintest edge of something possessive threaded through it.
You nodded, twisting your fingers together in your lap. “Yeah… I thought I just needed to… check a box. I didn’t know it could feel like… this,” you admitted, voice trailing, cheeks burning hotter than ever.
Bucky leaned closer, his gaze intense, flicking between your eyes and lips. “Huh,” he murmured, the single word heavy with curiosity, disbelief, and something sharper, more protective. “And here I thought… maybe you and Pietro…”
Your stomach twisted, embarrassment and irritation sparking simultaneously. “I would never!” you snapped, though your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.
He raised his eyebrows, half-amused, half-surprised. “I mean, you didn’t have pants on,”
Maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, but a surge of confidence ripped through you when you said, “Maybe I was hoping you’d come over,”
His pupils darkened, and a deep, low noise escaped him, vibrating in his chest. “Careful, Specs,” he murmured, inching closer. “I might just make it twice for you… maybe three.”
Before you could react, his hand reached up, cupping your face, fingers warm against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your breath caught as he leaned in, eyes locking with yours. Time slowed, the hum of the apartment fading to a single point: him.
His lips brushed yours before pressing harder, more insistently. You felt yourself melt into the kiss, heart hammering, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you.
Then—footsteps. Loud, unmistakable, stomping and chatter through the front door.
Wanda and Nat.
You both froze, eyes snapping apart, the sudden intrusion slicing through the tension. Bucky’s grip on your face lingered just a moment longer before he stepped back, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated groan.
“They’re home,” you whispered, breathless, voice tinged with panic and disbelief.
Before you could even register the panic fully, Bucky shot up. His movements were quick, precise—almost predatory—as he crossed the room and quietly pulled your bedroom door shut, the click of the lock echoing like a punctuation mark in the suddenly quiet space.
Your eyes widened, heart pounding in your chest, but before you could protest, he turned, gaze smoldering, and strode toward the bed.
“You’re gonna ruin me, Specs,” he muttered, voice low and rough, as he stood in front of the bed, between your legs. In one swift motion, his hands gripped firmly behind your knees, and pulled your thighs to wrap around his waist. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, your body pressed flush against his.
His hands slid to your hips, steadying you as he captured your mouth in a kiss that stole your breath. It was fierce, demanding, yet there was a possessive gentleness woven in that made your stomach drop. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, nails digging into fabric, as the world narrowed down to the heat of his lips and the strength in his arms.
Outside, the faint echo of footsteps from the hallway reminded you both of reality—but here, now, in the thick tension of the room, it might as well not exist.
Your body was on fire, your mind screaming at you to stop, to slow down—but you couldn’t, not with the way he was looking at you, not with the way his hands held you as if you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
“Roomie!” You heard Wanda’s happy voice sing from outside your door, your head turning toward the door as Bucky’s lips fell to your neck, like he’d starve without your skin in his mouth.
“Studying!” You meekly called back, your voice cracking at the way his teeth nipped at your ear.
“Human anatomy,” he murmured into your ear, the words low, rough, teasing, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat despite yourself.
You reluctantly nudged him back, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “You have to go.”
“I have nowhere better to be than here, Specs,” he murmured, voice low, a dangerous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You feel like explaining what we’re doing in here behind a locked door?” Your voice wavered, part accusation, part flustered panic.
For the first time that night, you saw the cogs in his mind turning—the potential explanations, the justifications, and the sudden intrusion of reason threatening to break the spell. He let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away the intensity of the moment.
Your gaze drifted, unbidden, to the curve of his sweatpants, the evidence of his arousal impossible to ignore. Heat pooled in your stomach, your mouth going dry as the reality of him—right here, so close, so impossibly tangible—hit you like a punch.
Your chest heaved, matching his, the heat of the moment still lingering in the space between you. Sweat clung to your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, letting your racing hearts set the pace.
Finally, he straightened, running a hand down his neck, eyes dark but softened. “Okay,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant. “I’ll… sneak out.”
You blinked, “Sneak out?”
“You’re right, too many questions and they’re probably drunk anyway,” he murmured, glancing toward the door, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But… I’ll be around, Specs. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”
Your lips parted, words faltering, but all you could do was nod, feeling the echo of his presence linger long after he slipped toward the door, leaving the room heavy with warmth—and possibility.
You sat on your bed, chest still heaving, fingers lingering on the edge of the comforter as your mind replayed every brush of skin, every tug of clothing, every whispered breath. Minutes passed in silence, the room heavy with the lingering heat of what had just happened.
Then—your phone buzzed. The screen lit up, startling you in the dim glow of your bedside lamp.
Asshole: don’t ever answer the door like that again unless you know I’m on the other side.
A slow, maniacal grin spread across your lips, teeth catching the light. That smug little message? Definitely deserved a reply.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart hammering as the memory of his hands, his lips, the dark heat in his eyes replayed in your mind. Finally, you typed:
You: noted. asshole.
Days went by.
You were still reeling from what had unfolded in your dorm, the lingering scent of him on your pillow the only proof it had really happened. That little secret—shared just between you and Bucky—thrived in the subtlety, in the way it existed only in the spaces you both occupied.
In Newspaper class, your gaze flicked toward his desk, almost by habit, only to find him already watching you. He chewed on his pencil, canines peeking just enough to remind you of the way he’d nipped at your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine despite the crowded room around you.
Pepper’s words washed over you like background noise, the soundtrack to a scene where the world existed only around you and him. Every glance, every movement replayed in your mind like a film you couldn’t pause.
After class, he was swept away by the boys, leaving your attention to be hijacked by Bob’s insistence that you stop by the photo room. Reality intruded, yanking you out of the lingering haze, though your eyes kept flicking toward where Bucky had just been.
It existed only in two places—your mind, replaying every stolen breath and heated whisper… and your phone, where he’d littered your inbox with messages that made your pulse stutter.
I like that top on you.
Can’t focus on the teacher. only thinking about you.
Say you’ll come over later.
Each text felt like its own spark, warm and dangerous, lighting up your screen in a way that made you want to hide your phone against your chest and grin like an idiot.
The kind of messages no one had ever sent you before.
The kind that made you feel chosen.
And as you walked toward the photo room, the hallway buzzing with the noise of everyone else’s normal lives, you had to force yourself not to unlock your phone again just to reread them.
“You’re really distracted today,” Bob remarked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.
You just grinned, cheeks warming, refusing to shatter the fragile veil of secrecy. The thought of anyone else knowing—the excitement, the thrill—you feared it would vanish like smoke if it escaped. So you let yourself ride it, letting the grin linger a moment longer than necessary.
But then came the doubts—sharp, sudden, uninvited.
How long would Bucky even stay interested?
A guy like him—sure of himself, experienced, wanted—what could you possibly offer that he hadn’t already had a dozen times over?
You tried to replay his words in your head, the way he’d said your name like it meant something, the way his hands steadied you like he’d been waiting—wanting—but the warmth of it wasn’t enough to smother the insecurity flaring up inside you.
It spread quick, licking up your ribs, settling hot beneath your skin.
A reminder: You were new to this. He wasn’t.
And you hated how small that made you feel.
So you wanted to do something.
Something bold.
Something that told Bucky—without a doubt—just how badly you wanted this…just how badly you wanted him.
The thought alone sent your pulse sprinting, but the moment you tried to type anything flirtatious to him, your fingers froze. Every draft sounded either painfully awkward or plain pathetic. There was no middle ground.
You needed help.
Real help.
Someone who knew how to toe the line between subtle and suggestive without combusting from embarrassment.
There was only one person you trusted with that kind of vulnerability.
The only person who held her own secret in your hands…and who could hold yours in hers.
Wanda.
And luck was finally on your side—an away game meant the boys were occupied, and Wanda was holed up in her room nursing an ankle sprain instead of screaming on the sidelines. No roommates barging in, no Bob taunting you, no Natasha grilling you with knowing eyes.
Just you. And Wanda. And the terrifying task of asking for advice on how to flirt with a boy who’d kissed you like you were oxygen.
You padded down the hall, rehearsing what to say—something casual, maybe a joke—before promptly deciding that was impossible. You paused outside her room, inhaled like you were about to enter a courtroom, and knocked gently.
“Come in!” Wanda called, cheerful despite her injury.
You slipped inside. She was sprawled on her bed, ankle propped on a pillow, scrolling through her phone. The second she looked up at you, her brows pulled together.
“You look… panicked,” she said slowly. “What happened?”
Perfect. You didn’t even have to ease into it.
You shut the door behind you, heart pounding.
“Wanda,” you whispered, crossing the room, “I need your help. Like… girl-to-girl help.”
Her eyes widened with interest, her grin growing. “Oh, this is going to be good,” she said, patting the bed. “Tell me everything.”
“I’ll just come right out with it,” you said, nodding like you were bracing for impact. “I kissed Bucky.”
Wanda gaped—a full-body jolt—nearly toppling off her bed.
“What?”
“I know,” you rushed, hands lifting like you were surrendering. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more interested in your brother—”
“Oh, screw my brother,” she cut in, eyes sparkling. “This is so much better!”
“It is?”
“It IS,” she squealed, bouncing in place despite her injured ankle. “I knew something was happening, but you two are so hot and cold I was getting literal whiplash!”
“You and me both,” you muttered, dropping onto the edge of her bed. “So… will you help me text him?”
“Text him about what?”
You felt the heat blooming across your neck immediately—too warm, too obvious. “Well… I wanted him to have something to be excited about after the game tonight.”
Wanda’s jaw fell open, her grin slowly morphing into something wicked.
“Roomie,” she whispered reverently. “I apologize. I was unfamiliar with your game.”
She leaned in, eyes gleaming like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s make Barnes lose his mind.”
Bucky’s whole body throbbed with that familiar, post-game ache—the burn in his shoulders, the pulsing fatigue in his legs, the sting along his ribs where someone had thrown an elbow. Worth it. All of it. They’d blown the other team out of the water, and the bus buzzed with victory chatter: plans for Blip, trash-talk, a couple guys already passing around an aux cord.
But he sat alone, stretched out in his own row, sweat cooling sticky beneath his jersey. His heartbeat hadn’t quite come down—not from the game, but from something else entirely.
He dug through his gym bag, shoving aside shoulder pads and a half-crushed water bottle until his fingers closed around his phone. The screen lit up in the dim aisle, casting a soft glow across his face.
A notification blinked at him.
Specs: how was the game?
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. He unlocked his phone, thumb pausing for half a second—not because he needed to think, but because it felt…good. Like something about this message mattered more than it should.
He typed back:
We won
The typing bubble popped almost instantly.
He exhaled, chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with sprinting up and down a field for two hours. The idea of you, curled up somewhere with your phone in your hands, thinking of him—waiting for him—spread heat through his veins, curling low and addictive.
Another text appeared.
Specs: so you’re in a good mood?
He chuckled under his breath, head tipping back against the stiff bus seat.
Even better now that I have your attention.
The reply barely gave him time to breathe.
Specs: good
Specs: i was looking to have yours for a few minutes
Something kicked low in his stomach—sharp and immediate. He shifted in his seat, fingers already flying.
All yours now
Specs: I’ve been thinking..
Bucky’s throat tightened, thumb tapping the screen slower this time, like he suddenly needed to choose his words with precision.
What have you been thinking about, doll?
The bus droned on around him—teammates laughing, someone yelling about a missed call, music bleeding through cheap speakers—but Bucky only heard the blood rushing in his ears as he waited for whatever you’d say next.
Your fingers tightened around your phone, knuckles blanching as doll echoed through your head in his voice—low, rough, lived-in. It played like a movie trailer, all smoky lighting and slow motion.
Wanda leaned over your shoulder, chin propped in her hand as she read it with you. Her eyes widened, then sparkled with a kind of delighted mischief.
“Damn, Roomie,” she breathed, grinning so hard it nearly split her face. “I don’t even think you need my help. He’s already halfway feral.”
You groaned, burying your face in her pillow before popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t say feral, oh my god.”
“I’m sorry, but he is!” Wanda giggled. “You sent ‘I’ve been thinking’ and the boy basically sat up straighter in another time zone.”
”Okay, what about—”
You began to type.
Across town, Bucky sat up straighter in the velvety stadium seat, the roar of the crowd fading behind him as he read your message. The words hit him like a hand to the chest, breath catching, pupils darkening.
Specs: the way your hands sank into my skin the other night, pulling me closer
Back in your room, Wanda let out a full-bodied howl. “The other night?!”
“Uh—don’t worry about it!” you squeaked, cheeks blazing. You stared at the screen like you could will the typing bubble to life.
And then it appeared.
Asshole: oh yeah?
Asshole: hasn’t left my mind once
Your stomach dropped and lifted at the same time—roller coaster physics and pure adrenaline.
Wanda leaned over again, then choked. “Do you have him saved under ‘Asshole’?”
You slapped your phone to your chest like that might smother the evidence. “It was an accurate label at the time!”
“Roomie,” Wanda said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “I’m starting to think you two might actually destroy each other, and honestly? I support it.”
“What do I say now?” you whispered.
Wanda grinned like an agent of chaos. “Something that’ll make him lose every brain cell in his jock head. So… what do you want him thinking about?”
The message hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.
His eyes dragged over each word slowly, like his brain needed time to register just how bold you were being. His breath stuttered. A low burn crawled down his spine, pooling hot and heavy as he shifted in the velvet seat.
He hovered forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand gripping the fabric of his warmup pants in a desperate effort to ground himself. The bus felt too warm, too close, too loud—even though no one was paying him any attention.
Then he re-read it.
Specs: i need to feel that again. Need to feel how desperate you are to touch me, how hard you breathe when you’ve got me right where you want me. How hard I’ll breathe when you climb on top of me
His pulse jumped.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. He could swear he could still taste you on his tongue. The memory of your breath against his jaw the other night flared white-hot.
Another shift. Another subtle, futile attempt at adjusting himself without drawing attention. He swallowed, throat dry as chalk.
If he’d been in a good mood after winning, this… this sent him skyrocketing into another universe entirely.
His fingers trembled with the effort to keep his reply coherent.
And somewhere miles away, Wanda stared at you in stunned awe.
“…Okay,” she whispered, “I take it back. You might be the one who destroys him.”
“Am I doing okay?” You nervously chewed on your lip.
“Roomie, I think I’m into you right now.”
You barked a laugh, almost forgetting the anticipation of his next message.
Asshole: how quickly can you get to my dorm?
You’d created a tornado of chaos in your room, clothes flung across every surface as you hunted for something—anything—that matched the moment you were marching toward. Every shirt felt too casual. Every sweater felt too sweet. Every bra felt too innocent… except the one.
The good one.
The one with the tags still attached, sheer fabric whispering against your fingertips as you pulled it on. It pinched slightly as it settled over your chest, but it made your silhouette look sinful in the mirror—so you ignored the sting and let the thrill tighten low in your stomach.
Thank God you’d done an everything-shower the night before. Your skin was still soft, still carrying the faint scent of the lotion you’d taken your time rubbing in. You checked your reflection one last time, breath unsteady, and grabbed your jacket.
The night air slapped you the moment you stepped outside. A sharp chill bit through your jeans, tugging a shiver out of you, but your pulse didn’t slow. If anything, it beat harder—thick and humming under your skin—as you crossed campus toward his dorm.
Every step was a countdown.
There was a thrill rushing through you that you didn’t recognize at first—a nervous, electric anticipation that soaked into your bones. Before Bucky, you’d thought the most you could feel about sex was the urgency for it to be over. A thing you endured more than you enjoyed.
But tonight?
Tonight you walked through the cold with goosebumps decorating your arms at the thought of it beginning.
At the thought of him.
Seconds passed between your knock and the moment the door yanked open—Bucky filling the frame, chest rising, hair damp from showering off the sweat. His eyes swept over you in one slow, stunning pass, and whatever he saw made his jaw tighten. Before you could breathe, his hand wrapped around your wrist and he pulled you inside.
The last time you’d stepped into this room, you’d come with one objective: finish your pitch.
Tonight, you had something else to finish.
“Anyone home?” you murmured, watching him flip the lock with a quiet click that vibrated straight through you.
“Steve went to Blip with the rest of the team.” He turned back to you, gaze sharpening, zeroing in like he’d suddenly remembered what hunger felt like. “I had no idea you had that in you, Specs.”
Be confident, Wanda’s voice echoed in your skull like a spell.
You lifted your chin, pulse tripping but your voice steady. “Well… you never asked.”
“I’ll regret that forever,”
Bucky pressed you against the front door, his hands sliding to your hips, fingers curling against the skin beneath your jacket. His lips found yours with an urgency that stole your breath, tongues tangling in a heated dance as you pressed into him, soft gasps punctuating the rhythm.
Then, with a smooth, effortless motion, he dipped lower, scooping you up. Your legs curled around his waist instinctively as he backed you against the solid wood, holding you close. The world outside the dorm faded, leaving nothing but the heat between you and the thrum of your own racing heart.
Bucky’s grip on you never wavered as he lifted you higher, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. The warmth of his body pressed against yours made your pulse spike, and the steady, confident rhythm of his steps sent a shiver down your spine.
“You’re insane,” you murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless.
“Only for you,” he whispered back, a low grin brushing against your ear as he carried you through the dorm. The hallway seemed impossibly long, every step a mix of tension and anticipation, your legs tightening around his waist as if to anchor yourself to him.
When he reached his room, Bucky didn’t pause. He kicked the door closed with a swift motion, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he lowered you gently onto the bed, hovering above you, lips finding yours again with a renewed intensity. Your hands fisted in his shirt as the world narrowed to the heat of his gaze, the brush of his fingers across your skin, and the intoxicating closeness that left you dizzy with desire.
“Had me nearly shaking on that bus,” His husky voice spoke in your ear, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “I need to feel you, doll,”
His hands slid up your sides, brushing against the edge of your bra as he lowered himself slightly, chest warm against yours. Every brush of his skin set sparks along your nerve endings, leaving you trembling with anticipation.
“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” he whispered, eyes dark with need, lips brushing yours in a teasing, dangerous half-kiss.
“Show me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling against his.
“First…all of this is in the way.”
You shifted, letting him pull your sweater off, leaving you in just the bra. His eyes roamed your chest, and a low, guttural gulp slipped past his lips. The way he looked at you—like he’d never seen anything so perfect—made your heart stutter.
“Fuck…Specs, all for me?”
You met his gaze, pulse hammering in your ears. “All for you,” you whispered.
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, lips barely brushing yours. He didn’t rush. Not yet. Instead, he let his forehead press against yours, breathing mingling with yours, fingers trailing lightly along the curve of your sides, just enough to make your skin tingle. Every inch of him radiated heat, and you could feel it pressing into you, a magnetic pull you didn’t want to resist.
“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in fleeting, teasing touches.
Your knees went weak as his hands trailed lower, fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans. You tried to steady your breathing, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering in your ears, echoing the ache between your thighs.
He smirked against your lips, sensing your reaction. “Patience, Specs. I could stay here all night, making you guess…making you wait.”
You shivered, pressed closer, heart thundering. “I don’t know if I can wait,” you whispered, voice shaking.
“Good,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Because I don’t plan to.”
And then his lips captured yours fully, slow and demanding, leaving no space for thought—just the heat, the need, and the undeniable pull of two people finally giving in to what had been building between them for months.
“Want every part of you…” he murmured, letting his hands linger on your sides before pulling away just enough to tease.
You tried to steady yourself, heart pounding, as he began pulling off his own shirt, revealing the muscles flexing with every small movement, the lines of his chest and arms stark in the dim light of the room. You couldn’t help but stare, heart hammering, heat pooling low in your stomach.
Every movement he made seemed to demand your attention—the way his shoulders shifted, the curve of his biceps, the sharp line of his jaw catching the soft light. You felt drawn in, powerless to look away, and the tension between you twisted your stomach in ways you weren’t entirely prepared for.
You tried to focus on anything else—his messy hair, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw—but it only made your pulse race faster. Every brush of his hand against your arm, every step he took closer, seemed to ignite something inside you. You could feel it in the way your body warmed, the subtle hitch in your breath, the way your knees went weak, and it was all because of him.
There was no pretending anymore; your attention, your desire, was entirely his.
“Not leaving anything between us tonight,” he whispered, leaning close again, breath hot against your ear. “You feel that?”
Your knees went weak at the intensity, and you could only nod, biting your lip as he inched closer, pressing his chest to yours, fingers brushing lightly over your arms and shoulders.
The room was silent except for your rapid breaths, and the tension between you both was so thick it felt like it could pull you under.
“Listen to me,” he muttered, his voice rough, edged with restraint. “If at any point you want to stop, you tell me, okay? We’ll go only as far as you want to.”
“I have no intention of stopping,” you breathed, heat pooling low in your chest.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, a low growl of approval in his throat.
The words were like oxygen, filling you with a mix of heat and confidence. You pressed closer, needing him as much as you wanted to be needed, every heartbeat echoing in the silence between your ragged breaths.
He paused, letting his hands linger at your hips, giving you a moment to catch your breath. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice low and steady, almost reverent. His fingers traced the sides of your jeans before slowly tugging at the waistband, sliding them down with careful, deliberate movements.
You felt a rush of heat, a mixture of anticipation and nerves, as he settled closer, positioning himself between your legs—not rushing, just holding space with a steady presence. His eyes met yours, searching, asking without words if you were okay.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your thigh. “Tell me if it’s too much. Just… let me be here with you.”
You nodded, chest rising and falling with excitement and nerves. He smiled, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, and lowered his mouth to the inside of your leg. His fingers delicately thumbed you through the fabric of your panties, mouth pressing kisses against your skin.
Then, without warning, his forefingers hooked around the band, pulling slowly. You lifted your hips to allow him to pull your panties off, a low sound in the back of his throat as he kept his eyes on you. His tongue swiped against your heat, your head falling back against his pillow. He made another stroke, sucking gently against your bud.
He kept that pace for a moment before picking up his pace, jaw working as he slid his tongue into you, moans vibrating against you. Your fingers curled around his comforter as he swirled around the hood of your pussy, quickening in short laps.
“Fuck,” You whispered, gasping for air at the sensation you’d never felt before.
His finger hooked into you as his tongue worked, slowly pumping in and out of you to keep the pace of his mouth. He began to devour you, motivated by the sound of your moans getting louder.
“You like that, baby?” He murmured.
You couldn’t respond—words had fallen short as the sound of him licking and sucking enveloped your mind.
“No one’s ever touched you like this,” he continued—not a question, but a certainty, spoken with a reverence that made your stomach twist. He bit the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, claiming inch by inch. “No one’s ever had you like this.”
“And no one else will,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with something possessive and hungry. His hand slid up your waist, steadying you, grounding you. “You hear me?”
“Yes,” You yelped as he lapped again, licking a long stripe against your slit and curling his tongue as he reached the top. “God, yes,”
Your stomach tightened, a fire igniting inside you as the sensation built, overwhelming in its intensity. He didn’t pause, didn’t slow—just held you, guiding, grounding, and drawing every shiver from you.
Your eyelids squeezed shut, breath hitching in rapid bursts, heart hammering in your chest as the sticky hot pleasure struck like lightning, a loud moan escaping your mouth as you felt your release arrive.
“That’s it,” you could feel the satisfaction in his words. “Come right on my mouth, doll,”
You obliged, legs beginning to shake against his face, white behind your eyelids as you rode the wave of sheer pleasure.
He didn’t bother wiping the glistening sheen from his chin as he lifted himself up to press a kiss to your lips, hunger evident in his eyes as his hands worked to pull the sweatpants off his body. In your haze, you glanced over to see the way his cock sprung free from the waistband, bobbing back up to slap his stomach.
You couldn’t help but feel the way your mouth dried. Somewhere in the low light, you heard a packet rip open, latex rolling over skin.
“You okay, baby?” He murmured as he climbed on top of you. “Tell me you want this,”
“I want this,”
He smirked, arm muscles twitching as he settled between your legs. “I want to hear how much you want it,”
“Badly,” You groaned, nails dragging up his forearms. “W-Want it really badly, Bucky,”
“There it is—say my name again,”
“Bucky,” Your hand snaked up his neck, pulling him closer to you, “Please,”
“What a good girl,” He cooed, dipping down so that the soft flesh of his head brushed your throbbing core. Your breath was uneven as you kept your eyes on his.
His muscles didn’t give way when he continued to lower, tip pressing and stretching into you. A groan escaped his lips at the way you tightened around him, swallowing him whole.
“This okay?” He breathed, lips brushing yours from the proximity.
“Keep going,” you pleaded, desperate to feel the way he filled your hole.
That’s all he needed—confirmation to fully enter you, permission to split your folds with his twitching cock. His hips began to move with fervor, sliding in and out with ease from the remnants of your peak. Your nails dug into his back, head tilting back even further in response to his quickening pace.
It didn’t take long before his thrusts became hasty, like you were a missing puzzle piece. You couldn’t stop the way your breath turned into full-on moans, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. The way his face twisted in pleasure after each one gave you enough reassurance that they were music to his ears.
“So fucking tight,” he murmured, lips against your neck as he buried his head in your shoulder in an effort to be closer to you. “You were made for me,”
His words ignited flames in your stomach, licking at your core. You’d be more verbal if you weren’t in a state of utter euphoria.
You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, forcing him harder into you as you clawed at his back.
“Keep doing that and I’ll be done for,” he groaned, angling his hips so that he took you even deeper.
You shuddered slightly. “Want you to fill me up,”
“Jesus Christ,”
His thrusts became sloppier, breathing more ragged. The sound of skin slapping filled the air around you as your ears began to ring—you were about to come crashing down again.
You both came undone, in tandem and loudly. His grunting was labored as he snapped his hips into you a final time, seed spilling into the latex around your clenched walls. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as he pulled out of you, settling beside you on the crumpled comforter.
After a moment, he stood, stalking toward the bathroom to discard the evidence—returning with a washcloth. Delicately, he wiped you clean, the warmth of the fabric comforting your aching core.
He pulled on his sweatpants before handing you the sweater you arrived in, looking slightly reluctant to do so. Once you pulled it over your head, he offered you a blanket once he glanced at the way your legs softly shook.
“How was that? Are you okay, doll?”
His voice came out low, warm, almost tender in the dim light.
You nodded, eyes fluttering, still half-lidded and hazy. Breath shaky. Muscles molten.
A soft huff of laughter left him. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet.”
You managed a crooked smile. “Guess you fucked the words out of me.”
Fire sparked in his eyes again—amusement, pride, something darker curling behind it. His grin edged smug. “Such a dirty girl, Specs.”
“Just because I’m into school doesn’t mean I’m a prude,” you shot back, breathless but not defeated.
The mattress dipped as he sat down beside you, back hitting the wall, long legs stretched out. The shift jostled you slightly, bringing you closer to the heat of him.
“Oh, no,” he said, head tilting as he looked at you like he was replaying every second just passed. “The way you were texting me? You’re far from a prude.”
You let your fingers trace absently along the sheets. “What can I say? I like to write.”
He chuckled under his breath, a low sound that vibrated in his chest. “I’m hoping there’s more where that came from.”
There it was—quiet, unhurried, but unmistakable.
A request. An invitation. A desire for more, spoken like a secret he trusted you with.
And you were grateful.
Grateful that he said it first. Grateful that the moment didn’t demand answers you weren’t ready to give. Because just because he’d growled possessive things into your skin didn’t mean it was an oath or a promise.
“I can practically hear you thinking,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his. “What’s going on up there?”
“What…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the words that kept slipping through your fingers. “What do we do next?”
His lips twitched. “Soon as you catch your breath, we do it again.”
A surprised laugh broke out of you—warm, involuntary. “No, I mean… what does this mean? For—”
“For us?” he finished, voice low but steady. You nodded, grateful he intercepted your floundering.
“You tell me,” he said. “And please don’t say you came here thinking it would be a one-time thing.”
“I didn’t,” you blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I just didn’t know if you did.”
He let out a quiet breath, almost something like disbelief that you could even imagine otherwise. Then, softly but without hesitation:
“Specs, I’m not going anywhere.”
Your gaze lifted to his—eyes meeting through the slight fog on your glasses. You searched his expression for the usual smirk, the cocky half-grin, any trace of teasing or bravado.
But there was none.
Just certainty.
“Me neither.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
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A/N: AHHH OMG I LOVED WRITING THIS HOLY SHIT. Finally;)
Main tag list: @flockoff-featherface @avgdestitute @loganficsonly @the-salty-asian
Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 21.2k
Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes
Author’s Note: i had ZERO idea this fic would get as much love as it has but truly, deeply - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all so much for your kind words and praise of this story. i was so taken aback so many people loved this fic but truthfully, i am so utterly happy that you all enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i see all of your comments, your reblogs, likes, and follows...thank you for every bit of it. i hope this final part lives up to expectations!
let me know if you would like to see a fic about the story of bucky and this universe's original f!detective falling in love. i was itching to possibly explore that as an offshoot of this main story, and would love to hear what you all would think.
