chani

21 yo | she/her | 18+ content within.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

How to Let Go

✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦wc: 23k... (sorry)✦ ✦summary: After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to just do that. How to be loved. But Bucky doesn’t walk away. And together, you learn how to have something good.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Modern!AU, friends to lovers, falling in love, anxiety, light jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, oral f!receiving, p in v sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: Request from @swingingardensludgestudent! this one got. so far away from me. it's very important to me. please enjoy it.✦

He’s real. 

When you touch him, Bucky is real. 

It’s not another dream. You can reach over and run your fingers through his soft hair. When you rub a hand on his back, he makes a low sound and shifts in the blankets. Throws his arm over your hip and tugs you forward. 

Now you’re pressed against his chest. Only inches from his handsome, marble-carved face. From the pink lips that you’ve dreamed about more than you want to admit. 

That you’d kissed, last night. That had kissed you back, like he’d been dying of the same thirst you’ve been. Like he’d been in the saltwater ocean, and you were the first drop of rain, offering him a relief he’d forgotten he needed. 

But now the storm is sweeping in. Pulling you under. 

Bucky had pulled you under. Grabbed you by the waist and dragged you beneath the waves. You’d smiled at him after the kiss. You’d been lost to sea after that, with no real need to be saved. 

And as the morning pushes through the horizon, and the room glows with the soft light of dawn, you don’t try to swim to the surface. It’s loud, up there. The world moves faster, everything is harsh and bright, and you’re breathing just fine down here. Breathing Bucky, the smell of mint and rain and something a little warmer. Something strong and just purely Bucky, with a little bit of salt and amber. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you that this isn’t just a dream, because you really can feel last night everywhere. 

Sore between your thighs and on your neck. A little on your tongue, and glazed over in your eyes with pleasure. There’s never been this kind of content, above the water. 

Never been anything as peaceful and everything as Bucky. There hasn’t been, for a while. So you just sit in it. Wait for something to drag you back to the surface, because something always does. Right now is all you have. 

In the quiet. With Bucky. 

You reach out and trace the gold plating of his arm, thrown around your waist. He shivers a little, turning his face into your neck with a grunt, and you smile. 

Can you feel it? You’d asked him.

He’d stared at you, fingers flexing, then nodded. Cleared his throat and nodded, like it wasn’t just a simple yes or no. And said, All of it.

Your fingers find their way up to his shoulder, and he grumbles. Pulls you impossibly closer, lips grazing over your throat. You let out a long, slow breath, and look up at the ceiling. 

At the sunlight, slowly creeping over it. Promising a reckoning. 

I’m not lookin’ for anything. Ever. A cigarette was put out on a fire escape, and he’d given you a strange look. I just don’t think that’s good for anyone, if I am. 

You’d smiled at him, the skin around your nails picked raw. Okay. Why the fuck are you telling me?

He’d smirked. You seem like someone who causes people to make mistakes.

That had made you laugh. You hadn’t cared then, where the morning went. Bucky hadn’t been anything. 

He’s something now. Something you really don’t know how to hold, and not break. 

And you don’t know where you go from here. 

You’re keeping an eye on the clock. On three clocks, in case one decides it wants to move a little faster, and save you. Your watch is a minute behind, but it could be a minute ahead. The fancy, art deco clock on the wall is a minute ahead, but it could be five. Your phone is perfectly on time, but you could just lie and say it was dead. 

No. Steve would know if you lied. And he’d give you his disapproving, you promised face. Or worse, he’d call you and make you come back. 

It’s just two hours. You can survive this for two hours. If you cling to the walls and pretend to look at the art, it’s just like you’re in a very fancy subway. People passing you by, maybe trying to engage you in a conversation and giving up the moment they realize you really aren’t interested in talking. 

That was Steve’s main pitch, for you being there. Nobody is even going to try to talk to you. 

“You can just sulk in the corner, and nobody’s going to bother you.”

You’d snorted. “You can’t promise that.”

“No, but I can predict it.” He’d shrugged. “You can be really unapproachable.”

“You approach me-“

“I know you. It’s easy to approach you when I know you’re a lot more bark than bite. Actually,” he’d paused, frowning at the air. “You don’t even bark. You just kind of growl-“

“Steve.” You’d given him a firm look. “I am not a dog.”

“Right. Sorry.” He’d blushed a little, looking at his feet, then muttered. “But you’ll come, right? I know you don’t like parties, but it would mean a lot-“

“Of course I’ll come.” You’d grumbled. “But if one person talks to me, you better swoop in and pretend my house is burning down or something.”

Steve had nodded. “I can do that. And you can eat the whole fruit and cheese table, if you want.”

So that's what you're doing. And if people give you dirty looks—for taking another thing of grapes—you just glare at them until they look away. Retreat back to your corner, and invest yourself in eating and living on the outskirts. Where none of these fancy assholes are going to try and talk to you about the color composition of Steve’s paintings. About the glory of the muse, or the great imagination of the artist. 

You know the artist is great. You also know he doesn’t like being complimented directly to his face, and that the glory of his muse is a lot of anarchist ideas that these diamond-clad, designer-wearing douchebags wouldn’t love. All Steve’s paintings are of nature and stars and normal people, made to be just as beautiful as the world around them. Made to blend into it, like they’re just another part of nature. He’s swapped out buildings for trees, streets for riverbeds. He does have a great imagination. It’s amazing, that all these people are here just to support him. 

But you don’t have to be here. Steve knows you support him. You wrote all the companion poems. You’re in one of the paintings. Steve says that’s the exact reason you have to be here. 

You think he’s lucky the cheese table is so good, and that the pulled pork sandwiches they’ve been serving are actually pretty fucking good.

Just two hours. For Steve, and his art, you can make it two hours. Then you can go home, where there aren’t any fancy people trying to engage you in conversation. Where you don’t have to pretend not to care what people are saying about your poems and stories, where you don’t keep glancing over to the painting of yourself. 

You’re keeping your head bowed, so nobody spots the resemblance.

There’s still a very loud, needy and sore desperation for everyone to suddenly gasp, and decided that the woman in the painting is the most beautiful person in the world. To start asking Steve who this angel is, if she’s real, or just another artistic vision.

You don’t want them to know it’s you. They’ll try to bother you, and you’ll say something that you shouldn’t, and then everyone will be disappointed and you might as well just jump off a fucking bridge so nobody ever has to think of you again-

“Nice party, huh.”

You blink, and turn to see a man next to you. A pretty man. With dark hair and tanned skin and blue eyes. He looks more like a book character than a person. There’s muscle definition through his suit and a shine in his eyes like he knows how pretty he is. His lips are pink and full, and already smiling at you. His hair is long enough to be tangled between fingers.

His brows are a little raised. The pretty man wants you to say something back. 

Pretty men are dangerous.

You just stare at him, because that usually makes people go away pretty fast. Makes them uncomfortable, and then you’re left alone again. 

The pretty man doesn’t cough and walk away. He just stares back. He’s supposed to walk away. 

“I noticed you’re hogging the cheese.” He nods to the small plate in your hands—being tested as to how much its flimsy paper can carry—and you flush. 

“Steve said I could have it.”

The man blinks at you once, standing a little taller. “You know Stevie?”

“It’s… his art show.”

“Yeah, but- Most of these people are just here ‘cause they’re art folks.” The pretty man keeps staring at you, and you can feel it everywhere.

He looks at you like he’s trying to pull you apart. Trying to assess something. 

You can’t imagine what. You don’t really hide things about yourself anyway. 

“How do you know Steve?”

“College.” You shrug, and the pretty man nods slowly. 

Keeps staring at you. 

Your eyes drop to the glass in his hand. His fingers are flexing slightly on the stem, other hand tucked in his pocket, and when you look back up his tongue is flicking over his lips. It makes something buzz, under your skin. 

Which isn’t good. You need to get away now. 

“Well, I have to go- um- get more cheese-“

“I don’t think there is more cheese, doll.” He drawls, and heat rushes your face. 

“There’s more. In the back.”

“We aren’t supposed to go in the back-“

“You aren’t. I am.” You take a large step back, and pretty man takes an almost lurching step forward. 

You freeze, staring at each other. You’re breathing a little too fast. Your head is spinning. 

He’s just a pretty man. Who’s looking at you. And trying to talk to you. 

Steve promised nobody would look at you or talk to you. People aren’t supposed to look at you or talk to you. 

Let alone keep trying to talk to you. They’re supposed to give up. Everyone always gives up. Steve’s only still here because he’s a stubborn asshole who never gives up on anyone or anything.

But he’s the exception, not the rule. The pretty man should not still be here. He should be done with you now. 

Instead he slowly reaches out a hand, like he’s trying to pet a wild animal. 

“James Barnes.” He gives you a small smile. “But you can call me Bucky. I’m here for Steve, too.”

Oh. You know who he is. Steve’s told you all about Bucky. But-

 “Your hair is supposed to be shorter.” You blurt, and Bucky recoils slightly. 

“I, uh- I’ve been growing it out. Figured I could, since I’m done shipping out.” He pauses. “You not like it?”

He needs to shut up. “No, I mean- It’s nice.”

Bucky grins. “It’s nice?”

You nod, then shake your head. Your eyes fall back down to his outstretched hand.

It’s black. Pitch black. And shining in the low light of the gallery. 

“My arm got blown off.” He says, and your eyes shoot up to find him still staring at you. So carefully. “I, uh- Got lucky. Runnin’ a prototype, for prosthetics.” He pauses. “It’s metal.”

“Yeah, um- I can see that.”

“Right.” He chuckles, and his hand isn’t dropping. “Can you, uh- What’s your name? Y’know, since I told you mine.”

You stare at him. Pretty men are dangerous. Pretty men who are Steve’s friends are more dangerous. They could either stay, or leave and take Steve with them. 

But this one has a gravity. Bucky seems to be made of something more tangible than anyone else in the room. Gossamer dresses and pressed suits and clinking glasses, flickering lights and gilded furniture. 

Looking at Bucky, it all seems like nothing at all. 

And you’re sort of under a spell, as you reach out and take his hand. Try not to shiver from the cold metal, and say your name so soft it’s almost a whisper. 

Bucky grins at you, and the whole world narrows down. Just to him, and his smile. 

“I know.” He shrugs. “Steve’s told me all about you.”

You don’t think you can stand to feel any warmer. You can’t seem to get your hand to leave Bucky’s grip. “Oh. I- You too.”

“Good things?”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” 

You don’t want to ask about yourself, because that’s presumptuous and you don’t really need to hear the answer- 

“Stevie talks about you like you’re Helen incarnate.” Bucky says, and your eyes widen. “Didn’t get it before, but now…” He pulls his hand back, still grinning at you. “I’m startin’ to understand.”

Steve’s talked about you. To other people. Said things, that other people have heard. And maybe some of it was bad. Maybe he started talking about you like you were good, but then it’s slowly changed to an annoying, needy bitch who’s always testing me, and- 

Bucky’s opening his mouth, to say something else. 

Retreat. The best possible option now is to retreat. 

“I have to- Um-“ You hold up your still-full plate. “Cheese.”

Bucky frowns, and takes a small step forward. You turn, before his call pulls you further into his orbit. You don’t need this. Don’t want it. He’s too pretty, and his voice is too smooth, and you’re going to do it all wrong. Say something that you’re not supposed to, start talking and fail to stop, show too many teeth and bulldoze and shout, and Bucky will go back to Steve and ask what the fuck is wrong with you. 

Who knows. Steve will laugh, and they’ll bond over a mutual hatred of you. 

Steve will keep being nice to you, because he’s a good person. But he’ll pull away. And everyone will keep whispering and hating you and-

Deep breaths. It’s just you in the back, so you take a few deep breaths, and tip your head back to stare at the ceiling. Almost black, because you didn’t really bother to turn on a light. 

Steve doesn’t hate you. Bucky probably will forget that ever happened by tomorrow. You can remain nothing but an idea, on the outskirts. Everyone will remember the painting. The poems. The mirage. 

Nobody will think of you.

It would be nice, you think sometimes, to just be the painting. Just the beauty, without the storm. Without the fury and sharpness. Without the capability, to disappoint.

But you’re still the person. You’re nothing but the person. So you’ll keep hiding in the dark, until there’s no one left to see you. Not even Bucky Barnes, and his pretty stares. 

No one at all. 

“Someone bought your painting.”

You look up from your sandwich, and find Steve watching you carefully. “My- What?”

“The painting. That I made of you.” He grins. “Someone bought it for like- A lot of money. I think you’re going to be paying off my student loans.”

You swallow, fingers digging into the bread of your lunch. 

“That’s… okay, right?” Steve clears his throat, words a little softer. “I haven’t done the paperwork yet, and you said I could sell them, but- If you’ve changed your mind-“

“I haven’t.” You say quickly. Steve worked hard for this. The way your skin is prickling about attention—someone looking at you, seeing you, and do they think you’re pretty or did they buy the painting just to burn it, which would be a waste of money but maybe they hate you that much—isn’t important. Being there for Steve is important. 

So you smile at him, and say gently. “I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m- That’s great. Good. I’m happy for you.” You pause, then—just to sell it—add, “Can I have a cut, since it’s my face?”

Steve relaxes. You’re a pretty good actress, when you need to be. 

“Yeah, I mean- If you want a cut you can have half, they’re your poems too, anyway-“

“Steve, I was joking.”

“Oh.” He laughs. “Yeah, right. Uh-“ He blinks, then clears his throat. “Never mind.”

Your eyes narrow. It’s small. Easy to miss if you don’t know him. 

But Steve’s brow twitched, and he cut off a sentence before he could finish it. 

Which means there’s something he either doesn’t want to tell you, or isn’t supposed to say. 

“What.”

He blushes. “Nothing. I said never mind.”

“Yeah.” You lean forward. “Never mind what.”

“Nothing-“

“Steve-“

“I just don’t know why you’re surprised people liked the painting of you. I actually had a lot of people inquiring about it. Even Bucky mentioned you, and he only comes to these things to drink and support me.”

Your mouth falls open a little. Bucky didn’t forget about you. It’s making your heart do little flips. 

“Okay.” Is all you can think to say, because asking what did Bucky say is pathetic. 

That doesn’t make you want to ask it any less. There must be a way to ask around it. To find out, without actually saying it. Something where Steve just tells you, and doesn’t even think twice about it. 

“What did people say?” You hum, poking one of your fries into the sandwich. “About the painting?”

“That they liked it.” Steve shrugs. “And they liked you.” 

They liked you. People liked the imprint of you.

That’s something that should make you feel good. It’s all you want to hear, ever. 

But they didn’t like you. None of them even spoke to you-

“A few people said they wanted to talk to you.” Steve adds, and sometimes you think he can read your mind. “But you know. You were doing the thing.”

“The… thing?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing.” Steve chuckles to himself, continuing before you can push what the fuck the thing is. “Of course Bucky wasn’t bothered by it, though. I actually told him not to bother you, but he’s never really been deterred by that. He said that you were basically best-friend-in-laws.” He gives you an apologetic smile. “He wants to say he’s sorry, if he freaked you out.”

You blink. Everything feels a little far away. “He- What?”

“Buck told me you ran off. So- He’s sorry.”

“Um, I-“ You stare down at your plate, and take a deep breath. 

It’s fine. It’s all fine. There are a million things that apology could mean, but you don’t need to think of all of them. 

Just the main ones. That he’s apologizing because he really feels bad, or he wants you to think he feels bad, because he’s decided you’re a fragile little flower. And he’s trying to make it clear he’s not interested, because you freaked out. Or he’s not sorry at all, and Steve is just making it sound nice when he said it sarcastically. Or he really is sorry, and he’s trying to figure out if you were freaked out so he can do it again. Or-

Steve says your name, cutting through your thoughts. “You can tell me, if he did make you uncomfortable-“

“No. He- No.” Maybe he did. But only in the way that too much sugar makes your tongue hurt, or too many drinks makes your skin hot. “He was fine. Good. Bucky was good. I, um- I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

Steve stares at you for a moment. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“Good. Because that’s it.” You take a large bite of your sandwich, just to shut yourself the fuck up.

“You promise Bucky didn’t freak you out?” Steve asks, and you nod quickly, taking another bite. “Okay, well- If you’re sure-“

“‘m sure.” You protest through your sandwich, and Steve sighs. 

“I believe you. Just- Bucky’s having a house party this weekend. Well- His roommates are having a house party, and he’s also allowed to invite people. And he said I could bring you. If you want.”

You almost choke on your sandwich. “Steve-“

“I know, I don’t like parties either-“

“No, I’m not saying- It’s just- I’m-“ You take a deep breath. 

Party invitation. Means nothing. Means nothing. 

Or something. Too many somethings. You could make a fool of yourself, or make all of Steve’s friends hate you, or- 

“I’d like to go.” Steve says softly. “And he would like you there. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.”

You stare at Steve, the gears in your head turning too fast. So many ways this could go wrong. You could trip. Drink too much and vomit on his couch. Not drink enough and be boring. Somehow end up insulting someone. Try to flirt—would you try to flirt? You don’t know how to fucking flirt—and it goes horribly. Flirt well, and then you’re stuck still flirting, then you have to go on dates and keep getting things right when so many things can go wrong- 

“You really don’t have to-“

“Okay.” You blurt, and that was a mistake. There was no reason to say that. Why did you say that-

“Really?” Steve smiles at you, and that’s why you said it. Not for Bucky. 

For your only friend, who wanted you to go. 

“Yeah.” You smile at him softly. “Really. This weekend.”

Steve nods. “Yes, and- You can leave whenever you want, if you hate it-“

“I’ll be fine.” You will not be fine. “I’m sure no one will even notice I’m there.”

Everyone notices. 

You’re new. New and shiny and interesting, to a bunch of people who have known Steve forever and only heard about you. 

You’ve heard about them, too. Actually met a few of them before, which you think is going to get you out of a few conversations, but only adds to the pile. The conversation with Thor—huge, loud, but very sweet, and who names their kid Thor—is short and polite. He calls you a muse three times, which is the exact right amount for it to not be a joke. A woman named Maria shakes your hand and smiles, which Steve says after is basically her calling you the most interesting person she’s ever met, which doesn’t seem true given how you spent the whole conversation awkwardly rambling about books. A woman named Wanda smiles at you, and actually has a full conversation about TV that’s pretty enjoyable. 

But those are the people you hadn’t met.

“I heard you got a painting out there now.” Tony grins at you, and you smile politely back. 

The first time you met him, he tried to out modern events you. You’d won the conversations—you don’t play games you won’t win, which is why you don’t play that many games—and he’d jokingly asked you out. 

Or you think it was joking. Tony said everything like it was a joke. And he’d laughed as he asked if you were taking suitors. Which is why you’d just rolled your eyes and walked away. But there’s a world where it isn’t a joke, and you offended him by walking away. Or he wasn’t offended, but you also missed out on the chance to be financially secure forever. But you wouldn’t be happy with Tony—he rolls his Rs dramatically, whenever he says a Spanish word, and it makes you want to punch him in the face—but isn’t stability worth the cost of finding true love- 

“Steve, If you haven’t sold it yet, I’m willing to double whatever the first perv is paying.” Tony winks at you, and you swallow. 

“You could offer me your bank account and I wouldn’t sell it to you, Tony.” Steve says smoothly, and Tony smirks. 

“Is that a challenge?”