Naturally, she begged Stephen Strange for close to two weeks straight to send her back home. Every morning, every evening, she showed up at the Sanctum like a woman possessed, like some fanatic seeking absolution at a shrine that would never grant it. At first, he had been gentle in his refusals, almost pitying in the way he'd greet her at those impossibly tall doors. The ancient wood would swing open before she even knocked, as if the building itself recognized her desperation.
He'd pour her wine—always the same vintage, always in the same crystal goblet — and sit across from her in that cavernous, drafty room. His voice remained maddeningly calm as he explained, with the patience of someone who had to do this often as of late, that he had seen all the timelines. Every thread of possibility stretching out like spider silk across the multiverse, each one gleaming with its own terrible inevitability. And in every single one, every one, she was meant to stay here. It was her fate, he insisted, written in the stars themselves with ink made of cosmic certainty.
The first few times, she tried desperately to believe him. Clung to the possibility that maybe this cosmic joke had some deeper meaning, some grand purpose that would make the suffocating displacement worth enduring. But by the fifth repetition of that same tired mantra, delivered with the same infuriating serenity while she slowly unraveled in front of him, something inside her finally snapped.
Rage cracked through her despair like lightning splitting a storm cloud, white-hot and cleansing. She hurled the wine glass he'd poured her against the ancient stone wall, watching the crystal shatter into a thousand glittering pieces. Crimson liquid streaked down the grey stone like arterial spray, like the blood she wished she could spill to make any of this real.
The silence that followed was deafening. Louder than any scream, more damning than any accusation. Even the floating books had stilled in their endless dance.
She regretted it instantly, not for him, but for herself. For letting her desperation show so nakedly, for proving that she was exactly as broken as she felt. The shame burned hotter than the rage had, settling in her throat like swallowed glass. So she cleaned it up, piece by jagged piece. Not with a flick of his wrist or one of those glowing golden sigils he conjured so effortlessly, but with her own trembling hands. A dustpan and a broom materialized when she asked, the only magic he'd apparently grant her, glass crunching beneath her shoes like the sound of her composure finally giving way. Each shard was a reminder of how little control she had over anything in this godforsaken world, how powerless she was against the cosmic forces that had deposited her here like unwanted cargo.
He didn't stop her. He just watched with those ancient eyes that held something that might have been sympathy if she'd been in the mood to accept it, if she hadn't been drowning in her own mortification.
By the second week, Strange's patience had worn gossamer-thin. His voice lost its careful softness, his gaze its practiced sympathy. He started cutting her off before she even made it through the front door, sometimes not even letting her step over the threshold. The ornate brass handle would turn cold under her palm as invisible wards sealed the entrance against her.
"No," he'd say, sharp and final as a tomb sealing shut, like he was slamming a lock she couldn't see and would never be able to break. To his credit, he never barred her entirely, never cast her out with the kind of dramatic magical barriers she'd seen in movies, but his refusals had become absolute as gravity itself.
She tried everything: bargaining, pleading, offering anything she thought might tempt a sorcerer. Favors that made her voice shake with humiliation, secrets that weren't hers to give, her loyalty, her soul if he wanted it…anything to make him understand that she was suffocating here, that every breath felt like drowning. But the answer was always the same, delivered with the finality of a death sentence. No.
Eventually, she stopped going. What was the point of begging a man who claimed to see the future if he wouldn't even acknowledge her present agony?
Her apartment became her entire universe. Four walls that seemed to shrink a little more each day, the silence so thick it felt like cotton stuffed in her ears. The kind of isolation that made her question if she still existed at all, if she hadn't simply dissolved into the space between molecules and forgotten to notice.
She only ventured out when her fridge was completely bare and her stomach had moved beyond hunger into a hollow, gnawing ache that couldn't be ignored. The two-block trudge to the corner store felt like walking to her execution every time, hood pulled up to hide her face from a world that saw someone else when they looked at her. The cashier, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, always smiled and asked how her day was going. But each time, the simple human kindness hit her like a physical blow. How do you explain that you're not real? That you're wearing someone else's life like an ill-fitting costume?
Sam's calls lit up her phone with increasing frequency and desperation. But she let them all go to voicemail, watching his name flash on the screen until it faded to black. What was she supposed to say? That she was unraveling thread by thread? That she had no plan, no identity, no compelling reason to step outside her door ever again? That every morning felt like waking up in someone else's grave?
So she sat. In the same spot on her thrift-store couch, a mustard yellow monstrosity that she secretly found charming, with whatever liquor she could afford. Sometimes whiskey that burned her throat raw and left her gasping like she was learning to breathe all over again. Sometimes vodka that numbed everything until she felt like she was floating in formaldehyde. Sometimes something sweeter that she always regretted when the headache hit the next morning, pounding behind her eyes like her brain was trying to escape her skull.
She drank and wallowed and thought about what a pathetic creature she'd become, how disappointed everyone back home would be if they could see her now. The old her, the real her, not this displaced shadow wearing someone else's name like an ill-fitting coat, would have slapped her across the face and dragged her into the sunlight by her hair if necessary. At least, she liked to think that, since she knew herself. She would have forced her to fight, to live, to stop drowning in self-pity like some tragic heroine in a bad romance novel.
But here? She wasn't anyone at all. No friends to worry about her except Sam, who barely knew her. No job to miss her — hell, she didn't even exist on paper in this world. No history to anchor her to anything real, no shared memories to prove she'd ever mattered to anyone. She existed in this place only because a man in a red cape had told her the universe demanded it, and even that felt like the cruelest joke of all.
No one called except Sam, who refused to give up on her despite receiving nothing but silence in return, his voicemails growing more concerned and frustrated with each passing day. And certainly not Bucky. She hadn't seen him since that night when everything had exploded between them like a grenade going off in a crowded room.
His absence gnawed at her like an infected wound—the kind that you can't stop poking even though you know it only makes the pain worse. She tried to convince herself she didn't blame him for staying away, that his absence was probably a mercy for both of them. But late at night, when the whiskey had stripped away her defenses, she found herself listening for his footsteps in the hallway, imagining his knock at her door.
The worst part was that she was beginning to regret the things she'd said, the calculated venom she'd spit in his direction like some wounded animal lashing out at anything within reach. In her rage, she'd slashed at wounds that weren't hers to touch, had weaponized his trauma against him like she had any right to judge his pain. Like she understood the first thing about what it meant to claw your way back from being unmade.
Maybe that’s why she was secretly hoping he would come by again. Because she felt guilty. Ashamed of how she acted, what she had said to him. A man grieving the loss of someone who looked like her.
After she'd started reading about his history online, scrolling through article after article until her eyes burned and her chest felt hollow with horror, she finally understood why her words had struck bone so deeply. HYDRA's systematic torture, documented in clinical language that somehow made it worse. The decades of brainwashing and violation, his mind carved up and reshaped like clay in the hands of monsters. The impossibly long climb back to being James Buchanan Barnes instead of their perfect weapon, each step forward probably feeling like walking through broken glass.
He had been cruel too, yes, but he was allowed to be wounded. He had earned his pain through suffering she couldn't even fathom. She had trespassed into his grief and made it bleed fresh again, like ripping stitches from a barely healed wound with her bare hands.
And yet, another part of her still bristled with resentment that she couldn't quite shake. Why was she the one paying for sins she'd never committed? Why was she the ghost forced to atone for a love that belonged to someone else, someone who'd had the privilege of living and dying in her own skin?
Late at night, when the whiskey had loosened the tight grip she kept on her thoughts and the city had settled into that peculiar late night quiet that felt like the world holding its breath, she found herself wondering. Imagining.
How had they fallen in love, the her of this world and Bucky Barnes?
He was so closed off, so heavily armored against the world that even sitting in the same room with him felt like trying to approach a wild animal, all coiled tension and barely contained violence. How had she, someone so utterly ordinary, managed to breach the fortress walls of a man like him? Especially when he was still clawing his way out of the Winter Soldier's shadow, still learning how to be human again instead of a weapon with a heartbeat.
She couldn't picture it. Couldn't imagine what that kind of intimacy would have looked like between them, what quiet moments or shared traumas might have cracked them both open enough to let love take root in the spaces beneath his scars. He was tortured, stoic, and carrying decades of guilt. What had he seen in her that made him willing to risk his heart again? What had she seen in him beyond the obvious?
Well. His attractiveness was easy to understand. He was devastatingly, unfairly beautiful in the way that made her chest tight just looking at him, like her body had forgotten how to process oxygen properly. That much was obvious to anyone with working eyes and a pulse. Maybe that had been enough at first, the simple animal attraction that could bridge any gap.
But no, not for the kind of love she'd witnessed in his eyes when he looked at her that night. Not the way Sam spoke about it, like it was something sacred that had been ripped away too soon, leaving wounds that would never properly heal. That kind of love required more than just physical hunger, it required the kind of trust that felt impossible to rebuild once it had been shattered.
The truth was unavoidable, as much as it unsettled her to carry it like a weight in her chest: he had loved the other her. Deeply and fiercely. And though she couldn't begin to understand how or why, though she seriously doubted they would have ever chosen each other in any other life, she couldn't shake the crushing weight of being the unwilling keeper of that ghost.
The unbearable heaviness of being loved for someone she wasn't and could never become, no matter how hard she tried to fill the shape of a woman who no longer existed.
The knock came just past noon on a Tuesday, sharp and insistent against the thin wood of her door. She ignored it, just as she had ignored the last five calls from Sam, letting the sound fade into the background noise of her misery like everything else that demanded her attention. But the knocking didn't stop. Whoever was on the other side had either infinite patience or terminal stubbornness, and they seemed perfectly content to keep hammering away until the door gave up or she did.
Finally, with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest, she shoved herself off the couch. The movement disturbed the half-empty glass of whiskey that had been sweating rings into her coffee table, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She shuffled to the door in yesterday's clothes, or maybe the day before that. Time had stopped meaning much when every day bled into the next without distinction.
When she cracked the door open, Yelena Belova was leaning against the doorframe like she owned the building. She was dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen actual combat, though she knew the woman had stories to tell that would probably give her nightmares. She was chewing on something that looked suspiciously like beef jerky, her dark eyes conducting a thorough inventory of the disaster standing before her.
"You look horrible," Yelena announced flatly, her Russian accent making the insult sound almost clinical. Then, without waiting for an invitation or even a response, she shouldered past her and entered the apartment. Her confident presence immediately made the space feel smaller and more pathetic, like a spotlight illuminating every bit of accumulated failure.
"Smells horrible in here too. Like sad person and cheap alcohol." Yelena's nose wrinkled as she surveyed the damage. "Are you sure you are an adult woman and not a teenage boy having a breakdown? Because this level of pathetic is usually reserved for people who think dying their hair black is a personality trait."
She blinked, still processing the fact that someone had actually invaded her carefully constructed fortress of solitude. "Excuse me?"
"I said you look horrible. Like you fought death and lost. Multiple times." Yelena plopped down on the couch without ceremony, making herself at home with the kind of casual audacity that probably served her well in her line of work. She picked up the abandoned whiskey glass, sniffed it with obvious disgust, and held it away from her face like it might be radioactive.
"This is no way to live. Sam tells me you are being... how do you say this gently..." She paused, clearly savoring the moment. "Pathetic. He is not wrong, but he is too nice to say it properly. I prefer a direct approach."
Her jaw clenched, defensive anger flaring despite her exhaustion. It felt good to feel anything that wasn't numbness or despair. "He said that?"
Yelena shrugged, already making herself at home by propping her combat boots up on the coffee table. "He said you were sad, mopey, hiding away like a babushka with forty cats waiting for death. I say pathetic. Much more efficient word. Gets to point faster, uses fewer syllables."
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to muster some dignity from somewhere. "I'm not hiding."
"You are hiding. But you are also sulking, drinking cheap liquor that probably tastes like paint thinner, and avoiding life." Yelena's grin was sharp as a blade, but there was something almost kind in her expression. "You know what we called that in the Red Room? Tuesday. But it gets boring very quickly, and then you die. Much less romantic than movies make it seem. Usually involves more crying, less dramatic music."
Despite everything — the depression, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion that she had been dealing with for so long — a laugh almost bubbled up from her throat. It was the first genuine emotion she'd felt in weeks that wasn't some variation of despair. But she caught herself and stopped, not quite ready to let go of her misery just yet.
"Why are you here? Not to be rude, but you don't actually know me. We've never even met."
"Because Sam told me about you, and you remind me of myself once upon a time." Yelena's posture shifted slightly, her playful demeanor taking on a more serious edge. "I also sat in a dark apartment for months, drinking whatever I could find, waiting for the world to swallow me whole so I wouldn't have to make an effort anymore. But the world does not care about your feelings. It moves on with or without you. You either move with it, or you rot in place like forgotten fruit."
Something darker crossed over her face then, and her gaze dropped to the floor when she spoke again, her voice softer than before. More vulnerable than she'd ever heard from the woman who seemed to treat everything like a joke or a challenge.
"My sister, Natasha, she admired you very much. Always talked highly of you when your name came up. Said you were a good detective — smart, stubborn in the right ways." She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "And Bucky... he is in pain. Real pain, not just ‘sad-man-with-dark-past’ pain that looks good in movies. He doesn't talk about it, but I see it in how he moves, how he doesn't sleep, how he looks at empty spaces like someone should be there. I think he wants to see you, talk to you, but he doesn't know how to do that without feeling like he's betraying her memory. You wear the face of the woman he loved and lost. This is not an easy thing to just brush aside like crumbs."
The words hit her like a physical blow, and she had to look away, her throat suddenly tight with emotions she didn't want to name. The shame was the worst part. Knowing that her pain was nothing compared to what he was carrying. That her suffering was largely self-inflicted while his had been carved into him by forces beyond his control.
Yelena sat back, her casual demeanor sliding back into place like armor, but the vulnerability remained in her eyes. "So. I have a proposition for you, dead woman walking. You used to be a detective, yes? Sam says you did investigations, problem-solving, all of that smart brain work that makes normal people feel stupid?"
"Yeah..." she managed, her voice smaller than she'd intended. "Something like that."
"Good. Then maybe you stop drinking yourself into an early grave and help us instead." Yelena's grin returned, sharp and challenging. "The New Avengers could use extra eyes on a case that is making us all look like idiots. There is a criminal running around the city—very slippery, like a greased rat with nine lives and excellent lawyers. We track him, we lose him, we track again, we lose again. It is becoming personally offensive to our professional reputation. You like puzzles, yes? Maybe you can solve this puzzle and prove you are not completely useless."
Her eyebrows rose despite herself. "Are you seriously trying to recruit me?"
Yelena laughed, the sound genuine and surprisingly warm. "No, no, you cannot be an Avenger. You are not nearly traumatized enough, and you have no tragic backstory involving dead parents or government experiments. But you can be an associate. Consultant. What is the word... temp? Yes, like an office temp but with more violence and worse health insurance." Her expression turned mock-serious. "You think I am here for your winning personality and subpar hygiene? Please. I am here because you might actually be useful for once here, in this sad, little life you seem to like to wallow in."
Despite everything – the sarcasm, the barbed words — she knew Yelena was being genuine. That she was going out of her way to try to help her find purpose here. Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "You're absolutely unbelievable."
"Thank you," Yelena preened, as if it were the highest possible compliment. She swung her boots off the table and stood with fluid grace, picking up the whiskey glass and tossing it into the sink where it landed with a definitive clink.
"So. Finish your pity party in the next five minutes. Put on shoes that do not smell like despair. Take a shower too. You stink like a sad person and broken dreams. We will leave soon."
"Yelena, I..." she trailed off, not sure how to voice her biggest fear, the thing that had been eating at her since that night like acid in her veins. "As much as I want to help, I'm not sure Barnes wants me anywhere near him right now. We...it won’t end well."
Yelena stopped mid-stride and turned back to her, fixing her with a look that was sharp enough to cut glass. "He wants you around. He just doesn't know how to say that without feeling guilty about wanting it. Just...be nice to him, yes? He is like a kicked puppy right now, and you are the only one holding treats he actually wants.”
The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape that snapped restlessly in the autumn breeze, the plastic barrier looking fragile and inadequate against the weight of what had happened here. The building itself was nothing special, just another gutted warehouse on the industrial edge of the city, all broken windows and rust stains. But the dark blood spatters on the concrete told a much more sinister story. They looked black in the afternoon light, like spilled ink. Violence always left its mark, and this place reeked of it.
The New Avengers were already spread across the perimeter when she and Yelena arrived, each of them occupying their own sphere of focused tension. John Walker stood rigidly near the main entrance, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene with military precision, jaw set in the kind of hard line that suggested he took these failures personally. His entire posture screamed authority, but there was something brittle underneath it, like he was constantly nervous.
Alexei was pacing restlessly near the loading dock, his massive frame radiating barely contained energy as he muttered in Russian about how boring crime scenes were when all the action was already over.
Ava, the Ghost, kept herself close to the shadows cast by the building's overhang, her eyes sharp and restless as they tracked every movement, every detail. She looked like she was cataloging threats that hadn't even materialized yet, catching things the rest of them would miss.
And then there was Bucky.
He was crouched near what looked like the primary kill site, his metal fingers tracing the air just above a particularly dark stain on the concrete. He was careful not to disturb anything but clearly reading the story written in blood and scuff marks, his enhanced senses picking up details that would be invisible to anyone else. When he looked up the moment Yelena led her forward, his expression shifted instantly from focused professional assessment to something softer and infinitely more complicated.
Recognition, maybe, or regret. The kind of look that made her chest tighten with emotions she didn't want to examine too closely, like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her ribcage.
"What is she doing here?" His voice wasn't harsh exactly, but it carried enough weight to make her instinctively take a half-step back, as if his words were a physical force pushing against her.
Before she could even attempt an answer, or even figure out what the right answer even was in this impossible situation, Yelena rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation and stepped smoothly between them like a referee of sorts.
"Save the dramatics for someone who cares, Barnes. I dragged her here because she was rotting in her apartment like a sad raccoon in a garbage can, and we need all the help we can get in this case. So deal with it like a grown-up, or I will make you deal with it."
Personally, she was taking slight offense to being likened to vermin, but she decided it wasn't the time to bring that up around this particular group of people who were all looking at her suspiciously.
Bucky's jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, but he didn't push the issue further. His gaze lingered on her face for another moment before he turned back to the crime scene, but she could feel the weight of his attention even when he wasn't looking directly at her.
Walker was the one who finally broke the tension, gesturing toward the scene with crisp military efficiency. "The murder happened three days ago. Victim was Carter Doyle, sixty-seven, retired SHIELD informant living under a protective alias. Someone walked him out of his apartment building at approximately two in the morning, brought him here, execution-style killing. Single gunshot to the head, close range. Neighbors reported hearing nothing unusual, saw no suspicious vehicles or individuals."
"Doyle was instrumental in helping SHIELD track down HYDRA sleeper cells in the aftermath of the organization's public exposure," Ava added quietly, her voice carrying the kind of precise neutrality that suggested she'd memorized every detail of the file. She was still scanning the scene like she could somehow see the crime playing out in real-time. "Every victim so far that’s died recently around the city follows the exact same pattern. All ex-SHIELD assets, all directly involved in HYDRA hunting operations during the cleanup years."
Alexei clapped his massive hands together with sudden enthusiasm, like someone had just announced an exciting new game. "So! We have mysterious killer man with grudge and good planning skills who likes to pick off heroes and do-gooders. HYDRA fingerprints all over everything. Very classic setup, like old spy movie but with better special effects!"
Her stomach dropped at the word, that familiar cold wash of dread flooding her system like ice water in her veins. HYDRA. It always came back to them somehow even in this world, like a poison that had seeped so deep into the universe’s foundation that you could never fully scrub it out. Though, she supposed evil existed in every crevice of existence as long as life existed in those pockets.
She found herself moving before she'd consciously decided to investigate, her detective instincts kicking in despite herself. The familiarity of it was almost comforting—the methodical process of reading a scene, of letting the evidence tell its story without the messy complications of human emotion getting in the way.
She crouched low near the edge of the kill site, running her fingers lightly over the concrete around a bullet hole that had been punched clean through a wooden shipping crate. The cold reality of the violence sent a chill racing up her spine. This wasn't a random act or a crime of passion. This was execution, clean and professional.
"So we're not just chasing a killer," she murmured, more to herself than to the group, but her voice carried in the warehouse's acoustic emptiness. "We're chasing someone who's systematically cleaning up HYDRA's past. Erasing loose ends."
The silence that followed her words was heavy and thoughtful. Even Alexei stopped his restless pacing, his usual boisterous energy subdued by the implications of what she'd just laid out.
She could feel Bucky's gaze on her like a physical weight, intense and searching, but she forced herself to focus on the evidence instead of the way his attention made her skin prickle with unwanted awareness. This was her element, the one place where she felt like herself instead of a pale copy of someone else.
Rising from her crouch slowly, she brushed the concrete dust from her palms and let her eyes sweep the scene again with fresh perspective. The bullet trajectory, the forced entry marks on the rear door, the shallow scuff marks on the warehouse floor that told the story of how the body had been positioned, it was all clicking into place with the kind of clarity that had always made her good at her job. Even when everything else in her life was falling apart.
"He's likely prior military," she said finally, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she settled into the familiar rhythm of building a profile. "Special forces, probably. Look at the shot placement where the blood is — it was center mass…. a single entry wound, no wasted ammunition. That's not luck or rage, that's training. That’s muscle memory drilled into someone until it becomes second nature."
She pointed toward the back exit, where faint streaks in the concrete dust told their own story of careful positioning and deliberate staging. "And see the drag marks there? He never leaves the body where it falls. Always repositions them, makes sure they're found in a specific way. That's not impulsive killing, that's ritual. He wants these deaths to send a message, and he wants to make sure that message is received loud and clear."
Yelena tilted her head, genuine interest flickering across her face. "Okay, very impressive spooky profiler voice. Please continue."
"He's probably working from a list. These victims aren't random targets of opportunity…they're likely carefully selected based on their connection to HYDRA takedown operations. That means he has access to classified intelligence, probably from his time inside the organization." She paused, the full implications of what she was saying settling over the group like a shadow. "He's not just killing for revenge. He's... settling accounts. Closing books that he thinks should have stayed closed."
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the warehouse's settling metal groaning in the wind. Even John Walker's usual cocky confidence seemed to falter as he processed what she'd laid out, the military precision of the operation clearly striking a nerve.
Ava's gaze darted between the bloodstains like she was replaying the murders in enhanced detail, seeing things the rest of them could only guess at. "That's... disturbingly thorough. And probably accurate."
Alexei gave a low whistle of appreciation, his earlier enthusiasm tempered by genuine respect. "Very good, little detective raccoon. Maybe Sam Wilson was right about you after all."
Yelena's smirk was sharp with satisfaction, like a teacher whose problem student had finally shown their work correctly. "Told you she was useful. Much better than standing around looking confused and lost."
But she wasn't really listening to the praise or the banter bouncing around her like verbal ping-pong balls. Her attention had been pulled, drawn almost against her will subconsciously, to Bucky. He was staring at her with an expression that made something deep in her chest ache. There was sadness there, yes, but also something that looked suspiciously like pride mixed with pain. Like admiration tempered by grief.
It was as if every word she'd spoken had dragged him back to another time, another version of this scene, another her who had stood in similar warehouses and broken down similar cases with the same methodical precision. One he had already lost, and was now being forced to remember through her performance.
God, she felt so guilty.
John Walker finally cleared his throat, the sound awkward and overly loud in the charged atmosphere. "Well. That was... probably exactly what we needed to hear. Good work."
"Yeah," Ava added reluctantly, like the admission cost her something. "I didn't think you had it in you. Guess I was wrong."
"Get used to being wrong," Yelena quipped. "It builds character and keeps life interesting."
The casual banter continued to flow around her, but it felt distant and muffled, like she was hearing it from underwater. Her chest felt tight and constricted under the weight of Bucky's stare, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow trespassing on sacred ground, wearing someone else's expertise like an ill-fitting costume that everyone could see through.
Finally, she drew in a sharp breath and turned to face him directly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. "Can we...talk? Privately?"
The request hung in the air between them like something vulnerable, carrying more weight than the simple words should have been able to bear. The rest of the group glanced between them with barely concealed curiosity, yet no one said anything. Even Yelena managed to keep her commentary to herself, which was probably a minor miracle.
Bucky hesitated for a long moment that felt like an eternity, his blue eyes searching her face for something she wasn't sure she could give him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he gave the smallest of nods.
They stepped a few paces away from the others, the sound of Yelena bickering with Alexei about proper crime scene etiquette fading into the background. Here, in the corner of the ruined crime scene with a breeze cutting through the broken windows, the silence pressed between them like a living thing.
She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, her eyes dropping to the cracked floor before forcing herself to look up at him. Even now, even with everything that had never happened between them, he was devastating to look at. All sharp angles and barely contained strength, like he'd been carved from something harder than marble.
"I owe you an apology," she began, her voice unsteady in the way that voices get when you're trying to say something important and failing spectacularly at it. "For what I said. About you being the Winter Soldier."
Bucky's jaw tensed, his metal fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just waited with the kind of patience that itched at something under her skin. Her own nerves, undoubtedly.
"In my world," she went on, her words slow and deliberate as she tried to find the right way to explain something that felt unexplainable, "that's all you ever were. No Steve Rogers pulling you back from the brink, no Wakanda to help you heal, no second chances or redemption arcs. Just a weapon. A killer. I never knew you as anything else, never saw you as anything but the monster they made you into."
Her throat worked as she swallowed around the growing tightness. "So when I look at you... I don't see hope, or a man trying to make up for the things he was forced to do. I see the ghost of what I knew. And that's not fair to you, but I don't know how to unsee it."
Something flickered across his face. Pain, sharp and quiet, the kind he'd gotten good at hiding behind masks of stoicism and careful control. He blinked, looking past her shoulder for a beat before meeting her eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was rougher than usual.
"I get it," he said at last, his voice low, gravel scraping at the edges. "Doesn't mean it doesn't… sting. But I get it."
She nodded, forcing her tone to steady even as her chest tightened with the weight of his understanding. "I want to help. I'm good at this kind of work. But if it makes it harder for you, I'll step back."
He hesitated, and she saw the war inside him plain as day, duty battling with self-preservation. The desire to do what was right wrestling with the need to protect what was left of his heart. His shoulders twitched, as if he might walk away, but then he shook his head with the kind of resolve that must have carried him through decades of impossible choices.
"If you can help… then I don't mind." He looked at her a long time, the weight of memory softening his features until she could see glimpses of the man he'd been before HYDRA carved him hollow. "Just…seeing you do it… it's like watching a ghost. She used to do the same thing. The same little pauses, same way of looking at a scene. Even your hands—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching like he'd revealed too much, like the words had escaped before he could cage them properly. The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache with an emotion she couldn't name.
The guilt pressed heavy in her chest, settling there like stones. "I'm sorry for being here. I know it's not fair to you."
His response was immediate, rough with barely contained emotion. "It's not your fault." Then, softer, like the admission was being dragged from somewhere deep inside him, "But it doesn't make it easier."
His eyes lingered on her then, open and raw in a way that startled her with its intensity. Sadness, thick and deep, carved lines into his face that hadn't been there moments before. The weight of his gaze felt like drowning and breathing at the same time, and she turned desperate to break the moment before it pulled her under completely.
But his voice stopped her retreat like a physical barrier.
"Stephen said you've been… visiting. Every day. Begging him to send you back."
Her shoulders stiffened at the words, tension crawling up her spine like ice water. She turned just enough to glance back, her eyes already glassy with the threat of tears she refused to let fall. "Yes. Because I want to. There's nothing for me here."
That answer seemed to cut him deeper than she'd intended, deeper than any of her previous cruelties. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Just the sharp intake of breath that sounded pained.
He searched her face , almost pleading, and when he finally managed to speak his voice was barely above a whisper. "Is it really as bad as Yelena says? In that apartment. Alone."
She let out a breath that trembled at the edges, her composure finally cracking under the weight of his concern. A sad, humorless smile curved her lips. "Of course it is. No one wants me here. I'm wearing a face that haunts people. Mostly you. Why should I have anything to live for here?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but enough for her to see the way the words landed. Like they were carving fresh wounds into barely healed scar tissue. His expression cracked open, hurt bleeding through the stoicism, and she realized with devastating clarity that she'd just confirmed his worst fear about what his presence in her life was costing her.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The warehouse air seemed to thicken around them, heavy with words that couldn't be taken back and truths that hurt too much to voice.
Her throat burned with unshed tears and unspoken apologies. She forced the words out anyway, each syllable scraping her raw. "See you around, Sergeant Barnes."
His name left her lips softly. Like it cost her something fundamental to say. Like speaking it aloud was another small death in a string of endings she couldn't control.
She supposed in a way, it did.
And before he could respond, before he could see the way her composure was completely falling apart, she turned and walked away with the silence stretching between them like a wound left open.
The walk back to her apartment felt endless, each step weighted with the conversation she'd left hanging in the air. Her chest ached with a persistent throb that no amount of deep breathing could ease, internal discomfort that settled deep in her ribs and made breathing feel like work.