“Don’t try and buy a girl, Tony. That isn’t legal anymore.” Natasha—nice, a little scary, never seems to second guess what she’s doing and has now shoved about three champagne glasses into your hand—scolds. “And you’re going to scare her off. Steve will never introduce us to new people again.”

“Ah, well, I’ve already met her so that removes the main factor of your argument, and I can-“

“You can’t do what you want.” Natasha says flatly. “And don’t main factor me. I’ll punch you.”

Tony whistles, and you finish your champagne glass. You’re not buzzed enough yet to stop thinking. You’re never buzzed enough to stop thinking. You shouldn’t have said yes to this, when you have work to do. You could do the work here. You could interview Tony Stark, and turn that into an essay. An essay about the corruption of money on a man’s manners. Or just about his opinions of art, editing out any flirty comments made about you. Or Natasha, you could try her, but Steve says she’s black ops CIA or something, and probably wouldn’t want you to write about her- 

“Steve’s camp girlfriend!” Another large man—why are all these men so large—walks over to you with a wide grin. “You’re real!”

You flush, and the man—Sam, you recognize from a few photos—gets whacked upside the head by Natasha. A few sharp jokes are exchanged, and you somehow manage to keep up. When Sam asks what you do, you tell him. When Natasha tries to bring you with her to get drinks, you don’t resist. Steve trusts her. She’s never anything but nice—if not a little blunt and mildly amused by you—and you want to see more of Bucky’s apartment. 

Because you’re in Bucky’s apartment. It’s sleek, and well kept. Clean, with nice wall hangings and carpets and furniture that look like someone had a lot of fun at IKEA. It’s big, but Steve says he shares it with Natasha and Sam, which is why everyone is so military.

Apparently, you and Steve are Bucky’s only guests. To his party. In his apartment. But Bucky hasn’t tried to speak to you at all. 

You should be relieved. You didn’t want him to talk to you. Just the moment of him being near you—greeting Steve, shaking his hand without sparing you a glance—had made your heart move into your throat and your fingers fidget nervously. But all you can think now is why isn’t he talking to you. He invited you. He asked you to be here. He didn’t have to do that. It could be something you’d done in the split seconds between when you walked into the party, and Bucky greeted Steve. Maybe it’s your outfit. Too revealing. Not revealing enough. Maybe you’d done something with your hands that was like flipping someone off in the army. 

Steve never told you if the army had secret hand signals to tell someone you hated them. You’ll need to look that up later. And if they do, that could be an interesting essay, but the government might not like it, but you also don’t respect the government all that much- 

“You think a lot.” Natasha says suddenly, passing you another drink, and you stare at her. 

“I-“ Fuck. Your voice sounds weak. “Huh?”

“I can almost hear it.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her own drink. “Do you want cheese?”

“No, I- I’m not that hungry-“

“Alright.” 

“But- Thank you.”

Natasha tilts her head at you, and if she can hear you thinking. Like she’s staring right into your thoughts. Reading them like an open book. Finding every chapter on how you think it’s sad, how their apartment is nice, but in the way an architectural digest apartment is nice. That you’re worried about why they’re all talking to you—trying to organize what you think of them, while also keeping in mind they’re Steve and Bucky’s friends, but you don’t even know what you think of Bucky—and yet can’t imagine anything worse than them not talking to you at all. How you’re trying to figure out what you can write about. 

How you are hungry, you just don’t want to impose. How your eyes are scanning over the crowd randomly, against your will. Trying to find Bucky. 

You don’t even know him. But it’s making your stomach turn, whenever you see him, and there’s a split, stabbing second of eye contact. Or it had been. Then Natasha had pulled you over here, and suddenly you can’t find him at all. 

You can’t stop thinking about that, either. You might be about to throw up. 

And Natasha just smiles at you. Smiles at you like she can see in your head. 

“I, um-“ You set down the drink, because your hands are shaking so much you’re worried you’re about to spill it. “Is there somewhere I can get some air?”

“There’s a fire escape, you reach it through a door in my study. Third door-“

“I’ll find it,” you blurt, and practically run away. There’s too much noise. Between the crowd and your thoughts, it was making you dizzy. 

You find Natasha’s study, and almost scramble out the window. Onto the fire escape. 

Into a different, dizzying kind of waking something. 

Bucky stares at you, cigarette between his fingers. You stare back, mouth hanging open, breathing ragged from the run. 

You need to get it together. Go back to the—slightly—composed version of yourself from the gallery. The one Bucky had pulled apart, with a small conversation.

Thinking about that isn’t fucking helpful at all. 

You draw yourself up, smoothing your shirt and raising your chin. Staring at him, like he’s intruding on your space. Bucky’s lips twitch, and it doesn’t feel like your performance is working. 

“You’re here.”

“I-“ Don’t let your voice crack. “I needed air-“

“No, you’re here.” Bucky leans against the gated ledge of the escape. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Oh.” You swallow, then say a little stupidly, “You invited me.”

“I did. Still didn’t think you’d come.”

“But-“

“You sorta ran away from me last time.” He drawls, and you flush. “Figured I was takin’ a real long shot.”

You stare at him, for once, unable to think of anything at all. You don’t know what that means. Under Bucky’s attention, it feels impossible to figure out. 

“Sorry.” You mumble, because it’s all you can work out to say. 

Bucky smiles at you. “For running?”

You nod, and he shrugs. 

“It’s alright. Figured I just freaked you out or somethin’-“

“No.” Someone needs to put tape over your mouth. “I- I just needed cheese.”

Bucky huffs. “So you weren’t scared of me.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t-“

“You ran pretty fast.”

“Yeah, but- I’m not afraid of most things.”

Bucky gives you a look of pure, amused disbelief. “Really. ‘Cause it sorta seems like you are.”

You are. But you’re afraid of things you can’t explain without sounding insane. 

“I’m not.” You mumble, staring at Bucky’s shoes.

He wears boots. They’re covered in mud, but it’s caked and dry. There’s dirt under his nails, as well, when your gaze slides up. You shouldn’t look at his hands. They’re big and rough. Strong looking. All of Bucky is strong looking. Even his voice is like he’s made of something iron. 

“Steve says I’m just twitchy.” You say quickly. “But- He’s not really afraid of things either-“

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, he is. He just has no self-preservation.” He pauses, and you can feel his eyes burning into you. 

It’s different than Natasha. He’s not reading you. When you glance up at his handsome face—nobody needs to be that big and broad and handsome, it’s irrational—his eyes are boring into you like he’s looking for something. Trying to figure you out like a puzzle, not a book. You don’t understand why. You don't hide things. You don’t know how. 

“You two aren’t…” Bucky clears his throat, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, and you frown. 

“Who-“

"You and Stevie.” He mutters, smoke blowing out over the ledge before he looks back to you. “That’s not- You two don’t-“

Oh. “No. I’m- no.” You almost laugh. You adore Steve. 

The idea of him naked is very upsetting, to the point it’s sort of absurd.

“He’s like a brother, and I- I’m not really. I don’t do that.”

Bucky’s brows raise, and you flush. Too much. You said too much. Bucky doesn’t need to know you don’t date. 

That you don’t ruin things. That you’re not interested in being loved, then left. 

“Why not?” Is all he says. 

“It’s- Too many risks.” Why can’t you ever shut up. “And- A crapshoot. I’m not looking to come out the other side with, um-“

“Crap?” Bucky finishes, and you nod. 

“Crap.”

He chuckles, and nods slowly. You pick at your nails, still unable to really think—let alone of a way out of this—and Bucky takes another, slow drag. 

“You got a way with words, doll.”

His voice is dry, but not taunting. It lights something in your gut. A small, sharp fire that rises quickly to your tongue, and you don’t know him that well, but-

“It is my job, Barnes.” You drawl and Bucky gives you an odd look. 

But not a bad one. Just… strange.

“You can bite.” He murmurs, and you stand a little taller. 

“I can be provoked.”

He chuckles. “But dating is too many risks?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He takes a drag, now watching you carefully. “Would you date Steve? If it wasn’t a crapshoot?”

“No. He’s- Like a brother.”

And not your type. But Bucky doesn’t need to hear that part. 

He clears his throat, putting his cigarette out on the metal. 

“I’m not lookin’ for anything, either. Ever.” Another strange look. “Just don’t think it’s good for anyone, if I am.”

You give him a small smile. “Okay? Why are you telling me that?”

He chuckles. “’Cause. You… Got something.”

“Do I?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Something that causes people to make… mistakes.”

He drew out that last word. 

You really don’t understand what the fuck he means. 

“I don’t make mistakes.”

Bucky chuckles. “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t.”

“What does that-“

“I only make mistakes.” He holds your gaze, and you weren’t wrong before. 

His eyes really do shine in the dark. 

“I liked your poem.” 

You stare at him for a second. “My… poem?”

“Yeah. At Stevie’s event.”

“I- I wrote all the poems-“

“I know.” He shrugs. “But I liked the one with that painting of the Sun. Perfect, I can’t find it, I keep trying to hide from it. Day come and fall, I don’t think I’m doing enough time for it.”

He quoted it. You’d fucking hated that poem—you’d rhymed it with it, twice—but Bucky had just quoted it back to you like it was nothing. 

“That your whole thing?” He asks, and you only just hear him over your heartbeat. “Poems?”

You pause, taking a deep breath, trapped under his gaze. “You… said you knew who I was.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did.” You tilt your head at him slightly. “You know what I do too, don’t you.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then a wide grin splits over his face. 

It might be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. 

“Yeah. I do. Steve says you teach, too?”

“I- Um- I do volunteer work.”

He nods slowly. “Y’know, my vet group runs workshops. We’re looking for volunteers.”

“Oh. I get busy-“

“We’d work around you.” He holds out his hand. “Can I give you our number?”