She kept replaying his face, frame by frame, when she'd told him she had nothing to live for here. The way his expression had cracked open, raw and unguarded. The hurt that had flooded his eyes for someone who didn’t deserve it.
It made her feel like she'd taken a scalpel to something that was barely healed. Worse,like she'd done it deliberately, with surgical precision, aiming for the places that would hurt the most.
By the time she reached her block, the streetlamps had flickered to life, casting long skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. The familiar ritual of unlocking her front door felt mechanical, her body moving through the motions while her mind remained trapped in that warehouse corner, replaying every word, every micro-expression, every moment where she'd watched him reveal his hurt.
Inside, the air was thick and stale, as if the apartment had been holding its breath while she was gone. The silence pressed against her eardrums with an almost physical weight. It was the same hollow emptiness that followed her everywhere in this universe, a void that no amount of work, liquor, or forced purpose could seem to fill.
She sank onto the couch with boneless exhaustion, her bag sliding off her shoulder to hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet space. Her head tipped back against the worn cushions, eyes tracing the spider web of cracks that spread across her ceiling like a roadmap to nowhere.
Her gaze drifted toward the half-empty bottle of whiskey on her kitchen counter, amber liquid catching the late afternoon light. The neat stack of papers Yelena had pressed into her hands at the crime scene was still in her hands — case files, witness statements, the kind of paperwork that had once been her lifeline.
She fought the urge to smile. Yelena seemed to know exactly what kept people afloat, had an instinct for the kind of purpose that could serve as oxygen when everything else felt like drowning.
She sighed, glancing away from the whiskey and pulled the files into her lap, forcing herself to focus on the black ink instead of her own thoughts. This wasn't the time to be reaching for liquid amnesia, she told herself grimly. Not when she had actual work to do, actual problems to solve that didn't involve the impossible mathematics that had to do with Bucky Barnes and her guilt.
Just as her eyes began moving across the first page of the coroner's report, three sharp knocks rattled her front door.
Her pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her system.
When she opened the door, Bucky Barnes filled the frame, but he looked nothing like the man who had stormed into her apartment weeks ago with fury radiating from every line of his body. Gone was the sharp-edged rage that had made her space feel too small to contain him safely. Instead, his posture was coiled tight with a different kind of tension — something more like restlessness. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, and when his gaze flicked up to meet hers, she caught something she'd never seen there before.
Something that looked dangerously close to vulnerability.
She blinked, completely thrown by the appearance. "Did I... forget something at the scene?"
He stared at her for a long moment, his brow creasing as if was thinking of the right words to say. Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound rough in the evening air. "No. That's not—" He paused, jaw working soundlessly while he seemed to wage some internal battle. "I came to check on you."
Her lips parted in surprise, the simple admission hitting her like an unexpected blow. "To... check on me?"
He nodded once, sharp and mechanical, but his gaze kept skittering away from her face like he couldn't quite meet her eyes directly. Like looking at her too long might fracture the moment. "Yes."
She tilted her head, suspicion already blooming in her chest. The idea of him caring enough to seek her out felt too fragile to trust. "Did Yelena put you up to this?"
The suggestion hit him like a personal insult, his spine straightening as offense flashed across his features with surprising intensity. "No."
"Sam, then?"
His mouth pressed into a hard line, irritation sparking in his eyes. "No, I—" He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, raking his flesh hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed almost nervous. When he forced himself to meet her gaze again, there was something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Can I just come in? Please?"
The ‘please’ was what did it, soft and uncertain, like he wasn't sure he had the right to ask for anything from her at all. Her suspicion crumbled instantly.
"I mean, sure, but why—"
He brushed past her before she could finish the question, bringing with him the scent of leather and something clean and masculine. He stood in the liminal space between her kitchen and living room, shoulders filled with tension. His presence filled the cramped area with restless energy and he looked wildly out of place among her thrift store furniture and accumulated mess, all coiled power and barely contained intensity.
She closed the door softly, studying him from the safety of the hallway. His eyes were already cataloging her space like he did this with every room he stepped into — dirty dishes forming a precarious tower in the sink, case files scattered across the coffee table, the whiskey bottle sitting open on her counter.
She didn't miss the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features when his eyes landed on it, subtle but unmistakable. Shame cut a path through her chest.
"That was from this morning," she blurted out before she could stop herself, immediately regretting the defensive explanation. If anything, admitting to day drinking made everything worse. She cringed, kicking herself internally.
His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing with sharp concern that felt too intense, too personal. For the first time since she'd landed in this cosmic joke of a universe, someone was looking at her with something that resembled genuine worry rather than suspicion or barely concealed pity.
"How much are you drinking?" The question came out low and controlled, but there was something dangerously terse lurking beneath the calm.
Heat crawled up her neck, embarrassment and defiance warring in her like competing flames. "I don't see how that's any of your business." She turned away from his penetrating stare, snatching the bottle and screwing the cap on with unnecessary force before shoving it back onto the counter with enough force that made the glass rattle against the wall.
She could feel his sharp exhale behind her, could practically see the frustration rolling off him in waves. The silence stretched between them, heavy and accusatory, and she filled the uncomfortable void with busy work—running water, clattering dishes, anything to drown out the weight of his judgment.
"If you want to help us with official matters," he said finally, his tone clipped and professional in a way that somehow hurt worse than outright anger, "I'm sure we'd all prefer you to be sober for it."
"Oh, is that what this is?" she shot back, drying her hands with more violence than the task required, her movements sharp and defensive. "A welfare check for the good of the team? How noble of you."
His voice hardened then, rising to cut through her sarcasm like a blade. "You don't have to act like this behind closed doors. Like some petulant child throwing a tantrum because the universe didn't arrange itself to your liking. The world isn't falling apart so catastrophically that you need to develop habits designed to kill you."
She spun around then, fury igniting in her chest like struck kindling. The accusation hit every raw nerve she'd been trying to protect, every wound she'd been nursing. "I thought we left things on a decent note at the warehouse, but apparently you're determined to revert to being a complete ass."
His expression darkened, jaw clenching as he took a deliberate step closer, crowding into her personal space until she could see the dark flecks in his blue eyes, until his proximity made her breath catch and her heart hammer against her ribs. "You're the one sitting here rotting away in your own misery when there's no rational reason to be wallowing in self-pity—"
"No reason?" The words tore from her throat, raw and bleeding, carrying weeks of accumulated pain and frustration. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of not lashing out physically—though whether at him or at the universe itself, she couldn't tell. "I thought we went over this! One little accident, literally a slip, and I'm trapped in a world where the original me is dead and buried. Half the people here look at me like I'm her ghost come back to haunt them, the other half like I'm some pathetic fraud trying to steal her life."
Her voice was rising now, cracking with emotion she could no longer contain. "I had a real existence back home, Barnes. A career that mattered, friends who knew my actual history, a life that belonged to me instead of being some cosmic hand-me-down from a dead woman." Her voice broke completely on the last words, but she pushed forward anyway, desperation making her reckless. "And you all expect me to just stay here, smile and nod, pretend to start over like none of that mattered? Like I should be grateful for the chance to live in someone else's shadow? When everyone hates me for existing?"
Something fundamental shifted in his expression as she spoke. The righteous anger cracked, revealing something much more vulnerable underneath. Something that looked like recognition, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time instead of filtering her through the lens of someone else's memory.
"I don't hate you," he said quietly, the admission dousing the tension a bit.
She scoffed, pressing her fingertips against her temple where a headache was building like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "That's really all you took from what I just said? That's your big takeaway from my entire breakdown?"
"If anyone should understand about drowning in grief," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through her spiraling thoughts, "it would be me."
Her breath caught, the fight going out of her as suddenly as it had flared. The simple truth of the admission tempered her anger instantly.
His voice softened but lost none of its intensity, as if the words themselves were scraping him raw from the inside out. "I lost nearly a century to HYDRA's torture. They carved me up, piece by piece, until I couldn't tell where I ended and their weapon began. I woke up with a ledger drowned in innocent blood, everyone I'd ever loved dead and buried, nightmares that still hunt me down every time I close my eyes."
He paused, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his eyes dangerously dark. "And yet, I’m still here. Still breathing, still fighting, still trying to build something meaningful from the wreckage they left behind. I made this world into a home. I found reasons worth living for, worth protecting." His eyes found hers then, blazing with conviction. "You can too. You're stronger than you're giving yourself credit for."
The silence that followed was electric, both of them breathing hard like they'd been running instead of standing in her cramped kitchen tearing each other apart with words that cut too deep to heal cleanly.
Then his gaze cut into hers, softer but no less demanding, carrying an intimacy that made her want to step back and lean closer at the same time. "So tell me what you're really running back to. What's waiting for you in your old world that's so much better than anything you could build here? Was there someone special? Family? A lover? What's the golden life you're clinging to that makes this one feel like such a punishment?"
"You're talking to me like you actually know me," she said, her voice trembling with emotion she couldn't quite name. Anger, yes, but something deeper and more complicated underneath it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, tears threatening but refusing to fall. Not because she was angry at him, but because she was furious at the joke of it all. Angry that she was standing here arguing with a man who looked at her like he knew her, when most of what she knew about him came from a computer screen.
"But you don't know me at all," she continued, the words scraping her throat raw. "I'm not her, Bucky. You don't need to save me, or fix me, or give me inspirational speeches like you have any idea how my mind works. We might share the same DNA, the same basic facial structure, even the same damn name…but that's where the similarities end."
Her voice broke on the next words, but she pushed through the crack with desperate determination. "I'm not the woman you loved." The confession broke something vital in her chest as it left her mouth, but she forced it out anyway. It was the only mercy she could offer, making him let go before the hoping killed them both. "And I'm sorry, I am so deeply sorry for how much this must hurt you. I know you loved her desperately. But I'm not her, and pretending otherwise is only going to destroy us both."
When she finished, silence wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. He didn't lash out this time, didn't retreat behind walls of ice and anger like she'd expected. He just stood there absorbing her words with the stillness of someone who'd survived a lifetime of devastating truths, a lifetime of loss and pain.
Then his eyes lifted to meet hers, and they were soft with something that surprised her. Something that looked dangerously close to peace.
When he spoke, his voice was careful, like he was afraid the wrong tone might set her off again. "You share more than just her face and name," he said firmly. "You've got the same stubborn streak that won't let you back down from a fight, even when you should. The same fire in your eyes when you're passionate about something. Like right now, when you're telling me I don't know you."
His gaze flickered with something that might have been longing, carefully controlled but unmistakably present. "The same smile, though you try not to use it around me. I can tell. You even laugh the same way, when you forget to guard yourself against letting me see who you really are."
He looked past her shoulder toward the whiskey bottle, and a sad, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The way you keep your space... it's exactly how she did. Same organized chaos, same preferences. Even down to the brand of whiskey."
Bucky’s voice faltered slightly, but he pushed on with determined honesty. "The way you analyzed that crime scene today…it was word for word how she would have approached it. Same methodology, same instincts, even the same little pauses you do when you're processing evidence and building the story in your head."
He shook his head once, slow and heavy, like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. When his eyes found hers again, they were no longer bogged down by grief. Instead, it looked a lot more like tenderness.
"So it's not just about looking at you and seeing a ghost," he continued, his voice roughening with emotion he couldn't quite hide anymore. "It's because you still are the same, in every way that matters. The core of who she was, who you are, it's identical. Every piece of her that I fell in love with, it's right there in you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."
His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, and when he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. "And if she found enough reasons to be happy here, enough purpose to build a life worth living—" His voice cracked slightly before he steadied it with visible effort. "Then I'm willing to bet you could too, if you'd let yourself try, instead of running back to whatever you think you're missing."
The silence that followed was thickly discomforting.
Her first instinct was to fight him, to argue that he was wrong, that she was her own person with her own history and choices that had nothing to do with some parallel universe doppelganger. Anger coiled hot in her stomach. How dare he try to define her through someone else's existence, try to trap her in another woman's story like she was just an understudy waiting in the wings to step into a role she'd never auditioned for.
But as he spoke — as she watched his face soften when he mentioned her smile, her laugh, as she heard his voice break when he talked about her, the fight began to drain out of her. These weren't accusations, weren't demands or attempts to force her into a predetermined mold. They came weighted with grief…but also with something that felt dangerously close to reverence.
She could see it now. Could finally understand what she'd been missing in all their previous interactions. He wasn't angry at her for not being identical to the other girl he had lost. He was angry at the universe for the cruel joke of it all. For putting someone in front of him who both was and wasn't the person he'd mourned. For making him choose between clinging to a ghost and letting go of the closest thing to her he'd ever find again.
It struck her with sudden, devastating clarity that this wasn't about biology or cosmic coincidence. It was about the way different universes shaped their inhabitants. How environment and experience carved people into what they became, but never completely erased the foundation they'd been built on. The foundation might be the same, but the life lived on top of it created all the details that mattered, all the small differences that made each person unique.
And maybe that explained why she recognized herself in his descriptions, why his words rang true even when she wanted to reject them with every fiber of her being.
Maybe he wasn't seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe he was just seeing her more clearly than she'd been able to see herself.
"Okay," she murmured finally, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I get it. No more wallowing in self-pity like it's a competitive sport."
Her voice grew smaller, more uncertain. "It's just... I don't feel like I have a purpose here. A place in this world that's mine instead of borrowed from someone else's life. It's been harder than I expected to find my footing as of late."
The change in his expression was immediate. The stern line of his mouth softened and the rigid set of his shoulders instantly relaxed. His eyes shifted too, warmed with something fragile and achingly gentle.
She knew why. She'd just given him the first real glimpse of who she was underneath all the defensive armor.
He cleared his throat, running his flesh hand through his dark hair in a gesture she was starting to think he did when he was nervous. "I understand that better than you know," he said quietly, his voice carrying an invisible weight. "I felt exactly the same way when I first got my mind back from HYDRA's programming. Still feel that way sometimes, if I'm being honest. You just... you need to find things that anchor you. That give you something worth fighting for."
Her chest tightened at the admission, and not for the first time, she found herself wondering how the other version of herself had helped him through those early days. How had she managed to be patient with someone who was more scar tissue than man, who was learning how to be human again after decades of being nothing but a weapon? If she truly was some variation of that woman, she couldn't imagine where she would have found the gentleness required for that kind of healing work.
The questions burned on her tongue like acid, but she didn't dare voice them. The wounds in his voice still sounded too fresh, too close to bleeding all over her kitchen floor and staining the cheap linoleum.
Instead, she let herself take a moment to study him — to take in the sharp line of his jaw softened by dark stubble, the pale strokes of scars that mapped old violence across his skin, the way time had finally started to write itself into the corners of his eyes and the furrows of his brow. He was devastatingly handsome in the way that made her chest tight just from being in the same room.
But beneath all that hardened masculinity, she caught glimpses of the boy she'd read about in history books. The one who'd followed Steve Rogers into hell because it was the right thing to do.
At least in this universe, he'd managed to claw his way back to something resembling that original purpose.
So, she asked the question pushing at the seam of her lips, hoping the genuine curiosity didn’t come back to bite her. “What…what was it that gave you purpose to keep fighting? After everything…after all that you’d been through?”
His eyes lifted to hers slowly, and blinked, like her question was still churning in his mind. For a moment he didn't move and just studied her silently.
Then his lashes fluttered faster, like he was fighting back some overwhelming emotion that threatened to spill over if he wasn't careful.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Had a few things that helped. But I think you already know what the main one was."
Her throat constricted, muscles seizing like she had swallowed something too solid. She couldn't look away from his eyes, that startling blue that seemed to hold so much she didn’t know. There was an energy there she'd never seen before, something alive and burning that definitely wasn't meant for her. Something that belonged to memories and time.
And yet, he was looking directly at her with all that overwhelming intensity, like she was simultaneously the answer to every prayer he'd never dared voice and some cruel twist of fate.
She didn't know why the words were leaving her mouth until they'd already escaped into the charged space between them, hanging there like they were a tangible thing.
"Do you... want to stay for dinner?"
Her own eyebrows drew together in confusion, like her body was surprised by her own invitation. She wasn't the type to ask anyone into her space, especially not him. Especially not when every interaction they'd had so far had ended with one or both of them angry or upset. But there it was, still hanging in the air for him to answer.
Bucky blinked at her, visibly thrown by the unexpected offer, his entire body going still. For a heartbeat she thought he was going to decline, maybe make some excuse about having somewhere else to be, someone else who needed his attention more than whatever she was to him in his own mind.
But then, after a pause that stretched just long enough to make her nervous about asking, he gave the faintest nod. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The surprise was definitely mutual, written clearly across both their faces.
She turned quickly before he could read too much into her expression, before she could examine too closely why the thought of him staying made something dangerous unfurl in her chest. She tugged open the refrigerator door and stared at the pathetically barren shelves with growing mortification. Half a jar of marinara sauce that had seen better days, yogurt that was definitely past its expiration date, a carton of eggs she wasn't entirely sure she trusted, and not much else that could constitute an actual meal.
Not exactly the ingredients for an impressive culinary experience.
"Is frozen pizza okay?" she asked, clearing her throat and trying to sound casual instead of ashamed by her complete lack of basic grocery shopping abilities.
When she gathered enough courage to glance back at him, he was smiling. Bittersweet, like the gesture, was kind and sad at the same time. The transformation was stunning, taking years off his face and revealing glimpses of who he might have been in another life. "Yeah…that's perfect. We used to live on frozen pizza. You were always a disaster in the kitchen, could barely manage toast without setting off the smoke alarm. Takeout and frozen meals were your specialty."
A sharp laugh escaped her before she could stop it, surprising herself. "That sounds exactly right. I once burned water trying to make pasta."
The sound of her genuine laughter seemed to make his smile grow wider, transforming his entire face. It was beautiful — the kind of expression that made her understand with devastating clarity exactly why the other version of herself might have fallen so completely and irrevocably in love with him. Because when he smiled at her like that, she didn’t know how she could ever stay mad at him.
While the oven preheated, she slid the pizza onto the middle rack, brushing flour from her hands and trying to ignore the way he was watching her every movement with laser focus. She turned around, watching him lean against her counter with deceptive casualness, arms folded across his broad chest. His gaze was still fixed on her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle.
"So," she said carefully, searching for safe conversational ground that wouldn't lead them back into the emotional minefield they'd just navigated. "What's your story? The abbreviated version, at least."
He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh, the sound carrying decades of weary experience. "Born and raised in Brooklyn. Got drafted in '43. Fell off a train in the Alps during a mission with Stevie — though 'fell' makes it sound simple."
His expression darkened slightly with the weight of memory. "HYDRA found me, put me back together with spare parts and a lot of creative chemistry, and spent the next seventy years turning me into their perfect weapon. Steve managed to break their programming and pull me back from the brink when I didn't even remember there was a brink to be pulled back from. The rest..." He shrugged with deliberate casualness that didn't quite hide the weight beneath it. "You can probably fill in the gaps from whatever you've read online."
She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together as she processed his words. His tone was carefully neutral, but she caught the way his eyes flickered when he mentioned certain details. Like each condensed phrase represented years of trauma he'd learned to compress into manageable sound bites that wouldn't overwhelm whoever was listening.
Something in her heart clenched.
"And..." she hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she debated whether to push into territory that might be too personal. She was uncertain, but also unable to resist asking. "How did…we meet? In this universe, I mean."
The question seemed to rock him. His eyes widened slightly, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard, his hands twitching against his chest. For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer at all, that she'd pushed too far into territory that was still too painful to revisit, too difficult to share with someone who wore the face of the woman who'd lived it.
Then, slowly, his expression gentled with something that might have been gratitude — like he was grateful she'd asked.
"You were working with SHIELD," he began, his voice low. "This was after the whole Winter Soldier debacle, after everything went public and my face was plastered across every news channel. Steve asked you to help track me down when I disappeared after D.C."
He paused, his gaze never leaving her face, studying her for any reaction. "You found me in Romania, living in a pathetic little apartment, trying to stay invisible while I figured out how to exist in my own head again."
Her breath caught. That detail hit close enough to home.
"At first, I thought you were just another agent sent to bring me in," he continued, his voice taking on a distant quality as he lost himself in a memory. "I didn't trust anyone back then. Couldn't afford to. Everyone was a potential threat. But you..."
He shook his head slightly, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You didn't push. Didn't try to fix me or convince me I was worth saving when I couldn't even convince myself I deserved to keep breathing. You just... existed in the same space. Sometimes hours would pass and you wouldn't say a word, just sat there reading or working on your laptop while I tried to remember how to be human again instead of a weapon with no name."
The oven timer chose that moment to beep, startling them both from the intensity of the moment. She turned quickly to rescue the pizza, grateful for the excuse to hide her face while she processed his words, while she tried to reconcile the difference between the woman he was describing and herself .
Her hands were trembling slightly as she set the hot pan on the stovetop, the simple domestic task feeling surreal in the aftermath of his confession.
"You were stubborn as hell," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice now. Warmer, more present than the distant tone he'd been using before. "Half the time I wanted to tell you to get lost, to stop wasting your time on something that couldn't be fixed. But you never did. And after a while, I realized I didn't want you to leave anymore. Started looking forward to the sound of your key in the lock, to the way you'd hum under your breath when you thought I wasn't paying attention."
She desperately wanted to ask more—if he'd fallen for her first or if she'd been the one to claim that title, if what they'd built together had been worth the pain he was carrying now. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy to voice, too loaded with implications she wasn't ready to examine.
"She sounds like she was better than me," she whispered instead, the admission scraping raw against her vocal cords. It was easier to speak to the pizza than to turn around and face whatever expressions were dancing across his face.
His response was immediate and fierce. "No. You're exactly the same. Different circumstances, maybe, different experiences that shaped the details…but don't you dare think for a second that you're somehow less than she was."
The conviction in his voice made something crack open in her chest, some small fissure in the wall she'd built around her heart. She kept her back to him, focusing on cutting the pizza with unnecessary precision rather than facing the intensity of his gaze she could feel burning into her. But she couldn't stop the way her hands shook just slightly as she worked, couldn't ignore the way his words settled around them.
"I don't know how to be her," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to be the woman who could save someone like you, who could be patient enough to sit with all that pain and not try to fix it."
"You're not supposed to be her," he said quietly, and she could hear him moving closer. Could feel his presence like a physical weight behind her. "I don’t need saving anymore. You're supposed to be you. And maybe... maybe it’s my turn to return the favor."
She finally turned around then. He was closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, close enough that the scent of leather and something uniquely him flooded her senses.
He took one of the plates from her hands, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The simple contact sent electricity racing up her arm like lightning.
"Thank you," he said, and she wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the pizza or something else entirely.
They ate in relative silence, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind. This felt different, like they were both testing the boundaries of this new dynamic they'd stumbled into. She found herself stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking, studying the way he ate with mechanical precision, the way his eyes would drift to her face every so often.
"The case," she said finally, needing something concrete to focus on, some safe harbor in the storm of emotions swirling between them. "The HYDRA connection…do you think the killer is someone who used to work for them?"
His expression sharpened, slipping back into professional mode within a heartbeat. "Has to be. The intelligence required, the access to classified files on SHIELD operations — it's not something an outsider would have. This is someone cleaning house, tying up loose ends.”
"But why now?" she pressed, her investigative instincts finally finding solid ground. "What's changed? What's the catalyst that made them decide to do that?"
He was quiet for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully. "Could be anything. Maybe they've been planning this for years and just now got the resources. Maybe something spooked them. New intelligence suggesting their past was about to catch up with them. Or maybe..." He paused, meeting her eyes across the small table. "Maybe they have nothing left to lose now. Decided to settle old scores before checking out permanently."
The possibility sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "That would make them even more dangerous. Nothing more unpredictable than someone with nothing to lose."
"Exactly." His gaze was steady on hers, and she caught something that looked like pride in his expression. "Which is why we need to find them fast, before they work their way through whatever list they're operating from."
She nodded, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks. This was familiar territory. Puzzles to be solved, patterns to identify, justice to pursue. It gave her something to anchor to that had nothing to do with magic portals or duplicate identities.
"I'll go through the files tonight," she said. "Cross-reference the victims, look for connections we might have missed. There has to be a pattern somewhere."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something that looked dangerously close to gratitude. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted, and realized as she said it that it was true. For the first time since arriving in this universe, she had something that felt like purpose again. "It's what I'm good at. And maybe... maybe it's a start."
A start toward what, she didn't say. Didn't need to. The words hung between them, heavy with possibility and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to build something meaningful from the wreckage of her displacement.
When he finally left, long after the pizza was finished and the case files spread across her coffee table, she found herself standing at her window watching him disappear into the night. For the first time since Stephen Strange had delivered his painful verdict on her fate, the silence in her apartment didn't feel quite so suffocating.
Gradually, piece by piece, she began to stitch herself into the fabric of this universe. It still didn’t feel like home, still didn’t fully feel like she would ever belong, but it was something. And it began with the superheroes around her.
Yelena had a way of barging into her apartment without knocking, tossing case files onto her coffee table like scraps of meat, demanding her "brilliant detective brain" work through the puzzles she didn't have patience for. Yelena never said it outright, but the message was clear: you're wasting away in here, stop it. And for a while, those files gave her something to chew on, something to look forward to when sleep refused to come and the silence of her apartment became unbearable.
Sam was the one who encouraged her to go further. His words were softer than Yelena’s, as if he knew how precariously she balanced on the edge of belonging and alienation. "You've got a gift," he'd told her over coffee one morning, his voice warm with genuine conviction. "The kind we need." She wanted to argue that she wasn't one of them, not a hero, not a fighter — but Sam brushed aside her protests with a patience she wondered if he had applied to Bucky years ago.
But what struck her most wasn't Sam's encouragement, or Yelena's brashness, or even the others' gradual acceptance. It was the love that tethered them all together. Especially the love wrapped, invisibly but unmistakably, between Sam and Bucky. She saw it in indirect ways — a small smile at an inside joke, an elbow in the ribs when Sam made a reference to Bucky’s age, the way they unconsciously lifted each other when a crisis arose. It was a pure, unwavering brotherhood. Beautiful in its quiet certainty, despite both of their efforts to pretend like they hated each other.
The team eventually began inviting her into the field, at first only on "safe" missions. The ones that didn't end with them dragging each other back, bleeding and broken. She didn't mind. She wasn't a superhero, would never be one. She was a detective, and she leaned into that role—sifting through data, profiling suspects, chasing threads others missed.
Joaquin slipped her access to databases she shouldn't have had with a conspiratorial wink. She spent long nights in front of screens, piecing puzzles together with the same thrill she once felt chasing criminals in her own world. And before she realized it, she had a badge for the Watchtower. Guards knew her by name. Maintenance crews nodded in passing. She belonged, at least on the surface.
Friday nights were spent drinking with Yelena, trading stories and learning to decode the Russian's particular brand of affection—insults wrapped in concern, threats that were really promises to have her back. Tuesdays she cooked with Bob, who laughed off her disasters in the kitchen with infinite patience and taught her how to whip up more than pancakes and sandwiches. Ava sparred with her, never letting her win, but teaching her how to read an opponent's tells, how to use her smaller size as an advantage, how to turn fear into fuel. Alexei insisted she watch his "essential list" of 80’s films and compared far too many things in them to the Soviet Union, but his enthusiasm was infectious and oddly endearing. Even Walker — brash, smug, impossible to most — one day sidled into her makeshift office, cheeks red, asking for her advice on talking to his ex-wife. She hadn't expected it given the fact they had nothing beyond a working relationship. Maybe that was why he asked her. And though he still lobbed barbed comments her way, she noticed he started treating her with more respect.
But Bucky... Bucky was different.
Even after their fragile truce over frozen pizza, he kept his distance like she was something dangerous. He spoke to her when the team was around but didn’t seek her out otherwise. His sentences were short and polite — never rude, but always edged in restraint that felt like a wall she couldn't scale. And yet, slowly, almost reluctantly, he softened in his own ways.
A bottle of her favorite cold brew appeared in the fridge one morning, no note attached. Her messy desk was one day rearranged with military precision with files sorted and pens organized. A gun she hadn't realized she needed was left for her, its balance perfect in her hand, the holster exactly her size. Small gestures, quiet ones that she knew came from him. But he still couldn't bring himself to look her fully in the eye for more than a heartbeat at a time.
She didn't need to be a detective to know why.
The first time she caught him staring, really staring, was during a team briefing three weeks after their pizza encounter. Yelena was explaining mission parameters, her voice background noise as she felt eyes on her. She glanced up from her notes to find Bucky's gaze fixed on her face, his lips set into a neutral line. For a moment, the world narrowed to just them, but once he realized she'd noticed, the shutters came down so fast she almost wondered if she'd imagined it. He looked away, jaw tight, metal fingers drumming against the table in a rapid rhythm.
But she hadn't imagined it. And now that she'd seen it once, she started noticing it everywhere. The way his eyes would find her across a room when he thought she wasn’t looking, drinking her in. How he'd position himself during investigations the team went on so he could see her, could keep track of her safety without being obvious about it. The careful space he maintained between them so they were never close enough to accidentally touch, but never so far that he couldn't reach her if needed.