“I’m not-“

“Just think about it. Don’t have to use it.”

You stare at each other for a moment, and you find yourself nodding. Passing your phone into his hand, and watching him enter in the group’s number. 

His fingers brushed yours. There’s a strange electric sensation, where you’d touched. You hide your hands behind your back until he’s done, to make sure he doesn’t see you rubbing the skin.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, as he passes back your phone. “Put my number in there, too. In case you wanna just… call me.”

“Okay.” You breathe out, and your fingers bump again.

It’s hard not to feel Bucky’s gaze, as you go to look at the contact he added. 

Bucky Barnes, right there on your screen. You look up at him, and he gives you a smile more nervous than you thought he was capable of. 

“You’re Steve’s friend.” He mutters. “I- like friends.”

You swallow, voice still too soft. “I like friends too.”

“Good.” Bucky grins at you, and without a thought, you find yourself grinning back.

“Yeah. Good.”

You stare at the numbers for a week and a half, before you make the call. You don’t tell Steve about it. He’ll have an opinion, and a specific thing he thinks you should do.

It.

Steve will tell you to do it. That you love writing, and love helping people, and this is a perfect combination of that. Plus you’d be doing it with Bucky, and Bucky is the best, so there are literally no negatives to just calling the fucking number.

But Steve doesn’t understand that there are negatives. There are always negatives. You could be horrible at it, then you’ve ruined all these veterans lives or made their trauma worse or you get blacklisted from ever volunteering again. Bucky could be in the group, and you could do something embarrassing that makes him not want to be your friend. You could find out he just wants to have sex with you, which is nice, but not enough. He’s supposed to either be enamored with you, or not care at all, and anything in between is too complicated. 

You could make this complicated. 

Bucky could actually like you, and now you have to make sure he keeps liking you. Bucky could hate you, and then everything is harder for Steve. Bucky could fall in love with you—he won’t but you have to consider all the factors—and then you’ll actually have to deal with the humming feeling in your chest whenever someone mentions his name. He could quote more of your shitty poems back to you, and then you fall in love with him. Or you think he’s in love with you, and he’s not, and it makes everything weird. One of the other people in the group could hate you, and Bucky tells you it’s best if you don’t volunteer, but you’re already in love with him and now you’re never going to see him again-

You are not already in love with him. You’ve met him twice. 

And it is a good opportunity. You focus on Steve’s voice in your ear, telling you it’s a good opportunity, and call the number. 

They’re thrilled to have you. All you have to say is I know Bucky Barnes, and he asked me to volunteer, and the woman on the other side of the line squeals. 

“Oh, we were hoping you’d call. Bucky showed us some of your work this is- Oh it’s so exciting-“

She gives you a first day, the very same week. And you spend the days leading up to it the way you spend most days. Worrying. 

Trying to figure out exactly how to get this right. How to walk in and make everyone in awe of you, while remaining detached and cool enough that none of them try to approach you. To know you better. 

You’re not good at being detached. 

You walk into the little room—rented out in a public school, a bunch of beefy and scarred men and women squeezed into the middle-schooler sized chairs—and already you’re too invested in everything. These people look tired. They all have a slightly haunted look in their eyes. 

You can help. This is something you’re good at. You do it with kids in hospitals. You’ve done it with abuse survivor groups. This is just a lot more men, which might be a challenge—feelings wise—but you love a challenge. You can figure it out. It’s just another thing to figure out. 

“You came!” Sam crows, standing at the whiteboard at the front of the room, and Bucky gives you a small smile.

It feels secret. Something that’s just for you, and no one else. Friends.

“Well, Bucky really sold it.” You shake Sam’s hand—Bucky did mention he leads the group—and his lips twitch.

“You sure we’re talkin’ about the same Bucky? The one who told everyone we should watch the Wizard of Oz ‘cause we should?”

The rest of the group laughs, like it’s some long running joke, and Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t work in marketing, Sam. And you liked it, didn’t you?”

“That ain’t the point, Buck. I’m tryin’ to work out what the hell you coulda said to sell anything.”

“He said please.” You offer. Cool. Interesting. Not fucking insane. Don’t let them know you’re already trying to organize them in your head based on how you’ll get them to like you. “And promised me donuts.”

Sam grins, and that gets another, slightly smaller, laugh from the group. 

“We got donuts.” 

“All the kinds.” Bucky interjects, nodding to the small group of desks with a frilly pink box and paper coffee cups. “Enough for everyone to have one.”

You nod, pulling at your fingers nervously. “Do you have Boston Creme?”

"Uh-“ Bucky squints at the box. “Should be one. Or- One.”

“You said one already, Buck.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Bucky scowls.

“Don’t wanna give the lady the wrong count-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Sam says your name with a smile. “We got the donuts. And pens and paper, for your workshop.” Sam nods to the teacher’s desk, and you frown. 

“No pencils?”

“Couldn’t find any-“

“In a school?”

Bucky chuckles in the corner, and Sam shoots him a glare. 

“You didn’t find any either, and this wasn’t my idea-“

“I got the donuts, Sam. You were in charge of materials.”

“Well- Pens work just as well as pencils! They do the same fuckin’ thing!”

“Can these pens erase?” You cross your arms, Sam sighs dramatically, and Bucky looks like he’s having the best day of his life. 

“Yeah, Sam. Can these pens erase-“

“You, shut it.” Sam snaps at Bucky, giving you an almost pleading look. “C’mon, I mean- It can’t be that important-“

“The lady asked for pencils, Sam.” Bucky drawls. “What you think you can’t find them?”

Sam shoots Bucky a venomous look, but before he can snap something, one of the vets shouts from his desk. 

"Yeah, Wilson, get her the pencils!”

“Don’t be a little pen bitch!” Another shouts, and Sam doesn’t get to respond before they’re all yelling. 

You stand awkwardly at the front of the room, and let Sam and Bucky handle the noise. You just need to listen. Watch. 

They’re a loud group. They swear frequently, and with a fair amount of creativity. That’s good. That can be channeled, along with their great passion about making Sam get off his little flat bird-ass and get the damn pencils. 

That one’s a large man with a tattooed forearm. It’s a snake. There’s also a snake on his backpack. You can use that, just like you can use the long haired woman’s blue pen, earrings, eyeliner, and nails. Every one of these people has something. And that’s more than enough for you to work with.

There’s a moment, as your eyes scan over the crowd. A moment where they find Bucky. And he’s not looking at his friends. Or laughing at Sam. 

He’s just staring at you. 

You stare back, and he smiles again. You turn away with a flush, and try to pretend you can’t feel him still watching. It’s not working. You very much fucking can.

Eventually Sam shouts everyone calm the hell down, and storms off to get pencils. Then they’re all looking at you. And you have to say something. You have to fucking say something.

It takes a second for you to find your voice, because they were all just insulting Sam, and shouting crude things, and if they do that to you, you’ll start crying. Your eyes find Bucky again, before you can think better of it. He gives you a small nod, tilting his head in the direction of the other vets.

They might rip you apart. They might not respect you, because what the fuck have you ever done for them. You’re an artist. Historically, artists and war don’t go along really well. Maybe you dressed too much like a baby bunny. Or not enough. You should’ve made yourself smaller, more vulnerable, nobody wants to attack a baby bunny-

Bucky clears his throat, and suddenly he’s next to you. You don’t remember him moving. Or his hand, coming to rest lightly on your lower back. 

“Hey!” He shouts at the vets, who had started to murmur amongst themselves. “We listening?”

The room falls silent, and Bucky gives you a firm nod. Telling you to take it away. You take a deep breath, lace your fingers together to stop them from moving, and smile. Sweet, but firm. 

It does the trick. Your voice is steady. Loud. Confident in a way your body starts to believe, until your heart is slowed down and your hands aren’t trying to wring themselves. 

Sam comes back with the pencils, to find everyone listening to you talk like you’re preaching gospel. Blue Lady is taking notes, as you explain how the best way to write is just write. Snake Man is looking at you with wide eyes, leaning forward in his chair, and it makes you feel a little big. 

You don’t miss Sam’s raised brows at Bucky, and Bucky’s shrug. His small grin, and the way Sam bumps his shoulder after. 

It lights something up, inside of you. There’s nothing but friends, but there’s still a small ember that refuses to stop burning. Bucky sits down, and engages in your activity, and he's still watching you. Takes a pencil from Sam with his eyes on you. Grins up at you, when you come around to check his work. 

You squint at the paper, and with everyone else you’ve been trying to prioritize kindness. They’re really doing their best. You need them to like you more than any other teacher they’ll ever have.

But Bucky gives you a challenging look, and being nice slips out the window. 

“You used the word haven twice in the same paragraph.”

Bucky shrugs, still grinning at you. “It was an artistic choice.”

“The sky was a haven. I wanted to touch it. Then I look down, and there’s the haven of the sea below.”

“They’re both havens.”

“Hm.” You look between Bucky and the paper. “What are you writing about?”

“The beach-“

“And what do the sky and sea represent? Is it the same thing?”

“I dunno-“

“Then figure it out.” You hand him back his paper. “Either they’re both a haven and you need to connect them better, or one of them is a haven and you need a new word.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, and you went too far. That was too loud. Too dramatic. Too bossy, and a little mean, and he’s never going to speak to you again, let alone smile at you and make you feel fuzzy-

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re good at this?”

You flush, and nod. “I, um- Yeah. It’s my job.”

Bucky’s eyes are shining again. “They should pay you more.”

“You’re not paying me now.”

Bucky laughs. Loud and from his chest. 

Everyone else looks up, like he’d just fired a gun. Sam’s eyes are wider than they need to be. It was just a fucking laugh. 

But everyone is staring, until Bucky coughs loudly and looks back down to his paper. Everyone else follows suit. And you don’t know what the fuck just happened, but the rest of the workshop goes smoothly. People actually talk to each other, when you tell them to get up and share, instead of just sitting there awkwardly. They mingle and roam and chat about what they wrote—you know because you’re eavesdropping, which is fine, it’s your class—while coming up to ask you the occasional question. 

The coffee is drained, by the end. The box is picked clean of donuts before you get the chance to stop and take one, but that’s okay. You did the important thing. 

You shake a lot of hands, as the room clears out. Sam and Bucky linger behind, with thanks and a promise to clean up themselves. 

They try to protest, when you stick around to help them. It’s not that much trouble, you say. But really, you just want to be around Bucky more. 

But he’s mostly silent. His hand finds your arm or back, whenever he brushes past you, and there are short, nice conversation exchanged as you all work, but nothing like the fire escape. 

It must have been all in your head. There was no electricity. No strange feeling, or skipping heartbeats. Nothing to daydream about, when you should be focusing on something else. No future to imagine late at night, before you fall asleep. All for the better. You don’t know him. He said just friends, and you’re being fucking weird making this something when it isn’t. Maybe he was staring because he was trying to figure out how to let you down easier. Maybe he laughed at your joke out of pity, and everyone stared because they know he hates you, he hates you, Bucky fucking hates you- 

“Get home safe.” He murmurs, as you finish the cleanup. 

He’s smiling. It’s shining in his eyes. You’re not sure that meant anything at all. 

“I, uh- Thanks.” He grabs your shoulder, clearing his throat. “A lot. That was great.”

“Yeah, I- It was fun.” You give him a tight smile, and he frowns slightly. Opens his mouth. 

“Buck!” Sam calls from the hall. “We’re gonna miss the bus!”

Bucky lets out a heavy sigh, gives you an apologetic look, and shoves something into your hands. 

“You still got my number.” He mutters. “Use it for- Anything. Get home safe.”

You don’t get to tell him he already said that, before he’s gone. 

And you sway awkwardly in the middle of the room, taking a little too long to collect yourself, before you even remember to look down at your hands. To see what he gave you. 

A donut. The one, Boston cream donut. 

You call again.

Still not Bucky’s direct number. You stare at that contact, your thumb hovering over the call button, and almost throw your phone across the room to stop yourself from hitting it. He told you to call him, but it’s still too soon. If you catch him at a bad time, or say the wrong thing, or hear him talking to someone else he’s more interested in, it’s going to ruin everything. 

It’s easier to just call the group line again. Tell them in your most confident voice that you’d love to do another workshop, and thank some god that they can’t see you flush when the woman declares that everyone adored you. They’ll be thrilled. 

It’s a strong word. Thrilled. You spend about twenty minutes after the phone call taking a mental attendance in your head, of how much you thought everyone liked you, and who could’ve possibly been thrilled. None of them hated you. Elation is a strong reaction to some lady teaching them to write. 

You get a call back for scheduling, after about a day. You’d managed to stop trying to evaluate how much each person liked you—and how much they didn’t, and why, and how you could improve upon the current approval ratings—just in time for Sam to be on the other end of the line, making everything worse.

“Think you can do the same time next week?” He asks, and you pretend to click through your calendar. 

“Um…” A blank month stares back at you, marked only by lunch with Steve and two deadlines for article. 

Sam doesn’t need to know how low in demand you are. That’s—according to sources online you’d studied carefully—not a good way to pitch yourself. 

“I think I can make that work, yeah.” You smile at the speaker, and it’s tight and strained. “See you then?”

“See you.” Sam’s smiling too. You can hear it. “Man, Bucky’s gonna be fuckin’ thrilled. He thought we were gonna lose you to the wind or something.”

You open your mouth with a frown, and the call drops before you ask what that means. It’s two thrilleds. Two people say that, allegedly, you doing this will be thrilling.

And it is. In the same way rollercoasters are thrilling. 

It takes too long to arrive, it happens way too fast, your heart is in your throat the entire time, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to vomit the moment it’s over. 

Bucky greets you when you get there. Just Bucky. His arms crossed and muscles almost tearing out of his suit, because apparently he hates you and wants to make you drool like an animal. 

“You came back.” He says, eyes tracking you across the room.

You shrug. “Apparently.”

He chuckles, and silence falls as he helps you start to set up. There a mutter that—after the pencil incident—Sam’s been put in charge of donuts, and he’s on supplies duty. You just shrug, and try to focus on the work. 

Not Bucky. How he’s not talking to you, and it’s making everything in your brain so loud. He might not find you interesting. Might wish you hadn’t agreed to this, because he wanted to never see you again. Wishes Sam was here instead, so he didn’t have to deal with you again. 

And he’s so warm. 

When you just stand next to him, sorting papers, you can feel the heat radiating from his body. You think if you just wrapped yourself around his arm, you’d never be cold again. And he’s got arms. Massive, strong arms that look like they could lift you up without a grunt, or put you in a headlock, or pin you against the wall without breaking a sweat-

“That’s a lotta colored pencils.” He says, and you stare at him. 

His face is perfectly neutral, gaze unblinking. Fixed wholly on you, and searing right into your skin. It’s dizzying. If you try to hold his gaze, you might actually fall over. 

“We’re doing an association activity.” You mumble, grabbing another purple pencil. 

Bucky hums, and he’s still looking at you. You can feel it. 

You don’t let yourself look up, until everything is in its place. Bucky gives you a small smile, when you finally dare to look in his direction. 

You flush, and shuffle to the center of the room to wait for class. 

It goes well. Thrilled was really too strong a word, but you get firm nods and handshakes when people walk in, and real smiles when they leave. Overall a victory, if you ignore how you lost your train of thought twice because Bucky was looking at you, and Sam’s loud comments about leaving you two alone when he stepped out to take a phone call. 

Bucky saves you another donut. Lingers again, right before he leaves. His fingers brush your wrist. You spend the rest of the afternoon tracing where they had, like you’re trying to rub the sensation into your skin. 

It’s addicting. The kindness and trust from people who swept the room for threats before they sat down. The praise of your teaching when they left. Bucky’s gaze. 

So you call again. And again. And again. Until the sweet woman who answers the phone asks if you just want to make this a regularly scheduled activity, so they can pay you.

“No, um- It’s volunteer work, you don’t have to-“

“We’re a non-profit, ma’am. We get funding and donations specifically so we can continue our work and pay you.” She pushes forward before you can protest. “It will be a lot easier for me, if you just make this scheduled.” She pauses. “I won’t have to be pickin’ up calls with people askin’ when the next one is all the time.”

You swallow. It’s make things easier for her, not you. “Okay.” You mumble. “I- I can do regular.”

She hums, obviously pleased, and you spend the rest of the afternoon picking at your nails until they bleed. You want to do this. You do. 

But it means seeing Bucky all the time. Feeling the electric buzz under your skin, and just biting on your inner cheek to pretend there’s not a burning heat through your blood for him. He said he doesn’t do relationships. You really would like a friend. 

Then he smiles at you, and you feel like you’re glowing. 

“I guess we’re co-workers now.” He says, standing barely an inch away while you count erasers. “Are you my boss?”

You shake your head, unable to find words. You don’t ever fully trust them, around Bucky. They come out sharp and needy at the same time. 

“I think you are.” He continues. “You want me to get you coffee, doll?”

“No, I- I’m okay.” You mumble, turning to papers. Anything but Bucky. “And I don’t think I’m your boss. This isn’t even your job.” You pause, then frown at him. 

Mistake. He’s too handsome. His attention is too undivided. He’s standing too close, and if you just leaned a little further forward, your chin would be resting on his chest. 

“Do you even have a job?” You breathe out, and fuck, this is why you’re not supposed to talk- 

Bucky laughs. It really is the most consuming sound in the world.

“Yeah. I got a job.” He winks. “But I like doin’ this, more.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t as him to, looking back to the supplies you weren’t ever supposed to look away from. 

His metal hand rests briefly on your lower back, when he walks past. You shiver involuntarily, fingers curling on the paper.

People file in. Settle down. There are whoops, when you announce that this is going to be a regular thing, now. Your face heats so much you think you’re going to pass out, and you see Bucky edge a step closer while Sam calms them down. Like he’s getting ready to catch you, should you fall. 

It doesn’t help. 

“Look.” He stops you, when you’re making the rounds on the workshop. Grabs your wrist, and send lighting through your whole body. 

His grin is almost boyish. Proud and bright, chest puffed and a slight red flush in his ears. 

Probably nothing to do with you. 

“What am I looking at?” You raise your brows, and he sighs dramatically. 

“My poem, doll.” He holds it up for you to read. “Did that alphabet thing you talked about, last week. Wanted the boss’s stamp of approval.”

You swallow, taking the paper delicately from his hands. Someone calls your name, before you can read the first line. You give Bucky an apologetic look, starting to hand it back, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah, keep it.” He shoves it back to your hands. “And, uh-“ He clears his throat, eyes darting past you for a second. “Never mind. Just keep it.”

You frown, but nod. Fold it and tuck it in your pocket, before rushing over to the person who called for you. You’re so caught up in the workshop, you don’t realize what happened until you’re back home. When you stick your hands in your pockets, looking for your keys, and come out with the slightly crumpled piece of paper. 

Bucky’s poem. Bucky gave you a poem. It hits you like a freight train, because Bucky gave you a poem. A fucking poem. Not for you, but for you. That he wanted you to read. And you just shoved it in your pocket and forgot about it, and he probably thinks you don’t care about him at all. He’s never going to come to another workshop again. He’s going to stop being your friend—although most friends don’t just sit in a wired silence, standing too close and making light conversation that also carried the weight of the world—and he’s going to hate you, and tell Steve to hate you, and all the vets to stop liking you, and you’re going to lose your job- 

You’re wrinkling the paper further. You almost drop it, in an attempt to stop. It’s Bucky’s poem. It needs to be treated like it’s something sacred. And you can still read it. It’s not too late.