One night, when the team had been deployed to take care of the killer of the ex-SHIELD agent’s they had managed to track down, curiosity got the better of her. She told herself it was harmless, that she wasn't prying, just... looking. Bucky always kept his door shut, as if whatever lay behind it was sacred ground. But she opened the door a crack, then stepped inside.
The room was stark, utilitarian. A bed made with military corners, a nightstand, a dresser. More hotel than home, stripped of comfort or intimacy. Everything about it screamed of a man who didn't want to leave a mark, who feared permanence like others feared death. Except for the top of the dresser.
That was different.
There, scattered carefully, was a collection of framed photographs. She saw one of Sam and Bucky, the same photo Sam kept in his office, their arms slung around each other's shoulders with wide grins plastered on their faces. Another in sepia tones, Steve Rogers and a young Bucky in uniform, laughing, carefree, so achingly alive. His face there was unrecognizable: smooth, clean-shaven, lit with the sheen of youth. Innocent. Untouched by the decades of violence that would follow.
And then her breath caught, lodging in her throat like a physical thing.
Between those frames were more pictures of her. Or rather, the other her.
Photographs of moments she'd never lived, memories that belonged to a ghost. Blurry, off-center snapshots, none taken by a professional by any means, but they radiated something raw and unfiltered. In every one, she was smiling. Laughing. Resting her head against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. The joy on her face was undeniable, luminous. The kind of happiness that seemed to spill out of the frame itself. And his expression was worse.
It wasn't just happiness; it was devotion. A quiet reverence, as though every second captured in those frames was proof of a miracle he'd never expected to receive.
Her eyes locked on the one at the center, clearly his favorite. She had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, grinning at the camera with unguarded delight. But he wasn't looking at the lens. He was looking at her. With an expression she had never seen beyond a film screen — pure adoration. Contentment so complete it made her chest ache. A man utterly in love.
Her stomach twisted violently. It was too much, too intimate, too sacred for her to be staring at. This was a window into his grief made real, his love crystallized into something she could touch but never truly understand. She reached out with trembling fingers, almost touching the glass of one of the photos.
"He really did love her."
She spun, gasping, heart leaping into her throat. Bob stood in the doorway, hands raised like he was trying not to startle her further. His expression was soft, almost apologetic.
"I didn't mean to sneak up," he said quietly, nodding toward the dresser. "But it's true. I never met her, but...we all knew about her. Bucky never talked about it. Not once. But he didn't have to. It was obvious."
Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "How could you tell how much he cared? If he never spoke about her?"
Bob's lips turned up in a sad, knowing smile. "That's when you know someone's at their lowest, when they're still trying to look like they're not. We didn’t know him when she died, but we know he was a hair away from falling apart. From giving up on himself. But he never did. Just kept going, kept protecting people. Because…that's what she would have wanted." He paused, studying her face with gentle eyes. "He said that once. That she would have killed him herself for giving up. He's been carrying that love like a wound that won't heal. Until you showed up, anyway. Now…I think he’s just as confused as you are."
Her heart twisted in her chest, a sharp pain that stole her breath. She let out a shaky exhale, gave Bob a brief nod, and closed Bucky's bedroom door with his words ringing in her head like a bell she couldn't silence.
The team came back a few days later in the late evening, everyone banged up and nursing wounds from a fight that had broken out when they apprehended the killer. Yet, all were in surprisingly good spirits. They all stayed gathered in the living room eating pizza and drinking semi-warm beer Bob had bought for them, still in uniform despite the dirt and blood covering more than a few of them. War stories of the mission mixed in with laughter echoed amongst the room, the kind of easy camaraderie that came with running so many of these missions together.
She watched Bucky throughout the evening, noting the careful way he held his right arm, how he favored his left side when he thought no one was looking. But his face gave nothing away, his usual stoic mask firmly in place, participating in the banter with the occasional dry comment that made Yelena snort with laughter and Walker shake his head in exasperation.
She slipped out quietly once Alexei started on his third retelling of the takedown, deciding to head home for the night. She had a room here, insisted upon by Yelena with her typical stubbornness, but she still tried not to linger too long in the Tower. Still wanted to keep some distance, maintain the illusion that she could leave if she needed to.
She had just made it outside the elevator when something down the hall caught her eye. Movement, a faint grunt of pain quickly stifled. She stopped, curiosity getting the best of her, and peered into the adjacent control room where the sounds were coming from.
Bucky, who had slipped off minutes before her, was seated with his shoulders hunched forward, his head bowed as he wrestled a roll of gauze around his right arm slowly. The sleeve of his uniform was peeled back, crimson seeping stubbornly through the fresh layers of white. She had guessed he'd been hurt when they got back but he hadn't asked to go to medical or given the slightest indication of pain. Though, she was learning, he was notorious for brushing off the team's doctors, always patching himself up in shadows before they noticed the damage.
In the blue glow of the monitors around him, he looked tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. There was something raw and vulnerable about seeing him like this with his guard down, struggling with his own stubborn self-reliance.
She found herself stepping forward before she'd made a conscious decision to move.
"Hey," she called softly, before she could talk herself out of it. Her voice sounded too loud in the dim, humming room. "Why aren't you getting that taken care of?"
Bucky's hands stilled, though his jaw ticked when she stepped into his line of sight. He pulled the gauze tighter than necessary, as though the sting was needed. Only after knotting it off with fumbling fingers did he finally glance up at her. The glow of the monitors carved shadows across his face, catching the tired lines etched deep at the corners of his eyes. He looked worn down in a way that went far beyond the mission—like he'd been fighting a war inside himself that had no end in sight.
"It's fine," he said, his voice rough but even. His eyes didn't meet hers, focusing instead on some point past her shoulder. "Doesn't need stitches. I've had worse."
The casual dismissal tugged at something in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to protectiveness. Of course he'd say that. Of course he'd measure every new pain against all the agony he'd ever endured, not allowing the present, this wound, to matter. She stepped closer, arms folding like armor against the pull in her mind screaming at her to go to him.
"Doesn't mean you should be sitting in here alone, bleeding out in the dark like some kind of martyr."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but it wasn't a real smile. More like a reflex, an attempt to ease the weight between them. "What, you volunteering to play nurse?"
Her pulse stuttered at the quiet rasp of his voice, at the way he finally looked at her from beneath his lashes with something that might have been hope. She forced her expression to stay flat, unreadable. "Someone has to. You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
His gaze lingered on her, longer than it should have, like he was trying to decide whether to believe her offer or push her away out of habit. His metal hand flexed against his thigh, a restless tell she'd come to recognize as anxiety poorly disguised.
"You shouldn't worry about me," he said at last, low and steady, but not unkind. Just... final. Like he'd made peace with being alone long ago.
She ignored his dismissal and walked further into the room, closing the distance until she was standing directly in front of him. His shoulders stiffened, breath catching almost imperceptibly, but he didn't move, didn't protest as she reached for the gauze with steady hands.
"Let me," she murmured, fingers brushing against his wrist as she caught hold of the roll.
The contact was electric. Not sparks, not movie-magic electricity. No, something deeper and more dangerous. The simple touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way he went completely still beneath her fingers, like her touch had the ability to freeze him. His skin was warm, marked with old scars that told stories she didn't know.
For a second, he didn't release the gauze. His grip was firm, his jaw set, and the air between them went taut like they were suspended in a moment neither of them could afford to shatter. She could feel the tension radiating from him, could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Part of him wanted to accept her help, she realized, but another part — the part that had learned to survive by never needing anyone in the last few years — was screaming at him to push her away.
Finally, with a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender, he let go, his metal hand settling against the chair with a soft clink.
"This is going to sting," she warned quietly, beginning to unwrap the sloppy layers he'd wound around himself with his left hand.
"I know," he said simply, but his voice was softer now, some of the walls coming down. "I'm used to it."
The blood had already seeped through, warm and damp against her fingertips, more than she'd expected. She forced her breath to steady as she peeled the fabric back, revealing the angry slice across his forearm. It wasn't life-threatening, but it was raw, deep enough to require more care than his hasty field dressing. The wound was clean, he'd at least managed that much, but the edges were slightly swollen still.
"You always do this?" she asked softly, voice barely above the low hum of the monitors. Her fingers worked carefully, cleaning away the dried blood with gentle precision.
His eyes stayed on her face, watching every movement like he couldn't quite believe this was real. "Yeah. Easier this way."
She glanced up at him, catching the weight in his gaze, the careful distance he maintained even while letting her tend to him. "Easier, or safer?"
Something flickered in his expression. The mask came off for a second. He looked away, jaw flexing, throat bobbing like her words had struck somewhere too close to truth. "Same thing, isn't it?"
The quiet admission hung between them, heavy with implications she wasn't sure she had the experience to unpack. She said nothing more, focusing instead on wrapping him properly, her fingers careful and precise as they worked. Every accidental brush of contact made her pulse skitter—the ridges of scar tissue that mapped his history, the tense muscle beneath his skin, the warmth radiating from his skin. The intimacy of it was overwhelming.
Bucky's breathing shifted, slower now, heavier, as though her touch unsettled him more than the injury itself. She could feel his eyes on her face, studying her expression, like he was looking for something in particular.
When her thumb accidentally brushed over the pulse point in his wrist, he inhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of electronics. She looked up to find his gaze already on her, blue eyes dark and intense in the monitor light. For a moment, the air between them crackled with something unnamed, something that made her heart race and her hands tremble.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction, like he was testing whether she'd flee if given an excuse.
"I know," she whispered, securing the gauze snug against his skin. Her hands lingered a second too long, fingertips tracing the edge of the bandage with unconscious care. "I want to."
She didn't know why she said it. It was as though her brain was two steps behind her mouth, honesty spilling out before she could say something safer. But she knew it wasn't a lie. There was something about seeing him like this—unguarded, letting her help—that cracked something open in her chest.
The silence that followed was dense, electric. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to find the reason, the truth behind her words. And in that stillness, she thought she saw the truth of it all.The truth behind his pain. It was a raw, unspoken need for someone to stay anyway. For someone to see the wound and not turn away.
He had said the other her had found him when he was hiding in Romania, had stayed with him despite everything, despite nothing to keep her there, really. But she had stayed. Had helped him when he withdrew, kept pushing with nothing more than support until his walls came down.
And wasn’t she doing exactly that now?
Her chest tightened, and she realized her hands were still on him, fingertips brushing the back of his forearm where his pulse thudded steady and real beneath her touch. He didn't pull away. He just watched her, lips parting like he might say something, then pressing together again. As though the words he wanted to say were too dangerous to let slip.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and precious, until she forced herself to pull back slowly — reluctantly — her fingers lingering before she stepped away. Clearing her throat, she tried to sound casual. "There. Now you won't get a flesh-eating infection and lose the good arm."
His lips quirked, a low sound slipping out that wasn't quite a scoff, but wasn’t quite a laugh either. "Two metal arms would be a bit inconvenient."
"Well," she muttered, lips twitching in spite of herself. "We might as well keep the flesh one in case you need me to play nurse again."
The words slipped out before she could stop them, innocent enough on the surface but weighted with implications that made her face burn. She froze, pulse stumbling, realizing the double-edged meaning of what she'd just said. He froze too, or maybe just stilled. If he was surprised, he buried it beneath that soldier's mask quickly, but she still caught the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his eyes darkened just a fraction.
A cough tore from her throat, awkward and thin. She felt exposed, stripped bare by her own careless words, and had no idea why she was unraveling like this around him. All she knew was she needed distance before she humiliated herself further.
She pushed to her feet too quickly, brushing her hands on her pants like the motion could smooth over the stumble in her heart. "Well. Now that I've saved your life, I'm gonna head home before it gets too late. Alexei should still be talking about the mission for the fourth time, if you're lucky."
Bucky's brow furrowed, that careful distance cracking into genuine concern. "It's already almost midnight. You're walking alone?"
She shrugged, patting the gun he had given her beneath her jacket with mock confidence. "Yeah, it's not far. Former detective, remember? If I get abducted, I'll leave the right clues for you to find me."
His stare flattened into something sharp and distinctly unamused. "Very funny. You sure you don't want to stay here tonight?"
Her throat tightened. The truth, that she couldn't risk being this close to him, not when every interaction chipped at her carefully constructed armor, would hurt more than a lie.
So she lied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "No... I like my own space, you know? And not hearing Walker and Ava bicker every morning is... a necessary grace."
That almost-smile slid back onto his lips, faint but knowing, like he could see right through her deflection. "Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie."
Her heart stumbled again, betraying her completely. She froze, wincing inwardly, then bit out before she could stop herself. "How many months into dating her did you learn that tell?"
The reference to their shared past hung in the air between them, dangerous territory they'd both been carefully avoiding. But he didn't even flinch. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Didn't learn that from her, sweetheart. Learned that from watching you."
The words were casual and devastating all at once. The air seemed to thin, pressing in around her until she felt dizzy. She stared, waiting for him to crack — to smirk, to walk it back as a joke. But his face stayed impassive, like he hadn't just dropped a grenade into her chest.
Her silence stretched, and maybe he mistook it for invitation. He stood, rolling his shoulder with a sigh that sounded heavier than it should. "If you insist on going home tonight, let me walk you."
She blinked, startled into a whole new kind of unsteady. "Oh no, there's no need—"
"I insist." His tone was steel, firm and immovable. His gaze pinned her with the same unyielding gravity, like he'd chain himself to her side if that's what it took to keep her safe. "It's late, and you're..." He gestured vaguely at her, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Just let me walk you home."
She knew she'd lose this battle. It was written in his stance, in the set of his jaw, in the way he was already reaching for his jacket. So, she blew out a breath through her nose and gestured stiffly toward the elevator. "Fine. You win. After you, Terminator."
His brow furrowed at the reference, clearly lost, but he started forward without another word. She trailed after him, her heart still dancing far too fast in her chest for reasons she couldn't quite name.
Or didn't want to examine too closely.
The streets were quiet that late, the occasional hum of a car in the distance or a neon sign buzzing faintly above the closed shops they passed. Their footsteps were steady but unhurried, his longer stride intentionally slowed to match hers. She could feel the tension in the air, not hostile, but something quieter that clung to them like the humid summer night.
She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets, glancing at him sidelong. The silence was stretching, growing heavier with each step, and she needed to break it before the weight of it crushed her completely. "Do you... ever miss it? Not being an active Congressman anymore?"
Bucky shook his head, a humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Miss what? The infighting, the regular dance with public opinion? The constant reminders of all the shit I've done?" His voice was rough, honest in the darkness. "No. If it were up to me, I'd stay far away from all of it. I'd live quietly. Far away from all of it."
The last sentence came out weighted, like it meant something more. Something about the way he said pulled at her chest. The resignation in his voice was apparent, like he'd convinced himself that isolation was not just what he deserved but what he really wanted.
She hesitated, thought back to what Bob had said about Bucky’s relationship with her other version of her, then said carefully, "I think that's exactly why the world needs you. You're not doing it for glory. You're not chasing cameras or headlines. You help because you can. Because you care, whether you admit it or not."
His eyes flicked up to hers at that, lingering a little too long. In the warm glow of the streetlights, she could see the surprise in his expression, the way her words seemed to settle into him.
He gave a small nod, voice rough around the edges. "Thanks. For saying that."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, the city breathing quietly around them. She found herself studying his profile in the glow of the streetlight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead.
"Are you still as sad as you were when you got here?" he asked suddenly, the question emerging like it had been building in his head for weeks. "Still thinking about leaving?"
The unexpected vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. She looked down at her shoes, tracing the cracked edge of the pavement with her toe while she gathered her thoughts. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "I'm happy here, with the team. They make me laugh. They keep me moving forward, give me work to do. And I appreciate that. But..." She paused, struggling to articulate the ache that lived just beneath her ribs. "I still feel like a stranger sometimes. Like I don't quite belong, like I'm living in someone else's life. Like I'm not wanted for who I actually am."
His brows drew together, eyes narrowing like she had just said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He stopped walking entirely, turning to face her suddenly. The streetlight above him illuminated the earnest expression in his face.
"That's not true." His voice was firm, almost fierce. "You're not just tolerated. Not by any of us. They all love you, more than you realize. You've done more for this team than you even know." His voice softened then, just a notch, but somehow that made it hit harder. "Sam looks forward to whenever you call him. Yelena actually smiles when she talks about you. Bob lights up whenever you walk into the kitchen. Even Walker—" He huffed a laugh. "Walker actually does ask about you when you're not around."
Her throat tightened at the statements. Things she had never really seen or picked up on. She had always just imagined they were tolerating her to keep her from moving backwards.
"We want you here," his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “I want you here."
Her breath hitched, the confession landing like a punch to the gut. His words hung in the air, hot and sharp, the spark daring to catch fire in the space between them.
He seemed to realize the weight of what he'd said, because his jaw flexed, but his voice didn’t lose that soft edge. "I was wrong about how I treated you when you first showed up. It was a shock, seeing your face again. It messed with me in ways I didn't know how to handle. I didn't know how to separate you from her, how to see you as your own person instead of some sick reminder of what I'd lost."
His eyes lingered on her face in a way that made her skin feel too tight. "But you were right. You're not the woman I knew. I can accept that now, let that go." He paused, swallowing hard. "Doesn't mean you're not a hell of a person in your own right. You are. Brave as anyone on the team, stronger than you even know. You've carved a place here when most would've folded under the weight of it all."
Her throat felt tight, her eyes aching with emotion she didn’t want to shed at his unexpected kindness. The way he was looking at her now was something she didn’t quite have the words for. Like she mattered — not as a replacement or a consolation prize, but as herself. No one had ever had ever made her feel like her existence was something worth celebrating. Not here, not even back in her own world. She had never really had that kind of raw intimacy.
They'd reached her building, but neither of them moved toward the door. Something was shifting between them, some invisible barrier finally cracking after weeks of careful distance. The air felt charged and she found herself leaning slightly toward him without conscious thought.
"Goodnight," he murmured finally, but he didn't step back, didn't create the space that politeness demanded. He just stood there, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes again, close enough that the air between them felt nonexistent.
She nodded faintly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Goodnight, Bucky."
She turned toward her building, fishing for her keys with trembling fingers, hyperaware of his presence behind her. She could feel him watching, could sense his reluctance to leave even as she slipped her key into the lock. The door opened with a soft click, and she stepped inside, letting it close between them like a barrier she wasn't sure she wanted.
She leaned against the cool wood, pressing her palms flat against its surface as her heart pounded wildly. Through the thin door, she could hear his footsteps, slow and reluctant as he finally began to walk away.
She thought of the thing he had said. Of the look in his eyes when he admitted he was wrong, the careful way he'd said her name like it was something precious. Of how close he had been to her, how much she actually wanted to close that final distance herself, to see what would happen if she stopped running from the pull she felt toward him.
Every nerve in her body screamed against the door. Go after him.
Her breath caught, and before she could talk herself down, before fear could win another mental battle, she spun and threw the door open, bursting back out into the cool night air.
"Bucky!" she called, her voice sharp in the silence of the night.
He was halfway down the block, his broad shoulders tense. He stopped at the sound of her voice, turning around quickly. Confusion was etched in his features, his brow furrowed like he couldn't quite believe she'd called his name. "What—?"
She didn't let him finish. Didn't let herself think about consequences, what fate might be, or the weight of the face she wore. She closed the distance in a rush, her feet carrying her forward before her brain could catch up.
When she reached him, she grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands and pulled him down into a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.
For a heartbeat, everything went still. The world reduced to the warmth of his lips against hers, the sharp intake of his breath when she grabbed him, the way his hands came up instinctively to steady her even as shock overcame him. His lips were softer than she'd expected, slightly chapped from the night air. He tasted like coffee and something uniquely him that made her head spin.
Then, something in him seemed to break, or maybe rebuild, and he was kissing her back with a desperation that matched her own, his arms wrapping around her like he could anchor them both to this moment.
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but him. The way his lips moved against hers like he'd been starving for this, aching for this, the kiss deepening as if every second they'd spent apart had led them inexorably here. His flesh hand slid up her back, fingers trembling as they tangled in her hair, holding her close like he was terrified she might dissolve if he let go.
The kiss was everything and nothing like she'd expected. It was grief and hope in equal measure, of years of longing compressed into a single moment of reckless courage. When his thumb traced the line of her jaw with heartbreaking gentleness, she shivered against him, her own hands fisting tighter in his jacket in case she lost her footing.
When she finally pulled back for air, gasping as though she'd surfaced from deep water, their foreheads came to rest together naturally. Her eyes fluttered closed, focusing on nothing but the sound of their uneven breathing mixing in the warm night air.
"Bucky..." his name fell from her lips like a prayer, trembling and broken, carrying more weight than she realized.
He searched her face in the dim glow of the streetlight, blue eyes heavy with a thousand emotions she wished she could name. "You shouldn't have done that," he rasped, though his thumb brushed against her cheekbone like he couldn't stop touching her, like contact was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"I know," she whispered, her lips still tingling from the press of his, still close enough that her words brushed against his mouth. "But I couldn't stop myself. I…wanted to."
He sighed, his hands still shaking slightly against her face as he warred between resistance and surrender. She could see the battle playing out behind his eyes— the fear of the unknown, the desire she had guessed correctly that he had for her. Then, like a dam finally giving way, he kissed her again. It was softer this time but somehow more devastating, like he wanted to memorize every second, every sensation shared.
"I can't be her," she said, the words coming from some deep, honest place she'd been trying to keep locked away. "I won't even try. But I can be me. And if that's enough—if I'm enough—then maybe we can figure out what this is together."
For a long moment, he just stared at her, blue eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned his hand palm-up beneath hers and laced their fingers together.
"You're not her," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You're you. All the best qualities she had, and all new ones too. And you're..." He shook his head, like words weren't adequate. "You're everything I never thought I'd get to want again."
The confession hung between them, raw and honest and terrifying in its simplicity. She felt tears prick at her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her like she was some kind of miracle he didn't deserve.
"I'm scared," she admitted, the words barely a whisper.
"So am I," he said, thumb tracing over her knuckles with infinite gentleness. "Terrified, actually. But I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of living without trying."
Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, seemingly threatening to bruise itself on bone. When they broke apart again, she found the courage to voice the question that had been burning in her chest since the moment their lips first met.
"Do you..." she began, then stopped, swallowing down the fear of rejection lodging in her throat. "Do you want to come inside?"
The question hung between them, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of them like a physical force. She could see him processing it, and could watch the implications settle into his expression. The recognition that crossing this threshold would change everything between them, that there would be no going back to careful distance and polite restraint.
For a second, his lips parted in surprise, like he hadn't expected her to ask, hadn't dared hope she might want anything at all. A flicker of hesitation crossed his features too, some last wall of self-control holding on, some final attempt at defending his heart from possible pain.
But then he smiled, small and crooked and devastatingly real, the kind of smile she’d seen in those photographs on his dresser. It transformed his entire face, erasing years of careful control and revealing the man underneath—vulnerable and utterly human.
"Yes," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion he'd stopped trying to hide. His eyes stayed locked on hers. "God, yes. I'd like that."
The first time he stayed at her place for longer than a few hours, it was purely practical. A late mission briefing had run until almost one in the morning, and by the time they'd walked back to her building, the idea of him trekking across the city to the Tower again seemed ridiculous.
"You could stay," she'd offered, trying to keep her voice casual. "If you want. I mean, if you want.”
He'd looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
But when she'd emerged from her bedroom the next morning, she'd found him fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the couch with his shoes already on, looking like he was poised to bolt at the first sign that he'd overstayed his welcome.
"You don't have to leave," she'd said softly, padding into the kitchen to start coffee. "I was going to make breakfast."
The smile that had crossed his face then was small but genuine, touched with something that looked like relief. "I'd like that."
It became their routine. Slowly, carefully, they began to build something new between them. Coffee in the mornings when he stayed over, quiet dinners when he didn't. He started leaving small things at her apartment—a spare jacket draped over her chair, a book he'd been reading on her nightstand, his favorite mug in her sink.
She began to learn the smaller intimacies of him. How he took his coffee (black, two sugars). The way he unconsciously positioned himself between her and any potential threat whenever he was in proximity to her, even in the safety of her living room. How he slept, on his back with his arms crossed, like he was still ready to fight at all times. The first time she'd woken to find him having a nightmare, thrashing and muttering in what sounded like Russian, she'd touched his shoulder gently and whispered his name until he surfaced, eyes wild and unfocused until they found her face.
"Sorry," he'd rasped, running a shaking hand through his hair. "I should go—"
"Stay," she'd said firmly, surprising them both with the strength in her voice. "Please. Just... stay."
He'd looked at her like she'd just offered him water in a desert, and when she'd opened her arms, he'd come to her like a man drowning.
They were careful with each other in those early weeks, polite almost to a fault. He would ask before kissing her, as if each touch needed explicit permission. He would check in constantly—was this okay, was she comfortable, did she need space? It was sweet and maddening in equal measure, this delicate dance around each other's damage.
The first time they made love, it was nothing like she'd expected.
It had been building for weeks. Lingering glances, touches that lasted a heartbeat too long, the way he'd started looking at her like she was something he wanted to devour slowly. When he'd kissed her that night, there had been something different in it, a heat that made her toes curl and her pulse race.
"Are you sure?" he'd asked against her lips, even as his hands mapped the curve of her waist with trembling reverence.
"I'm sure," she'd whispered back, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
He'd been achingly gentle, worshipful almost, like he couldn't quite believe she was real. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss something that set her nerves on fire. When he'd moved inside her for the first time, his eyes had never left her face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any indication that she wanted to stop.
"Okay?" he'd breathed, voice rough with desire.
"Perfect," she'd managed, pulling him down for another kiss.
Afterward, they'd lain tangled together in the aftermath, her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers had traced absent patterns on her bare shoulder, and she'd felt more at peace than she had since arriving in this universe.
"I’m falling in love you," she'd said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
She'd felt him go still beneath her, tension creeping into his muscles, and for a moment she'd regretted the admission. Too soon, too much, too—
"I am too," he'd whispered back, voice thick with emotion. "I think I already am."
"Does it ever feel weird?"
Bucky's eyebrows drew together in a lazy frown, his arms folding behind his head with deliberate ease. The movement made every muscle in his arms and shoulders shift and flex beneath his skin, drawing her gaze like a magnet whether she wanted to look or not. The man was carved from marble by some Renaissance master and had the audacity to act like he didn't know it.
"Does what feel weird?" he asked, that knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he settled deeper into her pillows like he'd been born there, like this was exactly where he belonged.
She caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror as she rolled her eyes, taking in the utterly shameless picture he made. He was sprawled against her headboard without a care in the world, gloriously naked under the rumpled white sheets, his metal arm catching the golden late-afternoon light streaming through her curtains. Just twenty minutes ago, that same arm had been wrapped around her waist like a steel band, anchoring her against him as he moved inside her with enough intensity to make the bed frame knock against the wall in a rhythm that would probably have her neighbors giving her knowing looks for weeks. His mouth had been everywhere—her throat, her shoulders, that spot behind her ear that made her lose her mind—like he'd been starving for her touch for decades instead of just the few hours they'd been apart.
Now he was lounging there like some kind of satisfied cat, smug as sin, and the casual confidence of it made her want to throw something at him.
"You know exactly what I mean," she muttered, turning off the faucet and reaching for the hand towel. "This. Us. Dating. Do you ever just... stop and think about how surreal this whole thing is?"
Bucky's tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, a gesture so unconscious and yet so devastatingly attractive that she had to grip the marble countertop to keep herself steady. His gaze made a slow, deliberate journey down the length of her bare legs before traveling back up to meet her eyes in the mirror.
"Surreal?" His voice carried that rough, just-fucked quality that never failed to make her knees weak. "We've been together four months, sweetheart, and you're just now having this existential crisis?"
"Bucky," she groaned, letting her head fall back in exasperation. "Answer the damn question. None of this deflecting bullshit you pull when you don't want to have a real conversation."
The laugh that rumbled up from his chest was low and warm, the kind of sound that had become as essential to her as breathing. It was a rare gift, that laugh, something he saved only for her and the handful of people who'd earned their way past his defenses. Around the team, he was still every inch the Winter Soldier — stoic and sharp-edged. But here, in the sanctuary of her apartment, he transformed into something softer. Something infinitely more dangerous to her heart.
He was now the kind of man who teased her mercilessly and kissed her like she was solace personified, who whispered endearments in three different languages against her skin, who called her ‘baby’ when he knelt between her legs in a voice so rough with emotion it made her toes curl and her pulse stutter.
"No," he said finally, his voice gentling in that way that always managed to steal the breath from her lungs. He sat up straighter as she padded back toward the bed, the sheet pooling around his waist. His expression shifted into something tender that made her bite back a smile. "Doesn't feel weird. Not even a little bit strange."
She snorted softly, climbing onto the mattress and settling herself in his lap with practiced ease, her legs bracketing his hips. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, still mussed from her earlier attention, and he leaned into her touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Oh, sure," she said, unable to keep the affection out of her voice despite her attempt at sarcasm. "Inevitable, was it? You make it sound like I never stood a chance against your devastating charm."