You fly into your apartment with fumbling fingers and shoes kicked off in the doorway. Collapse on the couch with your coat still on, not even bothering to fully turn the light on as you hunch over, and scan over his words frantically. Like they might hold the secrets to the universe. 

They don’t. It’s a poem, written by a man who seems to rhyme through with through, twice. 

But it’s Bucky’s. His thoughts. His feelings. That he somehow decided to share with you. 

So it’s far more important than the secrets of the universe. And you read it three more times, before your breathing starts to settle again. 

It’s vulnerable. Raw and vulnerable. Not a marvel of wordsmithing, but truthful. It has you clinging to every word, but that might just be because they’re Bucky’s words, and you want to understand every gear that turns in his head so you can understand him.

You grab your phone, before you even realize what you’re doing. Dial Bucky’s number, because your fingers don’t seem to remember that you shouldn’t be doing that. 

He picks up after several rings. You clear your throat, and speak before you can think better. 

“Do you want to get lunch, next week? Before the workshop? To talk about your poem?” You pause, then quickly add your name. “It’s, uh- It’s me.”

Bucky chuckles, and even from who knows how far away, it lights little sparks in your blood.

“Yeah, doll, I worked that out.”

“Oh.” You stare at your fingers, then mumble, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I, uh- I’m supposed to eat with Sam, before workshop-“

Fuck. You ruined it. “Okay, never-“

“But I can ditch him.” Bucky says quickly, and your mouth snaps shut. “Like you better, anyway. And he can figure out how to use the Subway himself.”

Like you better. Bucky likes you better.

“Oh- Okay.” You’re smiling so much it hurts. You pull your knees up to your chest, because otherwise you might fly out of your skin. “Next week?”

“Next week.” Bucky pauses. “You like it? The poem?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “Yeah. Yes. A lot.” 

“Great.” You could swear he’s smiling too. “See you soon, doll.”

“See you soon.” You whisper, and the call goes on for about five more seconds of silence before you mumble, “Bye.”

You hang up, before you say something else that ruins this. Lunch. You’re getting lunch. Friends get lunch all the time. You get lunch with Steve, once a week.

This feels different. You never think about lunch with Steve, before it happens. And if you did, it wouldn’t make you feel like something was starting to bloom through your ribs. It’s just lunch. Nothing is going to change, because it’s just lunch.

You’re still smiling like an idiot, all the way until you fall asleep.

Bucky texts you the place to meet. And you don’t spend twenty minutes staring at yourself in the mirror, trying to figure out the exact best way to do your hair and makeup. You don’t change your outfit three times, because the first two didn’t say this is imprint the me, but also I’m not desperately in love with you or anything.

You certainly don’t have to turn up your music so loud it’s going to make you deaf while you’re heading over. And if you do, it’s not because you’re trying to drown out every spiraling thought of what could go wrong. How you could mess this up, even though this isn’t supposed to be anything at all. It’s just lunch. To talk about a poem. Not a date. 

Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with your shirt, and you’ve chewed your lips until they’re swollen, but this isn’t anything. 

And you’re not in love with him—he has done nothing but be gorgeous and magnetic and kind, so you’re getting very good at pushing down that silly thought—so this isn’t going to be anything. 

Lunch between friends. Just like you and Steve. You almost trip, when you see Bucky outside the cafe. Which never happens with Steve. But it’s just like lunch with Steve. 

“So,” Bucky says, and he’s watching you. Always watching you. “You like it?”

You hum, poking at your muffin with the most casual expression you can muster. He’d hugged you, when you walked up. An awkward side-hug, that had made him cough after, rubbing his neck like he’d known he’d made a mistake. You should’ve hugged him more. Or less. Or side-stepped in a silent message that he didn’t have to. Which he could read as you not wanting it, which would be worse. 

At least after the hug, he’d still pulled out the chair for you. Ordered for you, and paid. Even gotten you napkins and utensils, and waited for your food to be ready before he started eating his. A gentleman. Dangerous.

“It’s good.” You murmur, watching a few crumbs fall onto your napkin. “I mean, I’ve only had a bite, but I like it-“

“My poem, doll. Not the food.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

He’s just smiling back. A lazy, causal grin. He must not feel like he’d being tossed into the wind and doesn’t ever want to come down. 

“Yeah. The poem- It was really good.” You smile at him, and it feels plastic. “You did really good.”

“Wow. Two goods.” His tongue flicks over his lips. You feel dizzy again. “You must think I’m the next Hemingway.”

“Hemingway wasn’t a poet.” You say before you can stop yourself, and nobody likes being corrected, and-

“Yeah, but that’s why I’m the next Hemingway.” Bucky smirks, leaning back in his chair. “I’m the poet version.”

Your lips twitch. “You could’ve just thought of a male poet.”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” He pauses. “Can you- What’d you like about mine? If you wanna tell me.” He laughs to himself. “I mean, I get you’re a big deal. You’ve probably read better.”

“No, I haven’t.” You sigh. “I read a lot. Nothing’s better than anything else, and I- I really liked yours.” 

He nods, voice raising slightly. “Why?”

You examine him, trying to figure out if he really wants to know. Most of the time people don’t. They say they do, then you tell them, and they get mad or disappointed. 

But Bucky just looks hopeful. Leaning slightly forward, his hands resting in his lap and expression open. He wants to know. 

“There was- One line.” You look back to the muffin. Looking at his pretty eyes while talking is never a good idea. “About the sunrise over the ocean, and thinking you could see all the way to the bottom. Then one about falling, and the idea that you want to die before you hit the ground.” You shoot him a small smile, under your lashes. “I liked that. A lot.”

Bucky blinks at you slowly, then clears his throat. “I, uh- I used one of your essays. For inspiration.”

“You… What?”

“I sorta… Looked you up. After the party.” He looks out the window with a grimacing smile. “Not like- Stalkin’ or whatever. Promise. I just wanted to know what kinda demand you were getting, to see if I had a shot.” He glances back to you. “With the volunteer to work.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and he laughs under his breath.

“Yeah. And I started reading, and- You got that one essay about death being something that’d like to be your friend.” He shrugs. “Stuck with me. Made me- Do that.”

He makes a vague gesture, and you can’t remember how to speak. He looked you up. And read more of your work, and enjoyed it, and he’s so impossibly pretty, you must have made him up. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, and he flashes you a grin.

“No problem.”

“I- I did really like your poem-“

“Yeah, I know.” His smile widens. Grows a little softer. “Thanks.”

You nod, and look back down to your muffin. You want to keep talking. Want to ask a million questions about what he thought of your other essays, why he liked that one specifically, why he likes the beach and the ocean so much, if he looks up everyone he meets—or just you, and if so, why just you—and you really don’t want to make it weird, but is he also still thinking about the awkward hug- 

“Can I ask you somethin’ morbid?”

“Morbid?” You blink at him. “Like what?”

“Just- While we’re talking about death. I was wondering if you had some idea about it.”

“About… Death.” 

Bucky nods, and you could swear he’s blushing. 

“Is this your usual icebreaker, in conversations?” You tilt your head at him. “Let me buy you a muffin, any thoughts on death?”

He barks a laugh. It’s the freeing, musical one you heard on the fire escape. The one you never, ever want to stop hearing.

“Maybe, yeah.” He shakes his head with a grin. “Is it working?”

“A little bit. Ask me what my worst fear is next.”

Bucky leans across the table, and it takes a lot of effort not to shy away from his attention. “I’ll ask whatever you want, doll. But you still gotta answer my first question.”

His voice is low. Smooth. Almost intoxicating. To give yourself time to think of something smart, you shove some of the muffin into your face, holding his gaze as you chew. 

“Um- I-“ You swallow, your voice suddenly too soft. “You wanted to know my thoughts on death?”

He nods, still silent.

“Bad. Death- Not great.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t respond.

“I- Um, I don’t hate it.” You fidget with your napkin, shredding it into tiny pieces. “I think it would be worse to live forever, and- You know, there’s a book called Tuck Everlasting that’s about that, and it’s pretty good. Basically if you live forever time means nothing and then everything means nothing. So I want to die. Not, like- Right now. But eventually. And there’s the song called The Gambler that says the best thing you can hope for his to die in your sleep, but- I don’t think that’s true either because death is goodbye and I- I’d like to say goodbye. Eventually. When I die. Not now.”

Bucky’s just fucking watching you. His smile is still growing. And this is a pretty fucked up power play. If he doesn’t eventually say something, you’re going to talk, and talk, and talk until you say something stupid. Like how soft his hair looks, or how you want to reach out and pet his beard. Feel it scraping between your thighs, brushing over sensitive spots with his pretty lips, all that borderline zealous attention he seems to have.

“I think I- I don’t know how I want to die. Peacefully? Probably peacefully. But there’s a history of dementia in my family to I probably won’t even know it’s like- Happening at all. You know? How do you think you’re going to die?”

You had to ask him a question. If you didn’t, he would’ve just kept staring at you, and that would’ve been horrible. 

He gives you an amused look. “How do I think I’m gonna die?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Hm.” He pauses, brow furrowing, and he’s actually thinking about it. Actually entertaining your stupid, panicked question. “When I was a kid, thought I’d drown. Then started thinkin’ I’d fall. Now?” He picks up his muffin with a smirk. “Sorta varies.”

You swallow, trying not to stare at his lips as he takes a bite. Failing not to look at his lips, as he takes a bite. 

“Army?” You manage to say.

Bucky nods. Licks his lips before he answers. “Army.”

For a moment, you just look at each other. You can’t take it. It’s a pressure, seizing in your chest, all while your head starts to shoot into the clouds. 

“Why’d you enlist?” You blurt, and it’s an insane and personal question, but Bucky just shrugs. 