"You didn't," he said with that wicked glint in his eyes that she'd learned meant trouble, dipping his head to press his lips against the curve of her neck. She couldn't quite suppress the giggle that bubbled up as his stubble scraped against her sensitive skin, her body automatically arching into him as his hands found their familiar place on her hips.
"Wasn't just charm, baby," he murmured against her throat, his voice dropping to that intimate register that was for her alone. "It's fate. You and me — we would find each other every time, in every universe, in every lifetime. Doesn't matter what world we're in or what circumstances try to keep us apart."
Her heart clenched tight in her chest, swelling with an emotion too big for words. He said it like gospel truth, like he would bet his soul on the certainty of it. Once, she might have rolled her eyes at the romantic optimism, especially coming from a man stalked around the Tower like he was personally offended by the existence of sunlight. But he'd worn down her cynicism with the quiet conviction behind his words, with the way he looked at her like she was something miraculous he'd never expected to find.
She'd seen that same look of resigned acceptance on Sam's face the first time Bucky had made this proclamation in front of him. Wilson had gagged dramatically and muttered something about "literal star-crossed lovers," but there had been genuine fondness in his eyes, a relief that his friend had found something worth believing in again.
She pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips, grinning when he immediately chased after it like he couldn't bear to let the contact end. "I love you too, James Barnes. Even when you're being mushier than a teenage girl."
He groaned, though the expression of mock-offense was completely undermined by the smile threatening to split his face in half. "I love you too, sweetheart. But I swear to God, if you ever call me mushy again..." His threat trailed off as his hand slid up the curve of her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades to pull her impossibly closer.
"What?" she challenged, her pulse quickening as she felt him stirring to life beneath her. "What are you going to do about it?"
Instead of answering, he showed her, rolling them in one fluid, powerful motion that left her breathless and pinned beneath him. The afternoon light painted golden stripes across his skin, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every scar that she had come to love.
"We have dinner with Sam and Sarah tonight," she managed to gasp out between the kisses he was pressing to her jaw, though her resolve was already crumbling like a house of cards. "We were late last time, and Sarah will never let us hear the end of it if we're a no-show."
"Then," he whispered against her lips, his mouth moving over hers with the kind of focused intensity that made rational thought impossible, "they can wait a little longer."
His kiss swallowed whatever protest she might have made, his tongue sliding against hers with practiced ease, his hands mapping her body like he was trying to memorize every inch of her skin. Time seemed to slow and stretch, the outside world fading away until there was nothing but the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he whispered her name like a prayer against her lips.
Later, much later, as they lay tangled together in the golden aftermath, she would think about his words. About fate and inevitability and the way some people were simply meant to find each other, no matter how impossible the odds.
And she would realize that he was right. In every universe, in every timeline, in every possible version of their story, she would choose him. Again and again and again.
The thought should have terrified her, this cosmic certainty, this love that transcended reality itself. Instead, it felt like coming home. Like finding the missing piece of herself she hadn't even known was lost.
She curled closer to him, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Outside, the city hummed with life, but here in this moment, wrapped in his arms, she felt like they were the only two people in the world.
And maybe, she thought to herself, that was enough. Maybe it was everything.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader(fem implied), Modern!AU, Best friends to lovers trope.
Warnings: None, just fluff, some yearning, uhh theyre very touchy, cuddling, kissing, lots of kissing. very cute i guess.
Synopsis: You and Bucky are friends, always having this casual intimacy between the two of you. What happens when you finally cross the line between friends and more.
Word Count: 2049
It was already warm inside by the time you got there — not from the weather, but from too many bodies in one space, music low and bassy under a dozen conversations. The smell of beer and takeout and too much cologne blended into that familiar party haze. You barely noticed it. You were already scanning for him.
And then — there.
Bucky, halfway sunk into the corner of Steve’s couch like it was his own, legs stretched out in front of him, drink loose in one hand. He was scrolling through his phone lazily, not really reading anything, and the second his eyes flicked up and landed on you —He smiled. One of the easy ones. Slow and crooked, the kind that made it feel like your name was already halfway in his mouth.He shifted, dropped his phone, and patted the cushion next to him without a word.
You didn’t even think about it. Your feet moved on their own.The seat was still warm when you slid in beside him, your thigh brushing his. He didn’t adjust. Neither did you. His arm was stretched out along the back of the couch — lazily, like he didn’t care — but his fingers just barely grazed your shoulder when you leaned back. He didn’t pull away.
You glanced at him. He was already watching you. “About time,” he murmured. “Missed me that bad?” you said, casual. He lifted his drink and took a slow sip. You watched the way his throat moved, the faint smirk that curled when he caught you looking.“Maybe.”
He didn’t offer the rest of his glass. He never did. You just reached for it anyway, and he let you — holding it steady while you took a sip, then setting it down with one hand on your knee to keep the balance.
That hand lingered there a second too long. His thumb brushed once against the inside of your leg before pulling back. No big deal. Not really.Around you, people moved through the space — grabbing drinks, dropping onto cushions, laughing at whatever Steve was saying too loudly in the kitchen. But Bucky’s attention stayed on you. Not intense. Just… there.
You shifted your leg over his slightly, leaned in a little closer under the guise of a joke, and let your shoulder press against his chest. His fingers ghosted over your back.
“You two gonna make out or what?” Steve’s voice cut through from across the room. He was already grinning, arms crossed, watching with the smugness of someone who’d seen this coming miles ago. “You ever gonna get yourself a man,” he added, nodding toward you, “or are you just gonna keep hanging off Barnes like he doesn’t count?”
You didn’t even get a chance to react.Bucky let out a low, amused breath and leaned forward — just enough to drop his head onto your shoulder. The weight of it was casual, but the placement was too perfect to be unintentional. His hand slid back to your knee, thumb brushing in slow, lazy circles.You looked down at him, then up at Steve, and shrugged.
“Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against Bucky’s thigh, “I’ve already got one idiot to take care of. What would I do with another?”
Bucky smiled against your shoulder — not smug, not shy. Just… content. Like the joke didn’t bother him. Like he liked where he was. Like he knew.
He tilted his head just enough to press his cheek along the curve of your collarbone, beard scraping faintly through the fabric. His hand tightened a little on your leg.And you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch or shift away.
Because this was normal. This was always how it was. Close enough to spark, but never quite crossing the line.
Not yet, anyway.
♡
The party was in full swing now. People had loosened up, jackets off, shoes abandoned at random corners. The lights were dimmer, the music louder, the drinks stronger — and you were drifting, back and forth between conversations, always finding your way back to him.You ended up perched on the arm of the couch, laughing at something Natasha said, holding a half-eaten cookie someone had handed you. From where you were sitting, you could see him across the room — leaning against the counter, beer in hand, head tipped back in laughter at something Sam said.And God, the way he laughed.
The kind of laugh that hit in waves — the first bark of it sharp and bright, the second more breath than sound, eyes squinting, hand reaching out like he needed to steady himself.You smiled before you could stop it.
Didn’t even realize how long you’d been staring until a voice came up right beside you. “Yeah, okay,” Steve said, dry and amused. “But it’s nothing, right?”You blinked. “What?” He nodded toward the kitchen, where Bucky was still grinning like a menace. “Just giving your friend heart eyes for no reason at all?”
You snorted, turning away too fast. “Pfft. Yeah. No reason at all.”“Mhm.” Steve’s smile said he didn’t believe you for a second. “Just checking.”
You threw the rest of your cookie at his chest. The night wore on. You mingled, you danced, you stole more than a few looks across the room, and every single time, Bucky’s gaze met yours like he’d been waiting for it. Like he always knew where you were.
Later — after most people had cleared out, the music now just a murmur — you were grabbing your jacket from the back of a chair when Bucky appeared at your side. “C’mon,” he said, putting both his hands on your shoulders. “I’m taking you home.” You arched a brow. “What if I had other plans?” He grinned. “Then cancel them. I’ve got snacks.” The drive was quiet, the windows fogging gently from the night chill. Your head leaned against the glass, legs curled under you. His car smelled like pine and the faintest trace of his cologne — familiar enough that it made your chest ache a little. At a red light, he glanced over.
“Hey.” You turned your head. “Hm?” “Serious question.” His voice was casual, but the way he gripped the steering wheel said otherwise. “You ever gonna get a man?” You laughed, caught off guard. “Wow. What, you getting tired of me or something?”He looked back at the road. Smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.“Just saying,” he said, voice lower now. “People are gonna think I’m a loser. Hanging out with a loser.”
You grinned shamelssly, "Guess we'll be losers forever." "Yeah, forever." The air in the car shifted — not tense, but... charged. “Maybe,” you said after a second. “I don’t know. It's true what i said, you occupy way too much of my mind. No thoughts except you, idiot." He didn’t respond. Didn’t press. Just turned his head with a smirk that says Oh I know.
His place was dark except for the soft light above the stove.
You kicked off your shoes like you’d done a hundred times before, because you did, wandered barefoot into the kitchen without asking. The cabinet with the snacks was still in the same place. You pulled out a bag of something salty, rummaged for a second one, and tossed it to him where he leaned against the counter.
He caught it one-handed, eyes still on you. Watching you move like you belonged there. Like this was your home too.You popped the chip into your mouth, then another, and when you caught him still staring — quiet, unreadable — you stepped closer.
“Here,” you said, holding one up for him.He didn’t move at first. Then — slowly — he leaned forward, took it right from your fingers with his mouth, lips brushing your fingertips. Didn’t break eye contact. Your breath hitched. He chewed. Swallowed. Licked the corner of his mouth.
You reached up without thinking, thumb brushing the spot gently, dusting away the remnants, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw before pulling away.He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.Your skin buzzed where you touched him.
You ended up on the couch, half a bag of snacks between you, some old show playing in the background neither of you were watching. Your legs were tucked under you, one shoulder pressed into the cushions.
“So,” you said, voice soft. “You wanna... I dunno. Cuddle?” He looked over at you slowly. Lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said, teasing. “Now you wanna cuddle?” You gave him a look. “Shut up.” He laughed under his breath — that low, warm sound — and opened his arms without another word.
You climbed into them like you belong there, in his arms, curled on top of him.But this time —This time, his hold was a little tighter. Your head rested a little lower, right over his heart. And when he buried his face in your hair and breathed you in, slow and deep —You let him.
You didn’t say a word. Because this wasn’t just habit anymore.
This was something else.And it was dangerously close to real.
♡
You look up at him to find him already looking at you. You stared into his eyes to find them almost hazy, glistening with unsaid words.
“You feel it too, right?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges like it had been hiding in his throat for too long. You looked at him — really looked — and everything in you stilled. Like the space between you was suddenly sacred.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s like… you’re almost mine.”His breath hitched. And then he smiled — soft, almost shy. The kind of smile that felt like a secret only you got to see.
“Make me yours, darling,” he murmured, hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, “I’ve waited long enough.”
You leaned in — slow, instinctive — and kissed him like you were exhaling something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding. And he kissed you back like he’d known it would always be you.
His lips were warm, patient, brushing over yours once... then again... slower the second time, like he was tasting the moment. Committing it to memory.
He pulled back just a little — only enough to look at you, eyes soft and searching. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth, featherlight. The top lip. The bottom. A slow drag of his mouth across yours that made your pulse trip.
You smiled — you couldn’t help it — and he felt it, because he smiled too. That quiet, crooked grin that made you dizzy. “There you are,” he whispered against your lips, like he’d been waiting his whole life to find you like this. You touched his face gently, fingertips tracing his cheek, the curve of his jaw, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and you followed without thinking — fitting yourself against him like you'd been made to.
Another kiss — this one lingering. No rush. Just the soft press of lips, the kind that said I’m not going anywhere. He kissed you again. A little slower. A little deeper. Then once more — shorter, smiling into it now, like the joy was just spilling out of him and he couldn’t stop it.
You rested your forehead against his, breath mingling in the quiet space between.“I’m yours,” he said again, a little more certain this time. “Say it back.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, his lips — slow, loving, like a vow.
“You’re mine,” you whispered. “You always were.”
He closed his eyes, exhaled like it was a weight lifted. And then pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you as you melted into him, his lips brushing yours over and over — lazy, content, like he had nowhere else to be but here.
With you. Yours.
Soooo, its here, my caffeine induced anxiety along with the adrenaline , cus my god, i got like 20 likes on my last fic. so heres a longer piece that ive been obsessively writing and rewriting and giggling in between for the past 6 hours, hope you all enjoy it.
Ps; my fav part were the kisses oh my goddddd, i was blushing so hard while writing, can you tell i wish that was how my first kiss was like. A girl can only dream. *sigh*.
Summary: You were keeping something from Bucky. Something big. Finding the right time to tell him was becoming harder and harder, and you didn't want him to treat you differently. To stop touching you like you were delicate.
Word count: 2k
Warnings: Injury, secret identity, umm some angst, established relationship, vague explanation of powers
a/n: Based on this request!! This was so cute and fun to write :) Thank you for reading!! Yayy Bucky ❤️
Masterlist
~~
Bucky was always careful with you—so, achingly careful.
He was gentle and never held you too tight and moved you around as if you were made of glass. For the first month of dating, he would reposition himself to put his vibranium arm out of reach, always worrying that you would hit it the wrong way or somehow get caught in between the metal. He got over that eventually, but the cautiousness was still there.
You figured the abundance of caution stemmed from his past, the violence and roughness thought to be ingrained in him, even when you saw that it wasn’t. And it was sweet that he cared so much. You loved that he saw you as something precious.
But you were starting to feel… sorta terrible.
Because you weren’t made of glass. Bucky could probably punch you square in the face, and you would be fine. It might take you a couple of minutes to bounce back, but you would be fine. Being a genetically mutated superhero would do that to a person.
It wasn’t as if you kept the secret maliciously. Your relationship with Bucky was so new, and he looked at you like you were so normal; you didn’t want to break the facade. And you were going to tell him. Eventually. Soon. Maybe once you told him you loved him and he said he felt the same way.
Bucky told you he loved you first, actually, and that was over a month ago. The admittance was not followed by you unveiling your secret identity.
So, after four months of dating and falling in love with Bucky Barnes, there no longer seemed to be a right time to tell him you were a superhero. You couldn’t exactly blurt something like that out, and the truth was now veiled under the fact you had kept it from him for so long. He had shared so many secrets with you right from the start. He had never been anything but honest.
You bit the inside of your cheek and scratched at a phantom itch on your head as Bucky moved around your apartment. The thoughts waging war in your head were much louder today. You could tell him right now, probably. Maybe he wouldn’t be that mad.
Or maybe he would be disgusted by your secretive nature and the fact that you weren’t as delicate as he thought and he would storm out forever.
There was really no way of knowing.
“You okay over there?” Bucky called, slipping the window closed as more dark clouds rolled over the city. “Look like you’re about to burst into flames.”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m totally fine,” you laughed, but the sound was grating on your ears. Completely unnatural.
Your boyfriend raised a brow and stared. “Uh huh. Right.”
You tried again. Something different. “I was just thinking about work. It’s been so hectic lately, you know? And with the new clients, my boss has been on my ass and I don’t know what to wear tomorrow, actually. There’s a meeting and none of my good blouses are clean.”
Apparently, word vomit did the trick. Bucky huffed out a fond laugh and met you in the middle of the living room. He placed a soft hand against the back of your head—always gentle—and brought you forward until his lips met your forehead. His hands slid down next, tucking your hair back and framing your face.
“You’re gonna do great. I’ll do some laundry tonight. Nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t need to do my laundry, Bucky. That’s ridiculous.”
Another kiss to your face. “I want to. It’s about to rain. That’s the perfect time for laundry.”
“I don’t think there’s a connection between the two,” you argued, moving your hands to his waist.
Bucky pretended to think, head bobbing as he weighed fake thoughts. “Eh, I think there is. You haven’t been around for as long as I have.”
So, Bucky did your laundry last night, and you had a blouse to wear to the stupid meeting that you hadn’t been thinking about even as you walked into the conference room. Perhaps you would have been more focused on it if you hadn’t looked at your phone right before, a text lighting up the screen and bypassing your Do Not Disturb.
Bucky: Stay at the office. I hear there’s something going on by your apartment. Not safe for you. I’ll call when it is. I love you.
Not safe for you.
Right.
Two weeks ago you saved an old woman from a robbery and smashed a guy’s face in before lunch, but that wasn’t important. A couple more weeks ago, low-level extraterrestrials invaded some astronomy lab and you were the one to neutralize the issue. But Bucky didn’t know that. He had been out of town, thankfully.
You stared out the office window and bit at your thumbnail, knee bouncing and skin beginning to prickle under the weight of anxiety.
Bucky said to stay away. He was watching the situation—whatever it was.
Your good deeds might be plastered across a few cereal boxes in the grocery store, but that wasn’t your only job. You were known to be a random force in New York. You did good, but you weren’t the sole protector. You weren’t even a fully contracted superhero, as much as the government hated that.
More of a vigilante. Just a girl who was in a freak accident a few years ago and had been using the outcome to help people. Sometimes. Not all the time.
When a beam of light struck the office window, the meeting halted. The room’s attention shifted out, and you caught the small disturbance happening a few blocks away. But there was no fighting. It wasn’t another rogue alien to be taken down. There was an entire bank robbery with helicopters and police stacked in front of large doors.
How were you supposed to ignore that?
~~
Rain dripped from your mask and slid down the sore plane of your neck as you ambled into your apartment several hours later. As it turned out, the scene was so large because the bank robbery was actually a hostage situation and the guys were crazy and there were several other factors involved, but you were too tired to recount them in your mind.
A few bruises were blooming along your cheeks as you tripped over your coffee table. Not even a groan left your lips; you were too focused on being soaked to the bone.
Light—you needed to turn a light on before you faceplanted into another piece of furniture.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought about Bucky. You hadn’t texted him back. You’d have to do that soon, or he’d worry. He might even come over to check on you, and you were too out of it for that to be a good idea.
Your hand moved blindly around the wall by your kitchen, finally flipping the light on just as you peeled your mask from your face. The pure oxygen was overwhelming. You blinked your eyes to clear the rainwater from your lashes, and then your heart stopped beating.
Bucky was in your living room.
The front door was ajar, his coat was still firmly on his shoulders, and an umbrella dripped even more water onto your rug. You hadn’t even heard him come inside.
The hum of the heater and the busy street were the only sounds between you. Your jaw was slack, and both of you stood frozen.
And then, at the same time, you spoke.
“You—”
“I can explain—”
Another lapse of silence.
You opened and closed your mouth and Bucky’s expression morphed into stone. “You’re hurt.”
Your hand immediately flew to the ache in your cheeks, but that was not your focus. “I meant to tell you. I didn’t want to keep it a secret, but there was no good time. I love you. I’m so sorry, Bucky.”
It didn’t seem like he was really listening to you. Bucky dropped his umbrella into a puddle on the floor and held you by your shoulders, pulling you out and then turning you. “Anywhere else? What happened?”
Now facing the wall, you continued with your pleas, ignoring the unzipping of your uniform as Bucky probed for more injuries. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it at first, but then the longer I kept it from you, the worse it would have been to tell you. And I didn’t want to make your life more difficult. You seemed so happy to have something normal for once.”
“Make my life more difficult?” Bucky muttered under his breath. You felt his cool fingers slide up your ribs and trace a few bruises. “Anything bleeding?”
“What? No.” Bucky turned you back around, your suit now back in place as he searched your neck. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry for not telling you. I know you’re probably so so mad at me. And if you don’t want this anymore, I completely understand. You didn’t sign up for this. I’m not normal.”
You watched as Bucky furrowed his brows and shook his head slightly, but again, he was only half listening. He was checking your head now, pressing with his fingers along the base of your neck and along your hairline.
“I really do love you. And I promise—wait, you’re being gentle,” you realized, snapping yourself out of your rambling when you felt his familiar fingers only barely pressing against your skin.
That made Bucky pause. He stood up fully and met your eyeline, hands dropping to his sides. “What’re you talking about?”
You stayed in his gaze for a moment, and then reasoned, “Well, I just figured you might be more… I don’t know, rough? Once you found out who I was. That I’m not fully human.”
“Why would I be rough with you?”
Uncertainty took over then. You fiddled with your fingers by your waist. “‘Cause you could? I wouldn’t need gentleness.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped a fraction. He shook his head again, biting into his lip as he went to touch you once more. His hands were on your face, and they felt the same as they did yesterday—before he knew.
“I’m careful with you because I love you. I want to be gentle,” he said with his voice so low. “And I know I might not be the smartest, but I had my suspicions. I was waiting for you to tell me.”
“You knew?”
Bucky tried to hide his smirk and failed. “Like I said, I suspected. Why do you think I always came over right after the mysterious superhero that looked a lot like my girlfriend was talked about on the news?”
“I wear a mask. You can’t even see me,” you mumbled, avoiding Bucky’s teasing.
“I can recognize you just about anywhere. Even under a mask. And I do your laundry. Often. Now, you gonna actually tell me if you’re hurt anywhere?”
You sighed in defeat, abandoning your further arguments. With a soft, I’m really fine, Bucky concluded his examination and let you take a shower. It wasn’t until much later that night that you sat and talked about it. About all of it.
And Bucky listened, before pulling you into bed and holding you like he always did. Like you weren’t an indestructible force, because you weren’t, really. Not to him.
Summary: A year has passed since your feelings for Bucky were unrequited. You find someone new but is he good for you?
Word Count: 1,826
Warnings: Absolute jackass of a boyfriend, jerk John, protective Bucky, little angst with lots of comfort, language.
A/N: Here is the second part to It's A Heartache. This is fast forward one year on and I promised protective Bucky would come out to play, I hope I lived up to your expectations. A massive shout out and hugs to my lovely friend @jobean12-blog for proofreading this for me and giving me awesome suggestions, you're the best and everyone should go and read Jo's work because she is an amazing person and writer! ❤️
It took a long time for you to bury your feelings for Bucky. Too long, honestly. But how could it not? Your feelings for Bucky became genuine. This wasn't some kind of high school crush that lasted a few days.
To you, it was serious.
His relationship with the mystery woman outside the compound hadn’t lasted very long. It ended ugly and with betrayal that cut deeper than he’d admit out loud.
She cheated with some guy she called an “old friend” Simon. She begged him to forgive her, swore it didn’t mean anything and it was a one time mistake. But Bucky wasn't interested in her excuses or lies. Once the trust was gone, it was gone. He wasn’t about to try to glue pieces back together knowing the cracks would always show and have a constant reminder of her betrayal by having to look at her everyday. He didn't need to go to bed at night wondering what she was doing or who she was with.
Bucky was done with her, once and for all.
Bucky needed a friend because it was what he so desperately needed and that’s where you came in.
Late nights brewing hot tea in the kitchen. Breaking into Tony’s ridiculously expensive stash of chocolate that he always hid in the top cupboard. Dunking cookies in milk, laughing at dumb movies, sitting shoulder to shoulder with books open but barely reading. It was just the little comforting things.
The things Bucky needed and loved doing, especially with you.
You got close. Closer than you had ever expected.
The walls Bucky had built around himself started to crumble piece by piece, especially during the times you smiled at him like he was worth something.
And maybe that’s why he looked so completely pissed and defeated when you walked into the common room with some guy’s arm slung around your shoulders.
This guy was no good, he could tell just by the aftershave he was wearing.
“Hey, everyone,” you said, voice quiet and nervous. “I'd like to introduce you to my new boyfriend. This is John.”
The team greeted John with handshakes, hugs and even ‘bro’ hugs as Sam liked to call them.
But Bucky just sat there with his fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked, staring ahead like the world had just ended.
And for Bucky, that's exactly how it felt.
John really did look the part. He was tall, he wore an expensive suit with shiny shoes and an expensive watch. His hair slicked back neatly with hair gel, though by how greasy it looked, it looked as though John had used the whole tube.
But there was something in John’s eyes that put Bucky on edge, there was something behind those eyes Bucky just didn't like about John.
Just as arrogant as Tony, he thought.
John's gaze flicked to him, a smirk etched into his features.
“Oh, you're the famous Bucky Barnes.”
John said, flat toned. But that smirk? It wasn't casual, it wasn't friendly. Not even close.
“You don't seem as scary as I imagined.” John chuckled, one posh hand slipped into the pockets of his tight slacks.
Bucky’s jaw twitched but kept focused on the white wall ahead. His vibranium arm whirred with the tension of the clenched fist.
Keep cool Barnes, keep cool.
But it didn't take too long for the cracks to start showing in yours and John's relationship.
It was very subtle at first. John would interrupt you mid sentence, intentionally being contradictive, making comments that he would disguise as a joke.
Intentionally being a dickhead.
Then as time went on John’s mask began to fall.
“Do you really think you should be wearing that? It’s a bit tight, you're going to attract unwanted attention.” he muttered one evening before training.
“Oh for fuck sakes Y/N! You're too damn sensitive. Why can't you ever take a joke?” whenever you would scowl at his immature comments.
The others noticed of course. Clint’s eyebrows nearly shot off his head. Natasha’s lips thinned every time she witnessed one of his digs.
But you being the sweet and stubborn you just kept brushing it all off, as if trying to make it hurt less.
Bucky however felt his blood boil hotter with every passing day that John was around. There were days Bucky was more tempted than others to ring John's neck.
Bucky often imagined what it would feel like to hear one of John’s pathetic bones crack under the pressure of his arm.
Because he’d heard those same words before. Cruel, narcissistic, leaving you to feel smaller than you deserved to be.
He just couldn’t stand watching it happen to you.
Things came to a boiling point one Friday evening.
The team had gathered in the common room for a takeaway and films, a rare moment of downtime that you cherished when it happened. You sat cross legged next to John, food in your lap and snacks on the other side of you. Your shoulders were tense and your smile felt a little forced.
Halfway through one of the films, you offered a light hearted joke on the plot. A few chuckles were heard, but your smile soon faded when John snorted.
“Babe, please don’t embarrass yourself tonight. Then again, you never seem to get it.”
The room fell silent. So silent that you could absolutely hear a pin drop. Your throat suddenly felt like sandpaper and it was hard to breathe. It felt as if there was no air and you were suffocating under the stares.
You tried to laugh it off, but nothing sound came out.
And that's when Bucky stood abruptly, his own food flying off his lap. His heavy breathing cut through the silence of the room. All eyes were on you.
“Get the fuck out.” Bucky’s voice boomed. His nostrils flared and vibranium arm whirring by his side, ready to punch that irritating smirk right off this guy's fucking face once and for all.
John blinked, chuckling as if finding this whole exchange humorous. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Bucky shouted. “You’re not welcome here. Not after the way you’ve been treating her.”
John scoffed. “Oh come on, Buck. She knows I’m only teasing.”
Bucky stepped forward, eyes blazing. “No you're wrong, John. Teasing doesn’t leave her looking small. Teasing doesn’t make her laugh like she’s trying not to cry. You’re not teasing her, you’re tearing her down and I've had enough of it.”
The weight of his words hung in the air.
John sneered, glancing around the room for backup. “Are you all just going to let him talk to me like that?”
Natasha crossed her arms. “He’s not wrong though.”
Sam gave a sharp nod. “She deserves better, man. Way better.”
John’s expression changed like the weather. He looked angry as he turned back to you, as if expecting you to defend him. “Y/N?”
You swallowed the hard lump in your throat, torn between instinct and the truth. For so long you’d brushed off his cruelty and comments. But the look in Bucky’s eyes, he was furious, he was protective of you and you realised it tonight. It made something inside you snap.
“I… I just think you should go,” you whispered, avoiding his stare.
John’s face twisted into disgust. “You are fucking unbelievable.” He shouted, causing you to flinch at both his words and anger.
He snatched his coat, muttered something under his breath, and stormed out.
The slam of the door echoed and rang in your ears.
The silence was intense. Embarrassment crept up to your cheeks.
Wanda leaned forward gently. “Are you all right, Y/N?”
You nodded quickly, though your throat felt tight. “I’m fine honestly. Just… I’m so sorry you all had to see th-”
“No,” Bucky said firmly, interrupting your train of thoughts, his voice softer now but no less intense. “Don’t apologise Y/N. He should never have spoken to you like that. Not once. Not ever.”
Your eyes met his, and something in your chest shifted. For a moment, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to cry or throw your arms around him.
“Thank you Buck.” You murmured instead, eyes glossing over.
When the evening officially ended and the team headed off to their own rooms, you lingered in the kitchen staring thoughtfully into your lukewarm cup of tea. Your chest felt tight, and your shoulders slouched under the weight of what happened tonight. Your mind replaying everything John ever said to you, his jokes, his control over you.
Bucky found you there, sitting on the stool in the kitchen staring out into the void.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You gave a weak smile. “I will be. Just… I just feel stupid, you know? For not seeing it sooner.”
“Don’t.” His tone was fierce, but not with you. “People like him Y/N, they’re very good at hiding it, at twisting things and never taking accountability for it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Your throat tightened. “Still. I thought… I thought he cared. I only wanted that.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t deserve you. Not even close.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them was low, steady, filled with genuineness and made the warmth spread through your chest despite the ache.
You studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any signs he's lying. “Do you really mean that?”
He stepped closer, blue eyes locking with yours. “Y/N… you deserve someone who sees you for who you are, doll. Someone who makes you feel stronger and taller, not smaller. Who knows exactly how lucky they are to have you.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky…”
He swallowed hard, fighting the war inside himself. For years he’d kept it buried. Convinced he wasn’t good enough for you, convinced you deserved someone whole. But watching that man tear you down had snapped something inside him.
Bucky didn't just need you. He loved you.
His voice was raw when he finally admitted, “I’ve always seen you that way. Even when I tried not to.”
The air between you shifted, heavy with something unspoken, finally given breath.
You blinked, heart drumming fiercely against your ribcage. “You… you’ve always…?”
“I thought it was better if you didn’t know,” he said, voice low. “When I was with someone else, when you deserved more than a broken mess like me, I thought keeping it to myself was protecting you. But tonight, seeing him like that… God, Y/N, I can’t just stand by and let you think that’s all you deserve. Because it’s not. You deserve everything. You deserve love.”
Tears stung your eyes, but for once they weren’t from pain.
You reached for his hand. The cool metal of the vibranium was steady beneath your palm.
“Bucky…” Your voice shook. “All this time, I thought you didn’t want me.”
His laugh was rough, almost disbelieving. “Want you? Doll, I’ve been in love with you longer than I ever care to admit.”
The words settled over you like a balm, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe it.
Summary: Bucky has been rehearsing something he's been wanting to tell you.
Warnings: Flufffff :)
Word Count: 1,020
A/N: This is super random BTW, I thought of this when I was cooking earlier 😅
He had rehearsed his words over a dozen times in his head. Each repetition is carefully crafted to sound casual, confident, smooth. Just enough charm to make it sound natural, not desperate. But standing across from you in the soft golden light of the café, he realized all of that preparation had been for nothing.
You laughed at something the barista said. A small, bright sound that seemed to echo only in his chest. And for a moment, he forgot how to speak.
“What I… uh…” He started, his tongue tripping over the rehearsed line he’d practiced in the mirror. “I mean, I just wanted to…”
You tilted your head, noticing his sudden hesitation, the way his eyes lingered on your smile. “Everything okay?” you asked, a teasing lift in your voice that made him want to melt.
He swallowed hard. Normally, he could be smooth. Normally, words came to him without effort. But now, they were like butterflies trapped in his throat, fluttering, impossible to catch.
And then, without any warning, the rehearsed line completely abandoned him. He didn’t remember the clever thing he’d meant to say. He didn’t remember the joke, the casual comment, the casual compliment he’d imagined delivering flawlessly. All he remembered and all he could think was you.
“You’re… beautiful.”
The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He immediately wanted to retract them, cover them up with a joke, anything to make it less… real. But the way you stopped laughing, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, made him realize it was already too late.
“Wow,” you said softly, and for a heartbeat he thought maybe he’d imagined it. “That… was really sudden.”
He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the heat creeping up his face. “Yeah. I, uh… didn’t mean to- I mean, I did, but not like that… I mean-”
You laughed again, this time more gently, and it was like a soft balm on his nerves. “It’s okay,” you said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I kind of… wanted to hear that.”
Relief hit him like a wave, and his heart started racing in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He realized then that it wasn’t just the words he’d said, but how easy it felt to say them. How natural it felt to admit the truth.
“You really are,” he added, trying to sound more composed, more intentional this time. “Beautiful. And not just… like, looks. Your laugh, your smile… everything. It’s…”
You reached across the small table and lightly tapped his hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “You don’t have to explain it,” you said, eyes sparkling. “I get it.”
He blinked, a little dumbfounded by how easily you accepted it. Usually, moments like this were awkward, full of tension and second-guessing. But with you… it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. Warm, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
For a few minutes, you both just sat there, smiles lingering, words unnecessary. The café around you faded, the chatter of other patrons dimmed, the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine becoming background music to the moment.
He found himself memorizing every detail: the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the little dimples that appeared at the corners of your mouth, the soft sound of your laughter echoing in his mind long after it had faded.
“You know,” he said finally, trying to steady his voice, “I don’t usually just… blurt things out like that.”
You tilted your head, curiosity dancing in your gaze. “Do you normally rehearse compliments before giving them?”
He chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Something like that. But I guess… I don’t need to rehearse anymore.”
“Because?”
“Because the truth… it’s easier than I thought.” He paused, letting the words hang between you, delicate as a breath. “Especially when it’s about you.”
Your cheeks warmed, and you laughed softly again, but this time it was quieter, more intimate. “You’re really bad at hiding your feelings, you know that?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. I guess I am. But maybe… maybe I don’t want to hide them anymore.”
For a moment, silence settled over you both, comfortable and unforced. He could feel the rhythm of your breathing, the warmth of your presence, the subtle brush of your fingers against the table. And in that silence, he realized something he hadn’t before: words didn’t have to be perfect. Compliments didn’t need a script. All that mattered was honesty, and he had plenty of that to give.
“Then I’m glad you said it,” you said finally, voice soft. “Because I’ve been waiting for someone to.”
His chest tightened at your words. Waiting… for him. The idea made his heart feel simultaneously heavy and light, like gravity and flight in one surreal mix.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” he whispered, leaning slightly closer, just enough that he could feel your warmth without breaking the unspoken boundary. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Your hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally, effortlessly. “Good,” you said simply, and it was enough. More than enough.
He laughed, a little breathlessly, because he felt ridiculous and elated all at once. “I might get distracted again,” he admitted, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You have that effect on me.”
“Then maybe you should keep watching,” you said, leaning in just slightly. “See what other truths slip out.”
He smiled, heart full, mind finally quiet, and he knew that no matter how many words he tried to rehearse in the future, none would matter as much as the ones he could say in moments like this. Moments when laughter and honesty collided, when the world fell away, and all that was left was her.
“You’re beautiful,” he repeated, softer this time, more certain.
“And I mean it,” you added, voice warm, eyes locking with his in a way that made the world dissolve completely.
For a moment, that was all there was: laughter, truth, and the undeniable, breathtaking simplicity of two people finally seeing each other for exactly who they were.
Summary: It seems the old man is having difficulties setting up his new phone and adding a contact picture.
Warnings: Fluff, Bucky is just sweet and adorable 🥰 kisses
Word Count: 1,002
A/N: Finally polished this one up, thought I'd go ahead and just post it! Feedback most welcome 🥰
“I don't know how to do this, doll.”
Bucky’s pout is almost comical as he drops heavily onto your bed, his brand new phone dangling in his hand like it’s about to combust. His shoulders sag, his expression caught somewhere between defeat and a sulky child denied dessert.
You lean against the headboard, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve been back in the 21st century for a while now, Buck. You can handle a little technology.”
He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve fought aliens, robots, and gods. And this…” he waves the phone dramatically in the air, “...is still scarier.”
You laugh, reaching out. “Hand it over before you accidentally set off nuclear codes.”
He drops it into your palm like it weighs a ton. “Wouldn’t put it past Stark to build that feature in just to mess with me.”
Shaking your head, you start tapping through the menus, only to discover the problem almost instantly. “Buck… no wonder you’re confused. It’s in another language.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Another language?”
“Yes,” you chuckle, biting your lip as you try to navigate purely from memory. “And I don’t even know which one. The text looks vaguely Korean?”
He groans again and flops backwards on the bed, throwing his metal arm over his eyes. “See? Conspiracy. Stark’s out to get me.”
“Uh huh,” you tease, fiddling with the settings. “Or you pressed the wrong thing and switched it accidentally.”
“Same difference,” he mutters.
It takes a few tries, but eventually you flick it back into English. With a little flourish, you hand it back. “There. Good as new.”
Bucky eyes the screen with suspicion, as though it might bite him. “Not so scary when you do it.”
“Exactly why you keep me around.”
His lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through. “Among other reasons,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear.
Your heart stutters, but before you can think too hard, he’s frowning again. “What’s this? It wants me to add a contact?”
“That’s where you save people’s numbers,” you explain patiently.
He shoots you a playful side eye. “Look at you, talking like I didn’t grow up in the 1940s when rotary phones were state-of-the-art.”
“Exactly,” you giggle. “So add my number. Come on, you’ll need it.”
He dutifully types it in, slowly, carefully, like each digit might set off a booby trap. When he finally hits ‘save,’ he exhales like he’s run a marathon.
You grin. “Congratulations, Barnes. You’ve officially joined modern civilisation.”
“Don’t mock the elderly,” he deadpans, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
You bump your shoulder into his. “Now pick a picture for my contact.”
He scrolls through his sparse camera roll. A few shots of the skyline, one of Steve’s old notebook, and then your breath catches. There are several of you.
You hadn’t even realised he’d taken them. One of you laughing at something Sam said, another of you holding two cups of coffee, sunlight catching your hair.
Bucky stares at them far longer than necessary. His thumb hovers but doesn’t select any.
“Go on,” you prompt gently. “Any of them will do.”
But he shakes his head. His voice is quiet, almost reverent when he finally speaks.
“None of these are good enough.”
The words steal the air from your lungs. “Buck-”
“They don’t even come close,” he continues softly, his eyes lifting from the screen to meet yours. “Not to… you.”
Your cheeks warm instantly, your heart skipping a beat. For a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter, like the world has slipped away and it’s just the two of you.
He swallows, thumb still hovering over the photos. Then, almost shyly, he lifts the phone. “Can I… take one now? For me?”
Your throat goes dry. “You want a picture of me?”
“I want my picture of you,” he admits, voice low. “Not one I snapped when you weren’t looking. Something real. Something that’s just… mine.”
The honesty in his eyes leaves you breathless. “Fine,” you whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
You try to smile naturally, but under the weight of his gaze, it’s impossible not to feel self-conscious. He holds up the phone, the camera clicking softly. When he lowers it, he’s still staring at you, his expression softened into something that makes your chest ache.
“That’s the one,” he says, saving it without hesitation. “Perfect.”
You blink rapidly, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “It’s just a photo,” you murmur, trying to play it off.
“Not to me.”
The silence that follows is thick with unspoken things. His hand drifts toward yours on the bed, fingers brushing lightly. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than you’re willing to give, but the warmth of his touch lingers.
Your lips curve into a small, nervous smile. “At least you’ve mastered one bit of technology.”
He chuckles, low and warm, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. “Yeah. The most important part.”
You’re still smiling when he tugs you closer, slow and careful, giving you every chance to pull away. When you don’t, when you lean in instead, his lips brush yours in the softest of kisses.
It’s brief, tentative, but it leaves you dizzy all the same.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his smile is boyish, almost shy. “Think I could get used to this modern stuff if you’re the one teaching me.”
You laugh softly, your heart still racing. “Lucky for you, I’m a patient teacher.”
“Lucky for me,” he echoes, pressing another gentle kiss to your temple, “you’re mine.”
Summary: You have a crush on Bucky, it's that simple until it isn't. When your flirting isn't reciprocated, you soon find out why.
Warnings: Angsty I'm sowwy, reader is hurting, unrequited love.
Word Count: 1,068
A/N: I have another two parts mapped out for this one-shot. But I hope you enjoy it; feedback is always most welcome. I always write from my phone, which has a temperamental autocorrect, so I apologise if there are any spelling mistakes!
The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, he looked like he carried the weight of two wars on his shoulders. Six months had passed since then, and while he still wasn’t exactly light hearted, you’d noticed the lines around his mouth softened when Sam teased him, or when Steve forced him into a game of pool.
You'd notice the lines between his eyes as he was focused on the book in his hands. You'd notice the way his tongue would dart out between his lips when he got to a really good part of the book.
You'd notice the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
And you noticed other things too.
Like the way his hair sometimes curled at the ends when he hadn’t bothered tying it back. Or the faint scar along his jawline that your fingers often itched to trace. Or how, whenever you tried to make him laugh, he did this tiny half-smile, just enough to give you hope he didn’t mind your attention.
It had become a habit, really. Tossing him compliments, cheeky remarks, even a wink or two. You knew the others thought you were bold, but they didn’t see the nerves twisting in your stomach every time you dared to flirt with him.
And yet… there was absolutely nothing from him.
He never flirted back, never encouraged you further. At first, you chalked it up to his reserved nature. Then, maybe he was simply shy. But after six months of little to no progress, you had begun to wonder if perhaps James Buchanan Barnes just wasn't interested in you at all.
Still, you kept trying. Because giving up felt worse than rejection.
The evening was quiet, which was rare in the Avengers’ common room. Sam had somehow convinced Tony to put on one of those panel style quiz shows, and the team had sprawled out across the sofas and armchairs, bowls of snacks and glasses of wine scattered around.
Bucky sat at the far end of the sofa, next to Steve. You’d taken a spot beside Natasha, close enough to steal glances at him without it looking too obvious.
Conversation drifted lazily between rounds of the game on TV. Someone asked Clint about his kids; Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony’s commentary. It was warm and familiar. It felt like… home.
Then Sam leaned forward, mischief glinting in his eyes. “So, Barnes,” he said, “you’ve been sneaking out of the compound quite a bit lately. Gonna tell the class why?”
Bucky frowned, caught off guard. “What d’you mean?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb. Every few nights, gone for hours. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Steve smirked into his glass, which was answer enough.
Your stomach dropped. Your heart drummed dangerously fast against your ribcage.
Bucky shifted uncomfortably, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “I’ve… met someone.”
The room erupted in questions, teases, laughter. You tried to keep your face neutral, though you felt heat rise to your cheeks, a prickle at the back of your throat. You blinked quickly to stop any tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks.
“Met someone?” Natasha arched a brow. “Is that why you’ve actually been smiling lately?”
“Tell us more!” Wanda pressed, grinning.
Bucky ducked his head, that rare, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. The same one you’d once thought was meant for you. “She’s… different. Normal. Makes me feel like I can breathe, you know? We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. It’s… it’s looking serious.”
You heard the words, but they blurred together, muffled beneath the rush of your pulse in your ears. Serious.
It was ridiculous, how much those four syllables hurt.
You laughed along with everyone else, or at least you thought you did. You forced a smile, nodded, even tossed in a teasing comment about how you never imagined Barnes going soft. It sounded like you, or close enough that no one would notice.
Except maybe Natasha, whose sharp eyes lingered on you a beat too long.
Inside, though, your chest felt hollow. All those silly little daydreams you had, him finally giving in to your flirting, him catching your hand one day and not letting go, him leaning in close with that gravelly voice murmuring something just for you, they all dissolved in an instant.
Because there was someone else. Someone who wasn’t you.
Later, when the night wound down and everyone drifted off to their rooms, you stayed behind in the kitchen under the pretence of tidying up. Really, you just needed a moment.
You rinsed out a glass, staring at the stream of water until your vision blurred. You’d known, deep down, that your crush was one-sided. But hearing it confirmed, watching his face soften with genuine affection at the thought of another woman…
It was a quiet kind of heartbreak. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a dull ache you couldn’t quite shake.
“Hey,” came a voice behind you. Soft, familiar.
You turned, startled, to find Steve in the doorway. His expression was kind, but there was something knowing in his eyes.
“You all right?” he asked gently.
You forced a smile. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He didn’t press, and you were grateful for it. He just nodded, gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left you to your thoughts.
Back in your room, you curled beneath the duvet and let the silence settle around you. It hurt. God, it hurt so much but at the same time, there was a strange sense of clarity.
Bucky deserved happiness. He deserved someone who made him feel normal, who eased the weight he carried. And if that wasn’t you, then… well, at least he’d found it.
Maybe one day, you’d find someone too. Someone who looked at you the way Bucky looked when he spoke about her.
For now, though, you would hold your head high, plaster on a smile when you needed to, and keep being the teammate he could rely on. Even if your heart would never quite stop aching when he walked into the room.
Because sometimes love wasn’t about being theirs. Sometimes it was about wanting them happy, even if that happiness wasn’t with you.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰: nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, friends to lovers, lust spell teehee, soft Bucky, phone sex, fem reader, oral sex, unprotected sex, smut like the whole time, Mentions of overstimulation/physical discomfort, Slight dub-con but consent is still asked several times, fem!masturbation, Bucky is down bad bc that’s literally just how he is, reader is in HEAT
word count: 11k
Summary: You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him.
But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything.
You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.
notes: not proofread.
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
It started with a flash of violet light.
You’d moved without thinking—shielding Bucky the way you always did, even when he didn’t need it. Even when it meant taking a hit from a wild-eyed witch with runes etched into her skin and a smirk that promised chaos.
“Let’s see how he handles this,” she hissed, moments before you hit the ground.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. He took her down with a snarl and his knife pressed to her throat. The mission was over in seconds. Target neutralized and packed off to a top security prison. But your torment? That was just beginning.
It starts as a whisper in your blood.
Not a scream. Not a blaze. Just… a curl of warmth at the edge of your spine. A low, pulsing hum beneath your skin. You ignore it. You’ve trained to ignore discomfort. Trained to override every tremble and ache until the mission is done. But by the time Wanda drops you off at your apartment and the adrenaline fades, the whisper becomes a murmur—then a throb. An ache. A pull.
You shower. You scrub the sweat from your skin, the grit of combat, the smell of blood and magic and burnt leather. The water runs hot and clean down your back, but you’re already too warm.
You sleep without covers that night, sticky and restless, pressing your thighs together without thinking. And it doesn’t stop.
-
The next morning, the hunger is worse. It’s not pain— not yet. But it’s something unfamiliar.
It begins in small betrayals. You wake slowly, your sheets twisted around your legs, skin damp and flushed despite the cool air drifting in through the cracked window. There’s a weight low in your stomach, a thrum at the base of your spine—not pain, but something… coiled. Waiting.
You brush it off. Roll out of bed. Try to move like normal.
But the floor is cold under your bare feet, and still, your skin feels too warm. Over-sensitive. When your cotton shorts brush your thighs, your breath catches. The fabric is too much and not enough all at once.
You try to think about breakfast—maybe eggs, maybe toast—but instead your mind veers off-course. Not toward food, but toward heat. Mouths. Hands. Pressure. You blink, startled, as the image of someone pressing you into the mattress flashes behind your eyes. Of him. You shake it off as just being tired. Maybe a little lonely, not having had any physical affection in so long from anyone other than Wanda’s occasional hugs or Yelena’s random cuddles. Or maybe just unmoored from the mission.
You drag yourself toward your dresser and start to get dressed, planning to head to the Tower for a morning workout. The tank top you pull over your head clings to your chest like it’s painted on. The brush of fabric against your nipples makes you flinch, making them grow hard, leaving your breath stuttering. You check the thermostat—it’s not hot in your apartment. So why are you sweating?
Your leggings feel like a second skin—too tight, too suffocating. You try to roll the waistband down for air, but even that feels like friction in the wrong way. A pulse starts between your thighs. Low and subtle. But constant.
You strip again. Pace the room. Try to focus.
But even simple things feel off. You reach for your water bottle and your hand shakes. You bend to tie your shoe and the pressure in your belly shifts, flaring in a strange, slick ache. You stand too quickly and your head spins.
You glance at your phone—Bucky sent a text at 2 a.m., some sarcastic remark about Sam snoring—and your mouth goes dry. Just seeing his name makes something twist low inside you. A heat that makes no sense for the situation.
You close your eyes and inhale.
You should head to the gym. You need to sweat it out. But the idea of moving—of being around other people, especially Bucky—makes your skin crawl and your thighs clench. You feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin. Like something inside you is waking up and demanding to be touched.
You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thudding.
You try not to name it yet. You try not to think of the word spell.
But the whisper in your blood grows louder.
-
Hours later, you’re lying flat on your back and thinking about your own hands. About how little they’ve helped.
You try. Of course you do. You shove your fist under your pillow and ride it. Try to make the heat, the ache, go away. But the orgasm is fleeting, thin, unfulfilling. As soon as it peaks, it leaves you raw—edged. Empty. And then the ache returns, worse than before. It’s never satiated— a demanding presence.
You don’t want Bucky to see you like this.
So when he texts—
[you good? swingin by with takeout in 10.]
—you don’t answer. You don’t dare.
When he knocks, you stay frozen on the couch. The cool leather sticks to the backs of your thighs. Your fingers twitch. You’re sweating.
He lets himself in anyway with a key that you regret ever giving him.
“Hey,” he says like he always does. Like it’s not different now. Like your world isn’t quietly coming apart faster than your could spread your thighs. “You forget how to text me back?”
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when just hearing his voice sends your nipples tight against the inside of your tank top. Not when his scent—soap and cologne and whatever the hell else makes him smell like home—hits you like a drug.
Your reply is tight. Muted. “Didn’t sleep.”
He softens. Steps closer. “You hurt from that spell yesterday?”
You flinch. “No.”
That’s not a lie. It’s not hurt. It’s something else. A gnawing heat. A tension in your muscles that won’t let go.
His eyes scan your face. You know that look. The one he used to wear when you came back from field ops barely able to walk. The one he wore when you had the flu. The one he wore when someone so much as looked at you sideways in a briefing.
Protective. Focused. And far too perceptive.
“Wanda said you took the brunt of that hit and that she didn’t know what kind of magic it was,” he murmurs. “You sure you’re not—?”
“I’m fine,” you snap.
The silence stretches.
His brows twitch. But he lets it go.
For now.
-
By that night, it’s worse. And you have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with how close in proximity he was to you.
You lie in bed after he leaves, sweating through your sheets. You’ve tried everything. Toys. Fingers. Cold showers. Heating pads. Breathwork. You come again and again—softly, roughly, desperately—and it doesn’t help.
Each wave crests and crashes and leaves you more wrung out, more sore, more burning than the last.
And still, it lingers. That deep, low heat in your belly. That flutter in your chest. That unbearable throb between your legs that no orgasm can reach.
It’s not normal.
It’s not right.
By day three of avoiding your friends, avoiding leaving your apartment or responding to texts, you wake up crying. Not from sadness. But from want.
And then you crack. Not from the pain, but from the way your mind won’t stop conjuring him.
The sound of Bucky Barnes’ voice. The pressure of his vibranium hand at the small of your back. The way he once called you sweetheart when he thought you were sleeping.
It wasn’t sexual then.
But it is now.
Every touch he’s ever given you replays in your head like fuel to a fire you can’t control. The weight of his hand on your shoulder. The brush of his thigh against yours under the briefing room table. The way his fingers always lingered when he patched you up—rough but reverent.
You want him.
Okay.
You’ve always wanted him.
But not like this. Not when your body’s been cursed to crave him. Not when magic is what’s tipping you toward ruin.
-
Wanda comes on day four.
She doesn’t knock. Just appears in your living room like mist, her eyes glowing faintly red.
The moment she sees you—curled on the couch in one of Bucky’s old hoodies that you don’t think he knows you took, legs tucked up under you, trembling—her expression falls.
“Oh no,” she says.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is hoarse from moaning into your pillow the night before, just to try and quiet the ache.
Wanda kneels in front of you. “I should’ve come sooner.”
You laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s cracked. Sharp. A little unhinged. “That bitch cursed me, didn’t she?”
“I’ve been looking into it. She laced the spell with something old,” Wanda says gently. “Something primal. For whoever it hit, it was designed to mimic heat. Not just lust. Fertility. Desire. But with you? It’s the instinct to—”
“To be filled,” you finish bitterly.
She doesn’t deny it.
“But it doesn’t mess with your head,” she clarifies. “It doesn’t make you want someone you don’t already want. It’s not that kind of magic. What you’re feeling—what your body’s craving—is raw, biological instinct. But the who? That’s all you.”
You go still.
“I can break it,” she continues. “But it’s woven deep. It’ll take time. A few more days, maybe a week at most. Until then…”
“I just suffer?” you whisper.
Wanda exhales. “There’s another way, but you’re not going to like it. If someone finishes inside you—”
“No.”
“You could ask Bucky—”
“No,” you say again, firmer this time. Like it’s the only boundary left you can still enforce.
Wanda’s eyes narrow. “You’re already thinking about him. Don’t lie.”
You drop your gaze. Shame heats your cheeks—but not because she’s wrong. Because she’s right.
“The magic isn’t clouding your judgment,” she says softly. “She aimed it at him, sure. You stepped in, you took the hit. But your body’s not reacting to him because of the spell. It’s reacting because it knows. Because to you, it’s always been him.”
You swallow hard.
“I don’t want to be a fucking spell casualty,” you mutter. “I don’t want to be some needy mess crawling into his lap just because—”
“Then don’t,” Wanda says. “But at least be honest with yourself. You’re not considering anyone else. Not Steve. Not Sam. Not a single name, not a single option. Just him. And the only reason you’re not begging for him is because you’re terrified it might mean something more.”
You clench your jaw. “I won’t ask him.”
Wanda nods once.
Then, almost gently, she says, “You must not forget that the only person more stubborn than you is Bucky.”
And then she leaves you to the fire.
-
It’s evening when you finally, finally break.
The blinds are drawn. The apartment is dim, lit only by the flicker of the TV you’re not watching. You’re curled on the couch with your knees drawn up, a throw blanket pooled around your hips. But you’re not cold.
You haven’t been cold in days.
Your skin is dewy with sweat, flushed and hypersensitive. Every inch of you aches. Your body is too much—too heavy, too warm, too desperate. You can’t think. You can’t rest. You can’t take the edge off no matter how many times you try.
And you’ve continued to try. Your vibrator’s completely dead. Your fingers are sore. You’ve sobbed through orgasms that haven’t brought even a second of peace. And it’s so much worse now. The spell is tightening around your ribcage, your lungs, your throat. And the worst part? It’s not even just physical anymore.
It’s lonely.
You miss him.
And maybe that’s what finally pushes you over the edge.
Not the ache. Not the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside. Not the cruel, unbearable need to be filled. But the silence. The absence. The knowledge that while you’re avoiding him for dear life, Bucky Barnes is out there somewhere— maybe laughing with Sam, or holding Alpine on his chest while he relaxes against his couch cushions— probably doing just fine while you burn for a curse that was meant for him.
You need to hear his voice.
You don’t plan it. Don’t let yourself think it through. You just reach for your phone and call him. Before you can second-guess. Before you can stop yourself.
It rings twice.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he answers, warm and easy. That voice, like melted steel wrapped in velvet, like home. He doesn’t know you’re shaking. Doesn’t know you’re wrecked. He just says it like he always does—like he means it.
Your breath catches. It’s instant, the way your body reacts—your thighs clench, slickness blooming between them like you’ve been touched. All he’s done is speak. All he’s done is say hello.
“Hi,” you whisper.
You can hear noise behind him—other voices, dishes clattering, the low hum of a TV.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly attuned. “You sound a little—”
“Tired,” you cut in. “Just… tired.” You try to sound normal, but it comes out thinner than it should—fragile and tight, like you’re holding something back.
Because you are.
“You sound kind of off,” he murmurs, slower now. “But I won’t push it.”
“Thanks, Buck.” You whisper. You press your palm to your chest, trying to keep it together, trying not to let his concern unravel you. His voice shouldn’t sound this good. His care shouldn’t make you ache harder. But it does.
And he keeps going—gentle, teasing, unaware he’s pouring gasoline on a fire. “Missed your voice today. Thought you were ghosting me.”
You hum—half a sound, half a moan. It slips before you can catch it, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.
You close your eyes and inhale. You’re not ghosting him— you’re starving for him.
“Missed your voice,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your hand is already slipping beneath the blanket, already finding the edge of your sleep shorts. Your fingers are trembling.
You don’t want to be doing this.
But you have to.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then a quiet chuckle. “Yeah?” His voice drops, just a little. “You’re being awfully honest tonight.”
You shiver. “Guess so.”
He sighs into the phone. You imagine him settling back, legs stretched out, maybe reclining in a chair with that lazy, boyish half-smile on his face. You can see it in your head. The way he cradles his phone in his metal hand. The way he leans his head back against the couch cushion when he talks to you.
“I can tell you’re skipping sleep just by your voice. You gotta stop doing that,” he murmurs. “You know I worry when you disappear.”
You bite your lip. Your hips roll, just a little, as you press your fingers to your clit. The pressure building between your legs has reached a new, unbearable level. And somehow, somehow, his voice is the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.
“You curled up on the couch right now?” he asks, still gently teasing.
You nod even though he can’t see it.
You can hear his grin. “Knew it. You better not be watching that cooking competition show without me again—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” You say, voice a little wobbly.
He sighs—low and affectionate—and it wrecks you. You slip two fingers inside yourself, soft and slow. Slick. Aching.
“Miss you,” you add, voice barely audible.
There’s another pause—longer this time. You can hear him exhale through his nose, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Unsteady in a way you rarely hear.
“Yeah?” he says, rougher now. “You’re sayin’ a lot of things tonight. Are you sure you’re okay, angel?” The words shoot straight to your core.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Your fingers are moving inside your cunt now. Gentle, shaky thrusts. The stretch of it only makes you throb harder. Slick sounds quietly build beneath the blanket—barely audible, but not to him, you think.