“Wanted to be something. And my father said that was the way.”

You blink at him, he gives you a soft look that tells you he really doesn’t care that you know, and everything just keeps rising. And when you speak, it’s fast. You’re a little afraid he might actually hear.

“I think you’re something.” You look down to your muffin. Bucky coughs, and you ruined- 

“Thanks doll.” He murmurs. “I think you’re something too.”

When you look up at him, he’s smiling. It’s small, almost like a secret. One you get to keep. One he wants you to have, as if you’re worth anything at all. 

Your mouth moves on its own. Smiles back. And Bucky leans back in his chair with a pleased huff, taking a large bite of his muffin. 

“Are you going to ask me what my worst fear is?” You say, because you have to say something. 

Bucky shrugs, eyes shining on yours. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

You blink at him slowly. In the golden light of the afternoon, he’s hypnotizing. 

“Good memory.” You smile at him, and he smiles right back. “I’m not.”

But you are. You are afraid of so very many things. 

And still, none of them of them are tangible. But they’re becoming it. Very slowly turning from just shapes of darkness and a hollow sensation in your chest, into something with a name. 

Bucky. 

He’s the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to you. His eyes are too blue, and it’s like the whole sky is watching you. His skin is tan, and body warm, and when he stands next to you in the tiny, rented classroom, it’s like the sun is shining just for you. His touch is still electric, and his voice rolls like the ocean, and just the feeling being near him is intoxicating. He’s something that you’re truly afraid isn’t real, until his fingers brush yours and everything lights up. You don’t think he’s actually looking at you, until you risk a glance and he’s almost stripping you bare with a twitch of his lips. 

And that’s not what scares you. People have been beautiful before, and you’ve gotten fuzzy before, and you always managed to come out the other side unscathed. 

But this time, you don’t think you’re going to get out. This time, Bucky is dragging you into him, and he’s got too much gravity for you to resist at all.  And once you’re down, you’re not sure there’s going to be a way back up. 

It’s what scares you. How fucking easy this is. 

After one lunch, it becomes two. Then three, because you text Bucky that you haven’t eaten today—as a joke, to explain why you were going to be so grumpy—and he’d told you that you were going to get lunch. To just drop by cafe on your way over, and he’d fucking pay you for it. 

You’d stared at the message for a second, then typed out and if I don’t? 

Then I’ll go get you something myself. And you’ll be stuck with Sam. Who lost all the pencils, again. I never lose your pencils. 

A soft laugh had escaped you, and your eyes had darted up to make sure no one heard. 

Do you just want to come with me? You sent it before you could think. 

Bucky responded faster than you knew he could type. Yes. 

And then it’s three lunches. Four. Five. And you’re losing count, because it’s something you just do now. Before a workshop, you and Bucky go to lunch. He asks you what you’re writing, and tells you about his day. You ramble, and he doesn’t cut you off. 

Bucky watches you like you’re endearing. Like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be but right here. And that’s dangerous too.  

Bucky uses your number liberally. It starts with small texts. Plans for the workshop, an update about what he’s doing, a question about something you were talking about earlier. But then it’s turning into small, secret jokes. A photo of a motorcycle, every time you see one, with the question is this one you? Videos he thinks are funny. Little thoughts you have, that you can’t stop yourself from sharing with him. 

Small requests of each other. Which means you’re trusting him. And that’s terrifying, because you really can’t find it in you to think twice about it. 

You forget something for a meeting with some editor, and you don’t have time to get it yourself. You text Steve, but he’s across the city. That should be the point you just give up, and start thinking about alternatives. 

Now you bite your lower lip, and text Bucky. He texts back in a second. Says he can do whatever you need.

And now he knows where you live. And where you keep the spare key. And he’s been in your apartment, and seen your things, and what if you owned something that offended him, or made him like you less, or your taste in decor was just that horrible- 

I liked your stuffed animals. Your phone dings, and your fingers dig into your thighs. 

That’s all you get. But then at lunch, he asks about them. Asks if they have names, and listens to you explain every single one. Brings them up later, in other conversations. Like he’s trying to prove he remembered. Like he’s trying to prove he was listening. 

And then, suddenly, you’re not just texting. You’re calling. And you get lunch on days that don’t have workshops, because you’re both free. And Bucky drops by your apartment to give back a book you lent him, and lingers in the hallway for about twenty minutes. You drop him off at home, after workshops, Sam splayed out over the backseat because it would be weird to only drive Bucky. 

Even if you want to only drive Bucky. Even if nothing sounds better than just you and Bucky in the car, and he could keep doing the thing where he accidentally touches you, and you both pretend not to feel it. 

The fireworks. The thing that’s big, and threatening to sweep you away. Because that’s what you’re really afraid of. 

That this could be something. That the blooming in your chest is something that you’re going to be able to wither away. That Bucky could rip away from you, the moment something soured. And something always sours. Something always goes wrong, and right now you can control it. You can find every line and mark it with stones in the sand. You can grab at the driftwood and pretend you’re changing the tide. 

But the moment you let this turn into something more, then you’re gone. Under. No way up, and your heart can break. 

Will break. It’s a fragile thing. It’s held together by glue and string. 

Bucky doesn’t get to unravel it, just because he’s pretty and kind. Just because when he’s talking to you, he does everything so clearly it’s hard for your brain to find ways to twist it. Bucky doesn’t hang out with people he doesn’t like. Doesn’t seek out things he doesn’t care about. 

But he seeks you out. And it lights you on fire. So bright, you’re really afraid it’s going to turn you to ash. 

Friends. You’re friends. You repeat the word over and over, until it’s almost meaningless. Bucky said he doesn’t do relationships, either, and friends was established, that night on the fire escape. So that’s it. 

But friends don’t give you this permanent feeling, that’s going to be so easily cleaved in half. Friends don’t show up on the other’s doorstep, at eleven at night and bouncing on their feet. And friends certainly don’t look at you the way Bucky does, when he opens the door and finds you in pajamas that are a little too short to be modest or decent.

“Hey.” He mutters, eyes dragging up to yours as his throat bobs. “Uh- You should-“

He steps to the side, and you nod. Shuffle inside with your head slightly bowed. You’d called. This is fine, because you’d called first. So he knew you were coming. He invited you over. 

“Do you wanna get drinks?” You’d asked, shredding little bits of paper between your fingers. 

You could’ve sworn you heard him gag on something. “Drinks?”

“Yeah? Like, you and me. Drinking.” You’d paused, then added. “Alcohol?”

Bucky had coughed. “Yeah, uh- I’d gotten that part. I’d love to get drinks, doll. When were you thinking?”

You’d swallowed. “Tonight?”

He’d been silent, for a long, heavy moment. And maybe he was busy. He had someone over, or already made plans, and of course he wouldn’t just drop things for you, what were you fucking thinking-

“It’s late.” He’d muttered slowly. “You tryin’ to forget something?”

“A little. Just- shitty day, and Steve doesn’t drink, but if you don’t wanna go out with me-“

“Never said that.” Bucky had sighed through the speaker. You’d been able to picture his frown. “I can’t go out tonight. Already settled, and most of the good place are closed.”

Your heart had sunken like a stone. This. This was why you didn’t take the risk. It hurt like being buried alive, and you’d never even held his hand. “Okay, I get it-“

“But you can come here.” Bucky had murmured, and just like that, you’d been brought back to life. 

You’d been restless, the whole drive to his place. His roommates weren’t going to be there. Sam was visiting family. Natasha was on vacation. 

It would just be you, and Bucky. In his apartment. Alone. Like friends often are. Friends don’t help you take off your coat. 

Don’t remember exactly what you like to drink, and have it ready. Don’t bring you a blanket, when you both curl up on the couch. Don’t offer you a bunch of cheese and grapes, like you’re some sort of royal to be waited on. 

But Bucky does. He pours your wine, doesn’t ask you to talk about it, and drinks with you on his couch.

“You wanna do a toast, Shakespeare?” He raises his glass, and you smile. 

“No.”

You clink his glass against yours, and almost chug it as he laughs. Follows suit. When one glass becomes two, and Bucky’s sitting closer than before. Two flows to three, and your legs are over his lap. Three is four, and his hand is resting on your knee. 

It doesn’t set you on fire this time, though. This is just exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

“You gonna tell me what was so fuckin’ awful even that we had to go through a whole bottle of my best wine.” He gives you a lazy smile. “This was a gift from my dying father, y’know.”

Your eyes widen, your already heated face burning, and Bucky shakes his head. 

“Kiddin’. But I still wanna know.”

“Bucky.” You kick him awkwardly, and he just laughs. “That was mean-“

“I know.” He pats your knee, still grinning. “You just get real cute, when you get all-“ He waves a hand. “Flustered.”

You scowl. “I do not get flustered-“

“Yeah. You do.” He leans back, grinning at you from the pillows. “Don’t worry. ’S… Good.”

“Good?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s thumb rubs small circles on your knee. “You’re pretty good.”

Your mouth falls slightly open, your voice barely a breath. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.” Bucky grins at you, still so lazily. “So?”

You blink at him slowly. “So?”

“Yeah. You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

Bucky gives you a pointed look, and you shake your head. 

“It was nothing, it was- Stop looking at me like that-“

You try to kick him again. He catches you faster this time. 

“I can drag it out of you, doll.” He drawls, hand dragging down your calf. 

“Bucky-“

“I’ll tell you all about my tragic, tortured past. I’ll tell you anythin’ you wanna know. C’mon.” He pouts at you, and you can’t stop your giggle. “Oh- You’re laughing at my pain?”

“No, I- I’m sorry, you’re just-“ You giggle again, settling back into the pillows. “You’re begging, and-“

You start laughing again, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Now I’m never gonna share anything with you again-“

“I don’t think that’s true.” You say before you can think, and Bucky goes silent. Watches you so intently, you can feel his name in your heartbeat. 