“Bucky…” Your voice is barely a sound, and he catches it immediately.
“Sweetheart?” He’s more alert now. Like he’s sitting up, holding onto whatever is about to leave your lips.
And then—because of course—
Sam’s in the background.
“Who you on the phone with?” you hear faintly, followed by Bucky’s exasperated sigh.
“None of your damn business, Wilson.”
“You’re smiling like it is my business.”
You hear a scuffle. A dish being snatched. Bucky barking something about boundaries. Sam laughing.
“Your boundaries don’t change that you’re supposed to be makin’ popcorn.” You hear Sam shout.
Bucky groans. “You literally had two hours to do that yourself.” You slipped in another finger, hips canting at the sound of his groan. The tone of Bucky’s voice—normal, distracted, playful—makes you feel insane. He’s so close and so far. Your body is clenching around nothing. You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours. His voice in your ear, whispering the things you fantasize about him doing to you.
“I was in the zone, man. Movie night waits for no one.” You can hear the grin in Sam’s voice. There’s a pause. A rustle. Bucky covering the phone with his hand, probably glaring into the kitchen.
When Bucky speaks again, his voice is soft and low, just for you. Like Sam doesn’t even exist. “Sorry,” he says, quieter now. “You know Sam’s a menace.”
You breathe hard. “It’s okay.”
“You sure you’re alright?”
You swallow. Your slick fingers are working slow, barely enough. You can’t come. Not yet. Not until—
“Just…” You trail off, breath hitching. “Can you… talk to me for a while?”
Bucky stills. You don’t hear it, but you feel it. His attention sharpened again, just like it had before Sam interrupted. This is a dangerous game— you know it is. He’s a super soldier, meaning better senses, better reactions, better intuition. It’s only a matter of time before he hears exactly what you’re up to if he hasn’t already.
“You want me to talk you to sleep?” he asks, voice gentle.
You hum. “Just need your voice.”
His voice softens, all teasing stripped away. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”
The words crack something open in you. You bite your lip hard. Your other hand clutches the pillow. You’re trying to keep quiet, but your breath is stuttering now, your thighs trembling. You speak before he can.
“Miss your hands,” you murmur, delirious and aching, fucking yourself harder. “Miss your arms. Miss how you always make me feel safe.”
He exhales, a little stunned. “You trying to kill me over the phone, doll?”
“Don’t make fun,” you plead, barely holding it together, hips snapping to meet your rhythm.
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m not. I just… You sound like you need someone.”
You.
Your mind screams it. You need him.
But you can’t say it.
Your fingers move faster. The ache is peaking. His voice is all you have. And it’s perfect.
Soft. Low. Steady.
Like worship. Like he already knows what he’d say if he were inside you.
“Just breathe for me,” he murmurs suddenly. “You sound like you’re holding your breath.”
You gasp. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are. Breathe, sweetheart. Slow. Just like that.”
Your eyes flutter shut. Slow, you rock your hips like he said, just like that.
“That’s better,” he soothes. You let out a choked little laugh. “Soundin’ better already,” he says, and God—his tone is so fucking tender.
You almost come at that.
Your moan is soft, but it slips out you can stop it. Followed by another wet, slick sound as your fingers move faster now beneath the blanket.
And then—silence. His end of the line goes quiet.
“…Wait,” Bucky says slowly. “What are you doing?”
Your heart stops.
“Sweetheart?”
You try to catch your breath. Try to stop. But you can’t. You’re so close and it feel so good— so much better than everything you’ve done the past few days by yourself.
But he hears it. The wet glide. The tremble in your voice. The broken sighs you can’t smother anymore.
“Are you—” His voice falters. Drops low, so only you can hear. “Are you touching yourself right now?”
You freeze.
The silence stretches. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, frantic breaths. You can hear the exact moment he understands. The air shifts like a current between you. His tone turns rough—raw and wrecked and barely restrained.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “That’s what this is. That’s why you sound like that.”
You press your hand tighter between your legs, helpless, breath catching. You try to stop again. You should stop. Instead—
You arch.
The phone slips from your fingers and drops onto the couch, the line still open. You bury your face in the cushions, one hand over your mouth, the other working faster now—slipping through your slick, hips lifting, thighs shaking.
“(Y/N)?”
Then it hits.
White-hot and shattering.
Your orgasm tears through you with a muffled, broken moan—barely caught by the couch. Your body locks up, every nerve lit, your back bowing as you clench hard around nothing. You feel your fingers soaked, twitching, trembling, your lungs stuttering to keep up.
You come with his voice still in your ear, him still on the line.
And he hears it.
He hears the way your breath punches out of you. The cry you try to bite down. The slick sounds. The way you gasp his name like it hurts.
On the other end, there’s silence—then a sharp inhale.
His voice goes ragged. “…You just came.”
It’s not a question. Just a stunned, whispered truth.
“Oh my god,” he says softly. “You just came—and you didn’t say a word. You just—fuck.”
You reach for the phone, fingers still wet, hands shaking.
He’s still talking, barely coherent. “I should’ve known. I should’ve heard it. You were falling apart and I just kept talking. I—fuck, baby, why didn’t you tell me?”
You can’t breathe.
You’re too full of it—shame and heat and the unbearable emptiness that follows the high. It didn’t help. It never helps. Your body is still aching. Still burning. Still crying out for him in the echo of your release.
You press the phone to your ear.
“I thought maybe you were just tired,” he says, voice quieter now. Like he’s talking to himself. “But the way you said my name… the way you kept breathing like you were fighting something…”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Your whole body curls tighter.
You hang up. One simple movement. Your thumb presses the screen. The line goes dead and you throw the phone across the couch and curl in on yourself, mortified, aching, and trembling with the need to be filled that you haven’t finish chasing.
The silence after is deafening but all you can hear is his voice. That soft, reverent one.
The one that sounded like he’d use it while pushing into you.
The one that sounded like a prayer.
-
You hung up on him.
The click of the call dropping wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a gunshot to the chest.
Bucky sat there frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear even as the line went dead. The quiet hum of the background faded into a kind of static silence, and for a moment, all he could hear was you.
The way your voice had trembled.
The little sighs.
The broken softness when you said you missed him. When you told him you missed his voice.
Jesus.
You had been touching yourself.
To him.
Bucky stared blankly across the room, the pieces falling into place like bricks in his gut. Your shaky breath. The way you whispered. The stuttering cadence in your voice, like you were trying not to be caught. And then—those sounds. The slick, wet ones. The ones had tried to ignore. The almost-silent moans you couldn’t fully smother.
You’d come for him. For the first time. With just his voice in your ear.
He’d thought about it for years. How he’d do it the first time. If it would be with his mouth. Or his hands. Maybe his thigh.
He didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
But never like this. He’d made you fall apart and hadn’t even realized until it was over. You’d called him because you needed something—needed him—and he hadn’t understood.
Hadn’t done a damn thing to help you.
And now he was hard. Painfully hard. But the ache wasn’t just in his body—it was everywhere. It was under his ribs. In his throat. Wrapping tight around something sacred.
Because the worst part wasn’t that you’d touched yourself. It was that you were suffering. You missed him. You needed him so badly you couldn’t even pretend not to anymore. You’d called because you were unraveling. Because you trusted him enough to let it show—even if you couldn’t say it out loud.
And God help him, he wanted to be the only one you ever called like that again.
“Yo,” Sam called, stepping into the room with a half-empty bag of chips. “Everything good with your girl?”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Bucky slowly lowered the phone, thumb brushing over the screen. He should’ve called you back. Should’ve said something. But he hadn’t moved. “She called me,” he said quietly.
Sam looked amused. “She’s allowed to.”
“No,” Bucky murmured. “This was… different.”
“Different how?”
Bucky swallowed hard. Looked away. He couldn’t explain it—not fully. And he wasn’t letting anyone else know how you sounded falling apart— the way your voice had hitched just before you came. Not with the heat still pulsing in his blood or the reverence clawing at his chest.
“She sounded…” He shook his head. “Tired. Hoarse. Like she hadn’t been sleeping. But it was worse than that.
Sam pauses. “You think she’s hurt?”
“I think she’s been hiding whatever it is. For days.” He swallows hard. “She wouldn’t have called unless it was bad. Really bad.”
Sam crosses his arms, voice more serious now. “You know, now that you mention it, Wanda has been holed up with her books since that op you all just got back from. She didn’t give details—just said she was tracking a weird thread.”
Bucky stops breathing, his stomach dropping. “…What?”
Sam shrugs a little. “Like I said, she didn’t say much—just that whatever hit (Y/N) the other day was… weird. She’s been researching it since. Said it’s like some kind of residual aftereffect magic, but deep. Like nothing she’s seen in years.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed, his blood going cold.
Sam paused, brow furrowing. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know. At least not all of that.” Bucky snaps. “That’s the problem.”
And now he’s moving. Pacing. Shoving his phone in his pocket, reaching for his jacket. Not toward you—not yet. He needs answers first.
“She didn’t even tell me,” he says, more to himself than to Sam. “She didn’t say a word.”
“She never does,” Sam says quietly. “Not when it’s about you.”
Bucky goes still. Because that’s what breaks him. Not the idea of danger. Not even the idea of magic. But the idea of you, curled up alone, body falling apart under the weight of something you didn’t choose. And still refusing to ask for help.
Still too afraid to ask him.
And so, Bucky stood. The phone slipped into his pocket.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked.
“To talk to Wanda,” Bucky said. His voice was tight. Rough. Already halfway out the door.
Because if there was even one chance that this was something done to you—something you were trying to fight off alone—then he was going to fix it.
Whatever it took.
—
The hallway outside Wanda’s quarters smells faintly of sage and scorched air.
Bucky doesn’t knock.
He pushes the door open like it’s muscle memory, like he’s been breaking through locked rooms for centuries—and finds her already standing in the center of the room, barefoot on a ring of cracked stone and wax.
She looks up the moment he enters, like she was waiting for him.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” Wanda says softly.
His hands curl into fists. “It’s a spell, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“From the mission.”
“Yes.”
“It hit her.”
Wanda nods once.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. He takes a step forward, then another. “You knew something was happening to her—and you didn’t tell me?”
“She didn’t want me to.”
He exhales, sharp and furious. “She’s suffering. Right now. Alone. Because of something that was meant for me.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “She’s mine, Wanda, and I can’t even help her.” The words fall out before he can stop them. Raw. Stupidly honest.
Wanda’s gaze softens. But she doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t argue. “(Y/N) took the hit before I could deflect it. It was cast by an old bloodline witch. Feral magic. Instinct-based. I’ve been trying to untangle it ever since.”
“What kind of magic?”
Wanda tilts her head. “You already know.”
Bucky’s breath catches.
Because he does.
The heat. The broken sighs. The way you’d whispered his name. The way his voice had made you come undone.
Wanda nods slowly, like she hears the realization pass through him. “It’s not just lust. You understand that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky says tightly. “I’ve seen magic like this once before. The Soviets tested something similar. On another soldier. Heat-based—designed to wear you down from the inside out.”
“Then you know why she didn’t want you to see her like that.”
He looks away. Jaw flexing. He does understand. The shame. The humiliation of being reduced to your body’s demands. He’s lived it. But it doesn’t make this easier.
Wanda’s expression is solemn when she speaks again. “It’s worse than what you’re describing, Bucky. It’s mimicking a biological heat cycle. Old fertility magic. And it’s dark—it taps into the most basic part of the body. The need to reproduce. But unless it’s consummated with a partner, it will only grow worse. And each time she tries to stop it herself, it’ll only hurt her more.”
Bucky flinches—more from helplessness than shock. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’ve been working on a way to break it,” Wanda adds. “But it’s not something that just lifts—not like I thought. It has to run its course, and I don’t know how long that will be unless—”
He already knows where this is going.
He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t ask me.”
“No,” Wanda says, eyes softening. “But she called you.”
His chest contracts. “You knew she would.”
“I hoped,” she replies. “Because the other way to end it? It requires the body to believe it’s been satisfied. That it’s safe. Desired. And full.”
Bucky looks like he might snap. “Don’t talk about her like that. Like she’s some fucking spell experiment—”
“She’s not,” Wanda interrupts, firm but gentle. “She’s your friend. Your partner. And right now, she’s burning alive from the inside out, trying not to tell you what she needs.”
Bucky presses both hands into his temples. “She didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything.”
“She was ashamed,” Wanda says. “Because even without the spell… it’s you, James. She’s been yours longer than either of you want to admit.”
He freezes. Swallows. Looks up slowly. “…It’s not just the spell,” he whispers, unsure if he’s asking for reassurance.
“No,” Wanda says, offering it anyway, like she read his mind. “That part? The part where she thought about you? That’s all her.”
Silence blooms—quiet, dense, knowing. “You still should’ve told me before now,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re not the only one who loves her.”
That shuts him up.
Wanda steps forward. “She’s trying to protect you,” she murmurs. “From the spell. From what it’s doing to her. From what it wants from her.”
Bucky closes his eyes. In his mind he hears it again—your voice. The desperation in it. The soft whimpers you tried to smother. The broken little sighs that had almost made him come in his goddamn pants just from listening.
Then, he nods. Once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Then tell me how to help her.”
Wanda’s lips curve upward. Just slightly. “You already know how.”
He does know how, and he wants to be gentle. Wants to hold you. Cradle you. Stroke your hair and murmur that it’s okay. That he’s here now. That you don’t have to be ashamed.
But all he can feel is fury. Not at you.
At himself.
At the fact that he hadn’t put the pieces together sooner.
Bucky’s hand curls around the doorframe, metal fingers flexing tight enough to dent it.
Wanda watches him for a beat. “Go to her,” she says softly.
A pause.
“Before someone else does.”
He doesn’t answer.
But his heart is already halfway out the door.
-
Your apartment is dark. Not blackout-dark—but dim, and quiet, and too still.
Bucky knocks once. Then again.
No answer.
He listens. Listens hard. Enhanced hearing trained on the other side of the door. No footsteps. No rustling. Just silence and the faint sound of something flickering—maybe a muted television. Maybe the dull hum of a lamp that never got turned off.
His jaw clenches. “(Y/N), it’s me.”
Still nothing.
All he can hear is your voice cracking when you said you missed him.
You gave him a key a long time ago—for emergencies, you’d said. For the nights when the world got too loud and he needed a place to crash. For when either of you needed help and didn’t want to say it.
Usually he used it when dropping off food. Or coming over to binge your tv shows that you watch together. He’s never used it like this before. Knowing what he’s planning to do once he’s through the threshold.
He slips the key from his pocket and turns the lock the way he’s done hundreds of times before. The door creaks open—and the moment he steps inside, he knows.
Something’s off.
The air is thick. Stifling. Warm in a way that makes his skin itch, like it’s been steeping in fever. The living room is dim, the curtains drawn, a low flicker of light from the TV throwing soft shadows across the walls.
“(Y/N)?” he calls, gentle now. “It’s me.”
No answer.
His stomach sinks.
He doesn’t storm in. Doesn’t charge through like it’s a raid. He moves soft. Careful. Like if he makes too much noise, the truth might shatter.
And then he sees you—curled on the couch, knees drawn in. A throw blanket twisted around your hips. The rest of you damp with sweat, top clinging to your chest, neck glistening. You look like you haven’t slept. Like you’ve been crying.
His heart cracks.
You’re asleep—but not peacefully.
You’re writhing.
Not dramatically. Not loud. Just subtle, needy little shifts of your hips. Soft whimpers. A crease between your brows like your dreams are made of agony and want.
He steps closer.
“(Y/N),” he says gently. “Hey—wake up.”
You stir. Breath catching.
Then, barely audible, you whisper, “Bucky…” His name from your lips is enough to make him ache. He kneels beside the couch, hand hovering just above your shoulder.
Your eyes flutter open. You blink, dazed and glassy-eyed. Your cheeks are flushed. Your tank top clings to your chest, damp with sweat, nipples peaked. And when you shift under the blanket, you gasp softly—like just the movement hurts.
And when you register that he’s really in front of you, your whole body tenses.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Wanda told me.”
Your lashes are wet, lips trembling. Still, you remain silent. “I should’ve known earlier,” he says thickly. “I should’ve recognized it.”
Your gaze drops. Shame crashes through you as you look away. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”
“Oh, so I was just supposed to go on not knowing that the spell meant for me was tearing you apart?”
You shift on the couch. The movement makes you suck in a breath—you’re soaked. Your panties cling to you, your thighs sticky with slick.
“I was handling it,” you say, thoroughly humiliated.
“Bullshit.”
“I was,” you insist, even though your voice trembles. “I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t beg. I didn’t make it anyone else’s problem.”
“You called me.”
“That was—” You falter. “That was a moment of weakness.”
“You were touching yourself, and I—”
You squeeze your eyes shut. His words shouldn’t make you ache again. But they do. Your thighs clench. Your chest rises in shallow, desperate breaths.
“You wanted me to talk you through it, didn’t you?” he says, low and rough. “That’s why you called?”
Your breath stutters. He leans closer. “That wasn’t weakness. That was you calling the one person you needed. But then you hung up,” he says, softer now. “You were embarrassed. But you shouldn’t be.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you are embarrassed. Your body is burning and raw and sensitive, and he was never supposed to know.
But he’s here. Still looking at you like you’re something he’d fight the world to protect.
His hand moves, brushing a lock of damp hair away from your cheek. He’s never touched you like this. Gentle. Tender. Almost devotional.
You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”
“You said you missed my hands. My arms. My voice.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted this.”
“Just let me help you,” he says with a huff.
You freeze as he leans in. Slower than slow. Letting you pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
“I know what it feels like,” he says. “When your body turns against you. When everything burns and you can’t think. I’ve been there.”
A choked breath escapes you. “It won’t stop,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says, soothing you. “But I can stop it for you.”
You stare at him. And you know—deep down—you’re not just best friends anymore. Not after this. Not after the phone call. Not after he came running.
“You can’t,” Not after the way he looks at you now, like you’re his.
“Why won't you let me help you?”
Your hands fist in the blanket. “Because it’s you, Bucky.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You look up, and finally let it spill—raw, messy, trembling.
“I can’t take advantage of you like that. We’re friends. Best fucking friends. I know you’d do anything for me, but I can’t let you do this because you feel like you have to.”
His eyes close for half a second. When they open again, he’s already moving—his hands cupping your face, gentle, reverent, trembling slightly.
“You think I would do something like this out of obligation?” His voice is low. Rough. Cracking under the weight of it. “You really think I wouldn’t want you?”
Your lips part. “I don’t know.”
He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Then he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your cheek. Your temple. Every inch but your mouth.
His voice is a rasp in your ear, heavy with restraint. His hands slide down your arms, fingers curling around your wrists like an anchor.
“I would’ve come to you the second you asked,” he says. “I would’ve broken the fucking sound barrier to get to you. Not because of some curse. Not because you needed release. But because—”
He swallows.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
You whimper—helpless and soft and aching.
His eyes search yours. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he says. “And if this hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to say it. But I need you to understand—this isn’t about the spell. This is me.”
You blink. A tear slides hot down your cheek. You shake your head, not because you don’t believe him—but because it’s too much. Too much all at once.
“I didn’t call Sam,” you whisper. “I didn’t call Steve. I could have. Wanda told me anyone I trusted would work. But I didn’t.”
“Why?” he asks, voice barely audible.
Your breath shakes. “Because I didn’t want just anyone. I wanted you.”
He stills.
Your voice breaks. “And not just because of the spell. Because I’ve wanted you since before any of this. Since before I had any right to.”
His face crumples with something that looks like both devastation and relief.
You’re crying now—quiet, overwhelmed tears you can’t stop. “I love you,” you say. “And I didn’t want to use you. I didn’t want it to happen like this.”
His hands frame your face again, thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks.
“Then let it happen like this,” he murmurs. “Because I love you too. And if this is what brings it out of both of us, then fine. I’m not letting you suffer through another second thinking you’re alone. So let me help.” His voice is firm, demanding in the softest way.
You meet his eyes—glass-blue, wild with restraint—and you shatter.
“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Bucky.”
And then—finally—he kisses you.
Not a soft, testing kiss. Not something uncertain.
It’s everything.
It’s the months of tension. The whispered dreams. The nights you held back. The trust you both clung to like a lifeline. It’s him showing you. That this is love. That he’s yours.
And it doesn’t feel like a breaking.
It feels like finally, finally falling into place.
-
His mouth claims yours—slow at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. But the second your fingers slide into his hair and your lips part with a soft, pleading sound, something snaps.
The kiss deepens.
He was trying. Really. Hands trembling with restraint, breath held tight in his chest, mind racing to remember that you were suffering—delicate from the spell, barely holding on. He was going to be gentle. Patient.
His hands are everywhere but nowhere near enough—palming your cheeks, sliding down your sides, skimming the curve of your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he doesn’t trust this is real.
Like if he doesn’t touch all of you, he’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone.
He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard against your lips. Your back hits the couch cushions, his weight bracketing yours in seconds. His heat wraps around you like a blanket—too much and not enough all at once. His metal hand cups the back of your neck, cool against feverish skin, and his flesh palm slides under your tank top, flattening over your ribs.
He moans into your mouth as you reach for him, curling your fingers around the hem of his shirt, tugging softly. He exhales like a prayer and nods—then brings his hand to yours, guiding it, helping you pull the fabric over his head. He tosses it aside without looking.
You stare.
God.
You’ve seen him shirtless before. In training. On missions. The beach. The Tower.
But never like this.
Not with his chest rising like he’s holding back a storm. Not with the heat of his skin practically radiating off him. Not with his pupils blown wide and his lips pink from kissing you.
Your hips buck. You’re soaked. Still throbbing. Still aching. But it’s different now—sharper, hotter, charged by every inch of his body pressing into yours.
“God, baby,” he groans, pulling back just an inch, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re burning up.”
“You’re not exactly cold,” you manage, breathless. He huffs a laugh against your neck, but it dies quick. He’s too focused—senses flared out like a net, catching every tremble of your body, every gasp, every pound of your heart. He can smell your arousal—his senses are drenched in it. He can hear your pulse fluttering under your skin. Your pupils are blown. Your body’s writhing and his cock is rock hard in his jeans.
“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, fingers grazing the hem of your tank top.
You nod and try to lift it, but your hands shake.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, sliding it up with agonizing care. His knuckles graze your ribs, the underswell of your breasts, the valley of your spine as he peels the sweat-damp fabric away.
Your chest is bare.
His breath hitches. “Jesus,” he says softly, reverently, like he’s witnessing something holy. “My beautiful fucking girl.”
Your heart pounds. Your body burns. But his touch is slow. Steady. Not rushed.
He drags the blanket down next, inch by inch, revealing the rest of you—your soaked panties, your trembling thighs. His metal hand is cool where it brushes your hip. The other, warm and wide, settles just above your knee.
You bite your lip, hips shifting, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Bucky—”
“You’ve been like this for days?” He asks, voice ragged.
You nod, ashamed. “It won’t stop. I try, but—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize. Not when I’ve got you now.” He kisses you again, slower this time. Deep. Lingering.
His mouth tastes like the end of every bad dream you’ve ever had. Like the answer to the ache that’s been devouring you for days. He doesn’t kiss like someone trying to take—he kisses like someone who’s been starving to give.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open to him, moaning when he deepens it. His hand on your ribs slides higher—over the swell of your breast. His thumb flicks over your nipple and you whimper, arching into him.
His hand smooths up your thigh. He watches the way your body shudders under him, the way you arch instinctively into his touch. His voice lowers, deep and full of awe. “You should’ve called me,” he murmurs into your mouth. “First night. I’d have been here in seconds.”
“I didn’t want anyone else. Just you. Even if I wasn’t supposed to.”
Bucky’s jaw tenses. “Don’t ever think you’re not supposed to want me,” he growls, brushing his nose down the column of your neck. “I ache for you. I’ve wanted you in ways I can’t say out loud. I dream about you. I wake up hard just from hearing your voice in my head.”
You gasp—quiet, desperate.
“I think about how soft you’d feel,” he whispers, “how you’d sound when I finally touched you right. How you’d look with your thighs spread and my name on your tongue.”
Your back arches. His hand skims over your center through the soaked cotton. You keen.
“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You’re soaked.”
“It won’t stop,” you sob. “I can’t—I need—”
“I know,” he whispers, and presses a kiss just above your heart. “I’ve got you.”
Then—slowly, reverently—he hooks his fingers into the band of your panties.
“Can I take these off?”
You nod.
He doesn’t rush.
He slides them down with shaking hands, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. The moment you’re bare to him—truly bare—he stills. Just for a second.
Soaking you in.
Burning it into his memory.
Then he moves, kissing your hip, the inside of your thigh. His mouth reverent. His hands hungry. His voice a wrecked, broken whisper against your skin.
“You’re not just my best friend,” he says, brushing his lips across your belly. “You’re my everything. And I’m gonna take care of you.”
You whimper, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts.
“Say it again,” you plead.
He looks up, mouth hovering just below your navel. “What?”
“That you love me.”
His eyes burn.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time you patched me up and called me an idiot for bleeding on your floor.”
You choke on a laugh. Then a sob. Then a moan as his mouth dips lower—hot, hungry. His tongue drags up your folds, flicking over your clit with slow, devastating precision. You cry out, hips lifting.
“Easy, doll,” he murmurs, voice like honey between your thighs. “Let me take my time.”
You whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as he anchors himself between your legs like he’s not moving until you break. His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you open further, holding you down. Holding you together.
Or maybe apart.
He groans as he noses deeper, tongue dragging slow, wet circles through your slick. He moans at the taste—deep, guttural—and does it again. And again. Until your legs start to tremble.
Until your body forgets what shame feels like.
Until all you know is him.
“You’re so sweet,” he groans. “So fucking wet. You’ve been aching for days and you still taste this good?”
Your hips jerk. He smiles against you. Then his mouth opens fully—sucking your clit into the heat of him, tongue laving back and forth with maddening control. He groans like he’s starving, and you realize suddenly—
He is.
He’s devouring you. Savoring you.
And he’s not stopping.
You gasp, the sound ragged. One of your hands finds his hair, tugging hard as your thighs try to close around his head, but he just growls—low and dangerous—and spreads them wider with his shoulders.
“Bucky,” you moan. “Fuck—Bucky, I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit. “You’re gonna come for me, baby. You’re gonna come until it stops hurting.”
Your body convulses beneath him as he dips his tongue inside you, slow and deep, fucking you with his mouth, his nose brushing your clit every time. You sob out something incoherent. He keeps going. Keeps drinking from you like you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.
You’re writhing now. Legs shaking. Lips parted in a constant stream of moans. Every pass of his tongue sends you spiraling higher.
He pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go.”
Then his mouth wraps around your clit again—hot, slick, greedy—and that’s it.
You shatter.
Your whole body arches off the couch, your hands flying to his shoulders as you scream his name. Your climax crashes over you like a storm, wave after wave, your thighs clenching around his head. He groans against you, sucking you through it, tongue relentless, lips tender.
You’re still shaking when the aftershocks hit. He gentles his pace but doesn’t stop—licking you slow and soft, almost reverent now, tasting every bit of your release. Like it’s an offering. Like he’s worshiping at the altar of your body.
And then—another whimper escapes you.
Because you’re still aching. Still burning. Still not full.
“Bucky,” you cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please.”
You’re still shaking when he lifts his head, mouth slick with you, lips flushed, breathing ragged. His eyes meet yours—and they’re dark. Wild. But beneath the hunger is something wrecked. Something sacred.
“I should’ve known. Should’ve come sooner. Should’ve—” He cuts himself off, bending to kiss your sternum, your shoulder, your neck. “I’m here now. Not going anywhere. Not leaving you like this again.” His mouth works up, licks a strip from your jaw up your cheek, swiping away your tears.
Then his hands are under you—gentle, steady—and he picks you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, your body still fluttering from the orgasm he just gave you, still soaked, still desperate.
He carries you through the apartment like a soldier carrying his girl off the battlefield—careful, urgent, possessed. You bury your face in his neck, but he can feel the heat of you against his skin. You’re still pulsing. Still aching. Still slick and wanting.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs, voice raw with restraint. “Gotta get you comfortable before I take my time with you.”
Your thighs squeeze around his waist at that, and he groans—deep, helpless. “You like that?” he mutters, half-laughing against your temple. “Of course you do. You’ve been holding all this in. Suffering. Needing me.”
His mouth presses to your cheek, your jaw, your ear.
“I’m gonna give you everything,” he swears, like it’s a vow. “Gonna take care of my sweet girl.”
Your breath hitches.
He lays you down gently on the bed—like you’re something fragile, even though every part of him is dying to be rough. To claim. But when you reach for him again, the hunger behind your eyes makes his hands tremble.
You’re shaking beneath him. Not with fear. With need.
He kisses you deep and slow, tongue stroking yours like it’s an apology and a promise. His hands roam your body—your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he’s mapping every inch, every breath, every curse-marked plea. He palms your breasts, mouth dragging down to kiss them, to taste sweat and skin and desperation.
“You’re still burning,” he murmurs against your chest. “Still so fucking hot.”
You nod, breathless. “It hurts.”
“I know, baby.” He looks up at you, gaze filled with guilt and devotion. “But not for much longer.”
His hand slides between your thighs again—just to feel. Just to make you shiver.
“You’re soaked,” he groans. “So fucking ready for me.”
And still—he waits.
He leans up. His forehead rests against yours.
“I need you to tell me,” he murmurs. “No spell. No instinct. Just you. Do you want this?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I need you, Bucky.”
He kisses you again—hot and open, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You’re grinding up into him, your body screaming for more.
You feel the thick press of him through his jeans again, and your mouth waters.
“Take them off,” you plead. He strips in seconds, and then he’s above you—naked, hard, huge. Your eyes go wide.
“You’re—”
“Big,” he finishes with that boyish, crooked grin that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah.”
Your thighs part instinctively, you swallow hard. “I can take it.”
“You will,” he kisses your temple. “You’re my good girl, afterall.” His cock is thick and flushed and so hard, resting against your slick folds as he grinds once—slow, teasing. You moan, body arching, craving more.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Gonna take it slow. Let you feel all of me.”
And then—
He lines himself up. Presses in.
The first inch is unbearable. Bucky groans—loud, guttural—as the tip pushes past your entrance. You’re so wet he slides easily—but you’re tight, still fluttering from the spell, from your orgasm, from the hours—days—of arousal left unfulfilled.
“You’re so ready for me,” he groans out. “So fucking wet. You’re taking me so well, baby.” You nod, eyes wide, gripping his shoulders.
You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but it’s everything you need. Full. Thick. Deep.
He pushes in another inch. Then another.
“F-fuck,” he chokes, clutching your hips. “You feel like you were made for me,” he pants, voice wrecked.
You dig your nails into his back. “Please. More.”
He slides deeper. And deeper.
And finally—finally—he’s fully sheathed inside you, cock buried to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him like your body knows what this is.
Like your body recognizes him.
You cry out, overwhelmed.
He holds still.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispers, mouth at your temple. “I’m going to make it better now.”
And as you clutch him—arms wrapped around his back, mouth pressed to his neck—you realize the spell was never the most dangerous thing.
It was him.
His love. His mouth. His voice. His cock, buried so deep it feels like he’s in your soul.
And the fact that you’re not sure you’ll ever want to be without it again.
You’re still gasping around him, still adjusting to the fullness when he shifts—just barely—rocking his hips in the smallest, slowest motion.
Your breath hitches. Your fingers grip his arms like a lifeline.
“Too much?” he whispers, lips ghosting your cheek.
“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open. “No, it’s—please. Don’t stop.”
He exhales like he’s been punched in the ribs. His forehead presses to yours again. And then—
He moves.
A slow, deep pull back. Almost all the way out. And then a roll forward, sinking back into your heat like it’s the only thing that’s ever felt right. Your body welcomes him—hungry, desperate, clenching around him like your body’s known his for years.
Bucky groans and presses in deep again, grinds his hips once—slow and thick and so achingly full it nearly splits you open—and then stops. Watches your face. Studies every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, every little moan you try to hold back.
You whimper. He hums low, eyes heavy with need. “Breathe for me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You’re holding it again.”
You drag in a breath, shaky and desperate.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Just like that. Let me take care of it.”
And then he moves again.
Not rough. Not fast. But deep. Devastatingly deep.
Each stroke rolls through you like a vow. Your body welcomes him again and again—greedy, starving—and he feeds it. Feeds you.
“Spell or not,” he rasps, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I was always gonna end up here. Inside you. Making you mine.”
Your whole body jolts with it. The way he says mine. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like the truth he’s been carrying for years.
He pulls back slowly, dragging every inch of his cock against your trembling walls before sinking in again. Your mouth falls open in a moan.
Your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders. Your legs pull him closer. You’re trying to hold him, keep him, anchor him inside you.
His forehead drops to yours.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You nod.
“Then give it to me,” he whispers. “Give me everything.”
You do.
You open up for him—emotionally, physically, all of it. You let go. Let him take it. Let him have you.
His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft, coaxing circles. “You don’t have to think,” he murmurs, “Just feel. I’ve got you.”
You sob out a moan. Your body is unraveling, and he knows it—feels it.
But he won’t let you go yet.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers, slowing his thrusts again. “I want you looking at me when I make you come.”
You blink up at him. Wet lashes. Wide eyes. Lips parted.
Bucky looks wrecked. His mouth is pink from kissing you. His jaw flexes with restraint. His body trembles from holding back.
“I haven’t had anyone like this,” he rasps. “Not where it meant something. Not where it felt like coming home.”
You blink. Tears well. He kisses one from your cheek, then thrusts slow and deep again—pressing his body to yours, burying his cock inside you until you swear you can’t take more. “But you,” he breathes, kissing your chin, your mouth, your neck, “You feel like my first.”
Your heart splits in your chest.
Your body tightens.
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, and you cry out—loud and desperate and shaking.
Bucky groans, holding you close, still grinding against that oversensitive spot inside you. “That’s it,” he whispers, “That’s my girl.”
You’re still trembling, barely able to catch your breath, when he cups your hips in both hands and finally lets go.
“Gonna fill you up now,” he says, voice deeper than you’ve ever heard, needier. “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste.”
You gasp, the spell still humming under your skin, needing it.
“I wanna see you round and soft with me,” he groans, fucking you deeper, chasing his own release. “Wanna see what I put there.”
You can barely speak. Barely breathe.
But he knows.
He knows you want it. Need it.
And with a guttural moan and one final, devastating thrust—he spills inside you, hot and thick, cock buried to the hilt as he groans your name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.
And the moment it happens—the spell breaks.
The air shifts. It’s subtle—but unmistakable. The second he finishes inside you, the pressure lifts. The curse, the ache, the burning edge that had tormented every nerve—gone.
You feel it leave like smoke through a window. Like a fever finally breaking. Your whole body sags in relief, trembling under the weight of release. Breath hitching. Vision swimming.
Bucky doesn’t move.
Not at first.
He stays inside you, cradling your face between both hands, lips brushing your cheek as his own chest heaves. His heart is pounding. His skin is slick. He feels ruined—in the best way.
You blink up at him, dazed. “It’s gone,” you whisper. “I can breathe again.”
He exhales slowly, forehead still pressed to yours. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good, sweetheart.”
His thumb strokes beneath your eye. Soft. Reverent. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You shift slightly under him and let out a soft sound—he’s still inside you, and the stretch is no less overwhelming now that the magic is gone. But it’s different. Less urgent. Less sharp.
More… tender.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Still okay?”
You nod, voice barely audible. “You didn’t let me go.”
“Never,” he murmurs. His arms wrap around you tighter. He rolls onto his side slowly, bringing you with him—keeping you close, keeping himself inside you. Your legs tangle. The blanket slips. His dog tags rest against your throat.
And he just holds you there like something sacred.
Neither of you speak for a long minute. Just breath and heartbeat and warmth. His palm skims your back, up and down, up and down. Calming you. Centering himself.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper at last.
Bucky freezes.
“For not telling you,” you clarify. “For trying to do this alone.”
He doesn’t respond with words—he just holds you closer. Lets your head rest in the curve of his neck. Kisses your temple. Your hair. Your cheek.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” you say softly.
“You’re not,” he promises. “You’ve got me. You always have.” A quiet sniffle escapes you.
And then he shifts his hips, almost without thinking—and you both feel it. The twitch of him, still thick and inside, still so deep in your softest places.
Your breath catches.
And Bucky groans low in your ear. “Fuck.”
“Are you…” you start.
He smirks faintly. “Baby, I haven’t had anything that good in over eighty years. My body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”
You laugh—half-shaky, half-wrecked. “You’re serious?”
“You’re still squeezing me,” he groans, voice low and frayed. “Fuckin’ perfect. Like you were made to keep me inside.”
You shiver.
He kisses your jaw, moving slow. Gentle. But not letting you go. “I need you again,” he murmurs. “Not like before. Not because of some spell.”
His lips drag down your throat. His voice deepens. “I wanna feel you now that you’re mine.”
You moan. Your hips shift instinctively, and he thrusts—just once.
It’s slower. Deeper. Hotter.
No magic now.
Just you.
Just him.
And this time, when he starts to move inside you again—every slow grind of his hips is a vow.
You’re his.
And he’s never letting go.
-
Sunlight slants through the blinds, casting sleepy stripes across the hardwood floor.
You’re perched on the counter in Bucky’s actual t-shirt—faded, soft, too big, and still warm from his body—and nothing else. Your legs dangle idly as you sip your coffee, hips aching, thighs sticky, your voice still wrecked from hours of crying out his name into the pillow… and then the mattress… and eventually his chest.
Bucky moves through the kitchen barefoot, shirtless, boxers slung low on his hips. Damp hair curling slightly from the shower he insisted you take together.
You feel the faint sting of overuse. The tenderness where his hands had gripped your hips. The low, steady ache deep inside where he stayed buried for what felt like hours—moving slow, whispering confessions into your skin like he meant to leave them there forever.
He hasn’t stopped touching you since.
Not possessive.
Just connected.
His hand brushes your knee when he passes. Fingers drift across your thigh, grazing the edge of the t-shirt you’re barely wearing. He kisses your temple when he thinks you’re not paying attention—and growls if you shift just enough to open your legs and make the shirt ride up.
“Behave,” he murmurs darkly as he passes, pausing just long enough to brush his lips along your shoulder. “You’re not seducing me before breakfast.”
You sip your coffee with a lazy smirk. “Why not?”
His eyes flick to your legs—bare, dangling, parted just slightly—and then to the curve of your mouth. “Because if I get between those thighs again, we’re not leaving the apartment until tomorrow.”
You hum thoughtfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is,” he mutters, turning back to the stove with a clenched jaw and tense forearms.
You swing your legs a little, just to test him. He turns then, spatula in hand, assessing you with that signature slow-lidded look.
Something sparks behind his eyes—dark and warm and deeply, dangerously satisfied.
He tries to hide it behind a sip of his own coffee, but you catch it.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
His mouth twitches. “You can’t try to seduce me while limping.”
You shoot him a look over the rim of your mug. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Not too much,” he says seriously. “Just enough.”
You glare. He grins. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Your temple. Your lips.
“I meant what I said last night,” he whispers, voice brushing warm over your skin. “Spell or not—I was always gonna end up here. Making you mine.”
Your stomach flips. And you feel it again—that stupid, giddy, gut-deep ache for him that has nothing to do with magic.
He turns back to the stove, humming under his breath. His metal arm scrapes gently against the pan, eggs sizzling, toast popping. He’s domesticity incarnate—barefoot, flushed, sleepy-eyed—and the world has no business letting a man this sinful make breakfast like he didn’t fuck the spell out of you last night.
Like he didn’t split you open with slow, reverent thrusts while whispering, “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste…”
You watch him in quiet awe for a moment, sipping your coffee. Then you sigh dramatically.
“So this is it, huh?”
He glances back at you. “This is what?”
“This is how I die. Legs too sore to walk. Drenched in sweat. Wearing your shirt. Watching my newly acquired boyfriend make me eggs like he didn’t spend all night treating me like his own personal prayer.”
Bucky snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”
You swing your legs. “I’m just saying—if I start cleaning up around here and folding your laundry, it’s not because I’m being helpful. It’s because I’m nesting.”
That gets him. He huffs a laugh but doesn’t turn around.
You keep going. “I mean, this has all the signs. Mind-blowing sex. Shared shower. Domestic morning-after. You kissed my forehead and made me breakfast. We skipped like eight stages. If this were a sitcom, the next episode would be a wedding.”
You pause. Then, innocent and teasing, you ask, “Are we married, Barnes? Did I skip a few episodes?”
Now he turns. One brow raised, spatula hovering mid-air. “You want a ring?”
You tilt your head, still teasing. “Don’t you?”
He stills—just for a moment. His expression shifts. Something flickers behind his eyes, too real to be a joke.
Then he sets the spatula down.
“I already bought one.”
Your breath catches. “…What?”
He shrugs—casual, devastating—but his ears are turning pink.
“A while ago,” he mutters. “Kept it in my pocket like a damn fool for months before finally putting it somewhere safe. You were still just my best friend, and I—”
He exhales, the rest catching in his throat. “Didn’t matter. I already knew what I wanted. I was just… waiting. Hoping maybe one day you’d want it too.”
You go still.
Your heart climbs into your throat.
“You bought a ring… before we were even together?”
He glances over. The faintest smile tugs at his lips, soft and sure. “I wasn’t gonna give it to you then. I’m not that unhinged.” He takes a breath. “Just figured… if we ever ended up here, I’d be ready.”
You blink at him. His words from earlier— “I was always gonna end up here,” replaying in your mind. You were speechless as you stared at this decreasingly handsome, scheming man. Something cracks open in your chest. The laughter dies on your tongue, but it’s not fear. It’s not panic.
It’s awe.
“…Do you have it now?” you breathe.
He smirks, and it’s all trouble and tenderness, as he leans a hip against the counter like the world isn’t tilting. “Don’t worry about it”
“Can I see it?” You ask, grinning.
“Finish your coffee.”
“James Buchanan Barnes—”
“I’ll wait,” he says, quiet and certain, brushing a kiss to your temple. His thumb grazes your jaw, soft and steady, like a vow he’s already made a hundred times.
Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)
Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡
Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡
Masterlist
You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.
Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.
Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.
You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.
“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.
Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”
“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.
But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”
A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”
She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.
“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”
Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”
You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.
Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.
You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.
It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.
Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.
Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.
“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”
You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”
She smirks. “Could happen.”
You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”
Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”
You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”
She winces. “Oof.”
“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”
Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”
You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”
She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”
Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.
Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.
And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.
Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.
The number 17 fills out your vision.
Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.
His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.
Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.
“See something you like?”
Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.
Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.
Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”
You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”
Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.
He’s turning.
Wait, he’s turning.
Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.
He’s looking at Natasha.
Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.
Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.
Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.
You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.
His attention shifts. To you.
Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.
His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.
Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.
“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.
Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.
“He’s Steve’s best friend.”
You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”
Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.
“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.
Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.
“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.
You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.
And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.
You shake that thought right off again.
It’s not like it matters.
Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”
Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”
“And you didn’t because…?”
“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”
There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.
“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.
Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”
“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”
She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You huff. “Nat.”
Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.
Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.
You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.
A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.
Number 17.
And he is coming right toward you.
You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.
His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.
He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.
His eyes land directly on you.
“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”
You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.
“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.
You turn to her confused. “Huh?”
“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.
“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.
Natasha looks triumphant.
When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.
“Thanks, doll.”
His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.
He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.
“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.
You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”
His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.
You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”
Oh.
Oh, damn.
You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.
You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”
Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.
Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.
You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”
“Maybe I can change that.”
You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.
Natasha cackles. You ignore her.
Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.
He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”
You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”
Natasha snorts.
His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.
“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”
You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.
“Huh,” he muses.
You frown slightly. “What?”
He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”
That somehow feels worse than the flirting.
You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.
There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”
That must be their trainer Fury.
But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.
You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”
He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”
And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.
It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.
You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.
“We both know you’ll be here next time.”
Infuriatingly, you know she is right.
“I hate you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.
Because he’s on the field.
And, well damn.
You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.
Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.
Really good.
His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.
You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.
When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.
The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.
You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.
Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.
You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”
Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”
You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.
So you only huff and lean further into your seat.
But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.
There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.
Oh, hell.
As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.
Right at you.
And he winks.
Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.
The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.
Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”
She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.
You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”
“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.
“That was textbook showing off, babe.”
You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.
But maybe she’s not wrong.
The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.
The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.
The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.
And apparently, Steve notices, too.
Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.
You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.
Natasha snickers beside you.
Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.
Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”
Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”
But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.
And he’s still looking at you.
This time, you don’t look away.
Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.
“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”
Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.
You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.
Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.
“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”
It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”
“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.
“He’s not-”
“Watch.”
You do.
And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.
They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.
It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.
When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.
And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.
It’s irritatingly impressive.
You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.
He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.
Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.
You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”
She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”
You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”
You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.
Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.
The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.
The ball is pitched.
Bucky swings.
Crack.
The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.
It’s gone. A home run.
The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.
“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”
“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.
Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.
You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.
And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.
Right to you.
The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.
Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.
You are clapping, like all the others.
And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.
The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.
“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.
“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.
“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”
“Stop that-”
“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.
Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.
You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.
That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.
Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.
His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.
He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.
But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.
And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.
“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.
Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.
The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.
The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.
Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.
But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.
His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.
Then he’s gone.
“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.
“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.
She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”
You groan. “God, shut up.”
“That never worked on me. You should know better.”
With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.
“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.
“What? Nat-”
“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”
“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”
“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”
You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.
Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.
The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.
And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.
Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.
Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.
You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.
And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.
His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.
Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”
You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”
“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”
It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.
You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”
He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”
You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”
He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”
Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.
You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”
Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.
Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.
The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.
“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bad,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.
You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”
Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.
“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”
You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.
Next time.
You don’t quite know what to do with that.
You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”
Bucky beams.
It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.
He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.
You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”
Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”
“Make sure?”
He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.
Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”
Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”
You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.
Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.
The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.
You glance down.
A new contact. Bucky Barnes.
Bucky watches you with a soft smile.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”
Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.
“Guess so.”
His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.
“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.
You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”
Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”
You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.
Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.
This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.
Warnings: Nightmares, Mysterious passes, Breaking and entering, Panic attack, Breaking washers, Bucky touches your underwear (whoops...)
Summary: You and Bucky are not only neighbors but friends for months now. You two are close... but are still finding out new things about each other...
Word Count: 2,613
A/N: This was inspired by an amazing request got from an anon. I loved the idea so much that I can see this being turned into a full series if enough people like it! Just let me know! I look forward to feedback like always! and request are always open!
"So... What am I eating?"
Bucky says almost suspiciously as he looks at the macaroni noodle on his fork.
"I can not believe you are so picky," you say, rolling your eyes before taking a delightful bite of the casserole dish you made. Once swallowed, you point your fork accusingly toward Bucky. "It's called tuna mac. It's cheap to make but delicious. Now you can either eat it, or I will stop being such a friendly neighbor and stop sharing my dinners with you."
Bucky chuckles before giving you his signature smirk, "If that's the case, don't come knocking on my door when something of yours breaks again."
You huff, he doesn't play fair.
He watches as you pout and sigh before he takes the macaroni and tuna mix into his mouth. When he eats it, his eyes bulge slightly. "That's actually really good?"
"See, you just need to trust me, neighbor. It's something my mom used to make. Boil noodles, mix up the sauce, and top with cheese. It tastes better than it sounds."
Bucky smiles as you ramble on. When you look over at him, he looks back to his plate, mixing it around as he makes a face before eating more. "That's true. This is way better than that chicken we had last Thursday."
"Hey! We agreed to forget that monstrosity!"
Of course, Bucky laughs at your dramatics, and you can't help but echo it back. Thursday night dinners have become your favorite tradition since moving in; no matter how shitty your week could have been, this always lifts up your spirits, even just a little bit. Most people in your building seem to avoid Bucky; they won't join him in the elevator or even greet him in the mailboxes. They judge his past... but who are you to judge? Though getting to know him didn't happen instantly, it happened because of an accident you might have caused…
You have been fighting with these washers and dryers since you moved in. And now here you are fighting again with the washer. The stupid thing won't spin, and it's starting to flood with water. You paused the cycle and knew that you should just ask the maintenance guy for help, but that has the risk of being blamed for it being broken.
Distracted, you don't notice someone walking in to use the other machines. Honestly, it's surprising someone else is up this late just to do their laundry. So much for not running into anyone while you're dressed in your lazy day pajamas—no bra just to add to the pending embarrassment… Trying your best to keep your head down and fix the machine as silently as possible, you didn't realize that your rattling around has definitely drawn attention.
Until a shadow is cast over you. Turning slightly, you look up at the imposing figure and see your next-door neighbor. James Barnes... Ex Winter soldier and a current Avenger...
His head tilts as he stares down at you, "Problem?"
This is the first time you have really seen him up close… he's much taller than you thought, and his eyes are the clearest shade of blue… While you're silently coking, Bucky shifts on his feet, his scowl deepening as he continues to stare. Mentally, you chastise yourself for being rude and pull your hand from the filled drum to offer him a handshake, stumbling out your name in the process. This was a mistake, however, because you ended up splashing the super soldier with washer water… -Shit…
"I'm sorry, and yeah, I'm just trying to get this washer to work… they never want to act right… old machines acting wonky, what's new?" You huff a laugh, but Bucky keeps looking at you unamused… ah yes… he's an old machine, you idiot…
You quickly take another step closer in panic mode, "Oh! But not all old machines! My grandma had a vacuum for like 20 years, and it never crapped out on her!" -what are you even saying?
Buck just further scoles you, keeping his eyes locked on yours. Honestly, it's a bit intimidating—his intense stare locked onto you. Then there's the fact that his glare doesn't roam—it's just set on your eyes. Plus, you're just rambling on, and he's just watching you like you have lost your mind! You can't afford to move again…
"Why don't you just call for maintenance?" he says in a confused tone, his brows knitting together.
You give him a gentle smile, "I don't want to be blamed for breaking it…"
He doesn't seem too impressed with your excuse as he rolls his eyes, but to your surprise, instead of walking away, leaving you to struggle, he places his laundry down and begins to investigate the machine.
You step closer to him, "So you're going to help me?" you chirp.
"I'm going to try, but if it breaks further, that's on you…" -Okay can't really blame him for that..
"Fair enough, neighbor." he only seems to hum at that before continuing his investigation.
He does his diligence checking everything out; while he does that, you're doing your own checking out. It's not like you're trying to be a perv.... but curiosity always gets the cat in the end, so you allow yourself to check him out a little. His back faces you, and it's incredible how sturdy it appears; you can even see how the muscles ripple with every move despite it being hidden underneath his t-shirt. Then his narrow waist that draws your attention down the length of him, and his arms bulging with every move as it roots around on the inside of the drum. The dark metal arm is so eye-catching you can't help but stare even though you know you shouldn't... If you were caught, you would be modified by how rude it would be. But you can't help yourself from admiring how pretty it truly is… and the craftsmanship is impeccable…
"I think something is just caught if I can unwrap it…" With another pull and a slight groan, he rips out what was caught. Surprisingly, it's Small... red and-
Bucky holds up the dripping wet material, and now that he has it unscrambled, you are mortified... Of course, out of everything to get tangled up and caught, it had to be your thong. Turning it about, Bucky looks at the material confused, unsure, until he meets your mortified eyes and flushed face. It must suddenly click for the man that he's holding a stranger's underwear because, with the inhuman speed, he's met with realization and he's practically throwing your underwear at you like it would bite him.
The flush of his neck and the way he suddenly does not meet your eyes tells you he's thoroughly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, ma'am…" Ma'am? Wow, now he's talking to you properly; he really is embarrassed...
It's quiet for a moment as Bucky awkwardly shifts on his feet. Then you can't help yourself any longer, and you laugh. You laugh so hard you all but fall over yourself, and to your shock, Bucky breaks from his mortification and joins in on your laughter.
The moment lasted for a while until you were both on the verge of tears. As you wipe away your tears, you catch him smiling, and it's like looking at a completely different guy. If people saw this, they wouldn't be avoiding him, that's for sure.
With the washer fixed, you could finish your laundry cycle as Bucky moved to start his. As you're turning to thank your helpful neighbor, he is gone? Scanning the room, you see him leaving, shit!
"James!" You shout without thinking. He pauses before turning back with a small smirk.
"Don't tell me you broke something else."
He's… teasing you? A grin spreads to your face, "I wanted to thank you for helping me out."
He shrugged, "It's no problem. But call me Bucky; when you say James, it makes me feel old." With that, he walked off.
Days later, you were still troubled by the feeling you didn't get to properly thank your neighbor for saving your panties from doom. So you did the only thing you could think of. Making him food. Make sure debts and gratitude are always paid... it's something you picked up from both your parents, but where your dad made sure to do it with favors and money, your mom would always pay by making desserts and meals. So, in your situation, you decided on a platter of brownies.
The look on his face when you knocked on his door was priceless. Of course, he accepted, and thus, the cycle between you two started. You would have a favor, Bucky would help, and then you would make him a meal or dessert. Over time, Bucky's grumpiness was replaced with friendliness, and your friendship got stronger. Even though you had fewer favors, you two continued the tradition of eating a home-cooked meal together once a week until suddenly, it was odd if you were not seeing him.
Like now...
It's been three weeks since you last saw him. It's honestly so lonely in the building without him around. Sure, he's not talkative all the time, and there are still things you know you two have not shared, but it's undeniable this closeness you feel to him.
You just hope you get to see him soon, or you will be forced to break something and force him to come back…
It's another quiet night. It should be a night that you rest easy, drifting far off into dreamland. But you just can't seem to fall asleep. Perhaps it's the fault of a certain super soldier's absence. As you lay pondering whether you should just force yourself to rest or get up and do something until you're tired…
Then, loud bangs from the neighboring wall interrupted the stillness. On instinct, you freeze and try to listen to where the crashing is coming from.
Bucky's place... but that's odd; he's not home. Or did you just miss him? Another crash makes you second guess that it could be a break in…
But who would be dumb enough to break into a super soldier's apartment?
Apparently, you are...
It is technically breaking and entering, but is it bad if you do it for a good reason? What if someone is wreaking his place? What if he's in danger? What will you do if you actually run into someone? You will deal with that once you encounter it…
You ignore that for now as you concentrate on picking the lock... You hated it then, but you're now thankful for the skill at times like this. It clicks with a few more twists, and you're now sneaking through the threshold.
It's the same place you have been in multiple times, but tonight, you see the crumble of blankets on the living room floor, the flipped furniture, the mess of wreckage. Then you see the more heart-aching sight in the room's darkness.
Bucky usually stands tall and has that sly smirk for you with some greeting. Now, he is crouched so small, disheveled, and trembling. Those ocean-blue eyes clenched tightly...
A step towards him immediately has him on the defense, ready to pounce.
But he pauses at the sight of you, confused, rightly so. But you're more distracted by how the outside lights reflect on the streams down his cheeks.
You're about to say something, but his hoarse voice cuts you off before you can, "Get out!".
You should really listen, but as he sinks back to the floor, your feet feel like lead. With a swallow and a steadying breath, you step closer. He should understand by now that you're not one for listening.
Closer now, you can take in his sweat-drenched body and matted hair and how he tries to stop shaking... Thousands of questions flock to you; you just swallow them down. Slowly, you sit close enough to be noticed but not enough to touch him…
Settled beside him, you hold your hand towards him on the floor, making a silent offer. "I'll stay for as long as it takes..."
It could take minutes or hours. There is also the chance of him lashing out, but you will just be silent and patient and let him feel your presence and hear your calm breaths.
You're there for a couple of minutes until a clammy warmth touches your hand. Looking down, you can tell the shaking has stopped a little. You spread your fingers and let him lace them with his own.
"I... don't know what to say..." he mumbles, but you shake your head before meeting his eyes.
"You don't have to explain... We all have scars... Bad dreams. "
"Every night I have bad dreams... Sometimes, I just randomly shake awake."
"Other times, you just lay there waiting for the sun to rise."
The look he gives you tells you he's shared the experience. You shrug and look out the window, "Like I said... bad dreams."
As you two sit there, his shaking slowly stills, but your hand's grip only tightens.
"I'm sorry..." It was such a silent whisper that you almost didn't hear it. Bucky, tired, and a wreck, brought back memories you thought were packed away.
"Don't be sorry. Let's just work on getting you cleaned up. Are you good enough to rinse off?"
Bucky nods before standing up... He walks towards his bathroom but pauses just short... He has his own set of questions he wants to ask... One of them is clear to you... are you going to stay...
"I'll clean for a bit and will brew some tea for, when you get out. Okay?"
He gives a short nod before disappearing. You start placing what you can remember being placed before. It takes you a minute to get everything back in its place. Sure, this place was a mess, but you have had to fix the fallout of worse. Once done, you move on to the kitchen to brew the tea. As the water heats, you just listen to the muffled sound of the shower. Does this happen often? And if so, how have you never noticed before?
Bucky takes longer to wash off than you expected, but ultimately, it's a good thing he took the time for himself. When he finally comes out of the bathroom, he's only in pajama bottoms, a towel resting on his shoulder, and fixing his metal arm back into place. His hair is still dripping wet when he finally plops down on the couch. For a long moment, he's still thinking of what to say, but you just slide the peppermint tea over to him.
Bucky gives a small thank you before he lifts the cup, letting the smell waft to his nose and the cup warm his hand. When he finally takes a sip, you feel like you can breathe again. While he works on his tea, you notice the drops falling from his hair and landing on his skin, causing him to shiver. He didn't even bother to dry his hair, huh? Carefully, you take the towel from his shoulder and softly start to dry his wet hair away. Bucky looks at you curiously as you focus on the task before you.
"Why are you so good at this?"
"Like I said, everyone gets bad dreams. Some worse than others."
He hums before slightly chuckling, "Is that also why you know how to break into apartments?"
The playful tone in his voice makes your heart squeeze, and you can't help but grin, "You're not the only one with secrets, soldier boy."