“No.” He mutters. “It’s not.”

And the air has shifted. Suddenly, there’s a breathable, almost touchable wire between you, and it’s friction is building. Bucky’s hand feels like it’s molding into your skin. It tugs on a string close to your heart, and suddenly, you’re speaking. 

“I just… I wish I could see the future.”

Bucky gives you his silent, curious look, and you sigh.

“I don’t like not knowing.” You whisper, words coming out fast and frantic. “I hate it, Bucky. I- I hate it so much, and everyone’s got so many secrets and I- I never believe it when they say they like it, ‘cause then they don’t. And I think I did good, but I didn’t, and I don’t like it.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment, hand still resting firmly on your calf. “So you wanna see the future?”

“I wanna know what I have to do.”

“To… make ‘em like you?”

You nod, and he lets out a slow breath. 

“This about the review?”

Your nose wrinkles. “How’d you-“

“Y’know they were wrong, right?” He pushes on, leaning forward. “Dead wrong. It was a good fuckin’ piece, doll.”

“I- I know.” You swallow, eyes falling to his hands. “And that’s what the critic said to my face. Before they wrote it.” The world is blurring slowly. “I- I’m worried I said something, and that’s why they changed it, and-“ You sniff, slumping further into the cushion. “I could’ve been nicer, or- Said something about them, or-“

“Or they were just a dick.” Bucky mutters, and you frown at him. 

“Bucky-“

“Some people are just…” He makes a farting sound with his mouth, and your lips twitch.

“I know, but-“

“Nah. Your piece was good. I loved it.” He leans forward, brushing the hot tears from your cheeks. 

Your breath catches in your throat, and Bucky scans over your features, nostrils flaring slightly. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” He says the words like they’re an oath. “I’d never just… Lie to you. ‘Bout anything. And if I didn’t like somethin’ you did, I’d tell you.” 

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I know.”

He nods, and slowly, torturously, pulls back. “Good. Just ask Sam.” He cracks a weak smile. “I tell him what I’m thinkin’ all the time.”

You giggle, wiping your nose with your sleeve, and Bucky’s shoulders relax. Just like that, all the weight is gone, and you’re back to drinking. Laughing. Talking until dawn. 

And it scares you the most. That what you felt before, in the first few weeks, it wasn’t love. 

But this. This is something dangerously close. 

His head is in your lap. 

You don’t know how you got here. How the night turned and flowed, that got you into the back of a quiet storage room, your fingers brushing through Bucky’s hair and his face pressed against your abdomen. 

Steve’s going to come looking for you eventually. You’re going to shush him with a glare, and his going to give you a stupid, smug, knowing look as if he could’ve always predicted this where you’d end up. And he couldn’t have, because you didn’t, and you thought of every possible thing that could happen tonight. 

It had been bouncing around your head, the whole day. Steve had another gallery. He wanted you and Bucky there—and even if he hadn’t, you would’ve gone—so the overall plan was that you’d both try to split up and talk Steve’s work up. You’d come up with it, over lunch. 

“I think we can get him to a million.” Bucky had said, taking a bite of a fry.

You’d grinned back. “I think I can get him to two.”

“Oh, so it’s a competition now?”

“Yep.” You’d popped your mouth, your smile almost foolish, and Bucky had laughed. 

It had been months, since you first heard it. It never got any less consuming. 

“Alright. Is there a prize?”

“Honor and valor.”

“Doll, I was in the military. I got honor and valor pouring out of my ass.”

“Oh?” You’d shrugged. “You should probably get that checked out.”

Bucky had laughed again. You’d gone back and forth—and heat like a tidal wave had threatened to sweep you away—until you settled on a favor. Whoever sold Steve’s painting for more would get a favor. 

And you’d weighed every possibility about that. You won, and you’d use your favor to make Bucky bring you to the pier or something. Anything that could be painted as a date, but wouldn’t be. Something that gave you an excuse to be near him, because despite every single rational protest you could come up with, your heart and body had decided that you never wanted to be somewhere Bucky couldn’t touch you. 

You’d calculated everything that could let you win this. Even spared thought to what would happen if Bucky won. What he’d ask of you. Probably nothing significant—he still didn’t really let you pay for lunch, and whenever you gave him a ride he tried to pay you for the gas you’d used—but something. And there wouldn’t have been that glint in his eyes, if he didn’t know exactly what. It had been all you thought about, as you did your make up, and hair and nails. What Bucky could want from you. What he could want that you wouldn’t just give him. 

Because right now, you’re in a very precarious situation. The one where you’d give him anything. Do anything. 

He’d never ask for much, but that just makes you want to give him more. Which could be a friend thing. It isn’t. But it could be. 

And you’d planned that out, too. Quickly indulged in a fantasy, late last night. Your brain had run the rapid, frantic course that usual kept you up—what if, what about, how about, and if this—and almost exhausted all the possibilities.

Except for one. 

Bucky grinning at you, when he won the bet. Cornering you somewhere private and quiet, backing you against the wall, lowering himself down until his lips were just brushing yours. Murmuring your name, and telling you he knew exactly what he wanted. That this was what he’d wanted from the moment he saw you. That he didn’t love taking risks or letting people in, but you were perfect, and he loved you, and all he wanted in return was for you to get on your knees for him. Show him that you wanted this too, choke on him, get messy and wet so he could take care of you after, let him leave a few bruises so you’d never be able to question if he liked you or not- 

You’d cum on your fingers, and your face had burned so hot even the air conditioner felt stifling. And maybe that had been where your first calculations had gone wrong. Because they had gone wrong. They’d gone so very, very wrong, so fast. 

You’d seen Bucky, the memory of last night had crashed into you, and you’d fucking squeaked when he’d touched you. Shivered and bitten your tongue, when his hand had brushed the bare skin of your lower back. Like some sex-crazed fucking bunny. This dress had been a bad idea. This bet had been a bad idea. Volunteering to talk to people had been a horrible idea.

You couldn’t. Not when you kept looking over at Bucky, finding him laughing and smiling and casting more light around the room than the chandelier. Not like you. You’d somehow managed to forget that—when talking to people that weren’t Steve or Bucky—you trip over every other word, and flush, and say stupid things that you shouldn’t. That you get too caught up on trying to dance through the conversation, your feet stumble and you forget every step and you end up flat on your face, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. 

Every time you’d looked a stranger, you were already trying to predict what they’d say, and what you should say, and what you could say to make them like you. 

Every time you’d looked at Bucky, and seen him talking to some other woman with sleek hair and silken skin, you’d been trying to work out if he liked them more than you. If they’d start hanging out more, and you’d be tossed off to the side. She’d ask him to stop being alone with you, because of how obviously obsessed with him you were. Bucky would insist you’re still friends, and he’d mean it. You’d go to their wedding, and cry yourself to sleep after. They’d have a baby, and make you the godmother, then move to her hometown to build their family and you’d never get to see him again- 

“C’mon.” Bucky himself had muttered your name, and you’d blinked at him. You didn’t even know when he’d gotten there.

“Bucky-“

“You’re makin’ the thinking face, doll.” He’d shot you a small smile. “We need to get a drink into you, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

You’d flushed, but just nodded. 

And just like that, the bet had been forgotten. Bucky got you drinks and food. You’d stood together in the corner of the room, just like the first night, only you weren’t trying to get him away from you as fast as possible. This time, when he so much as stepped away for more drinks, you’d felt like you were being stranded in the middle of the ocean, and only surfaced from the deafening noise when he returned. 

This was where things really started to get away from you. You’d drank. And drank. Until you were giggling, and Bucky’s face was red. Until you were pressed together against the wall, and he was whispering in your ear like there was anyone to overhear. 

“See her?” He’d nodded to the woman he’d been talking to earlier. 

A sore feeling had crept over your skin, and you’d hummed casually. “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah. Pretty stupid.”

Your mouth had fallen open, and Bucky had laughed at the look on your face. 

“What?” He grinned at you. “She kept askin’ me what I thought of all the art, and when I told her she-“ He laughed again. “She asked me if I was up for auction, too. As art.” Bucky leans down. His nose is almost bumping yours. “I got an invitation to a yatch, doll. As a sex slave.”

You’d swallowed, and being vaguely aware of how weak your knees felt. “And?”

“And what?”

“What- Are you- Going?”

Bucky had blinked at you slowly, and shaken his head. “Nah. I get sea sick. And there’s only one girl who’s gonna get me on a stupid boat, and it’s not by buyin’ me like I’m meat.”

You’d kept gaping at him, too drunk for your brain to fully process and turn over his words.

Bucky had reached up, and gently guided your mouth closed. Leaned forward. Kissed you nose, and laughed at the little sound of surprise that had escaped your throat. 

“Me bein’ art that shocking to you?” He’d teased, and you’d shaken your head. 

“No. I- Um,” you’d swallowed, still blinking slowly. You weren’t really sure there was enough light in the world to help you see.  “Bucky, I- I-“ Don’t say something stupid. Don’t fuck it up. “You’d make perfect meat.” Fuck. 

Bucky had just grinned at you. His eyes shining and nostrils flaring, like you hadn’t said something stupid and insane.

And something else had flashed in his eyes. Something raw and pure and almost violent. Not in a way that scared you. In a way that sent a shivering thrill through your body, as he’d smirked. His brow had almost been pressed into yours. You’d been able to feel his breath, warm and dizzying and fanning over your face. 

“Thanks, doll.” Was all he’d said, nodding to your empty champagne glass. “More?”

“Yes, please.” You’d whispered, and Bucky had been gone. 

Things had kept getting out of control. You’d shifted in your corner, waiting for Bucky to return, but instead you’d gotten Steve. Which you were happy about—tonight was his night—but not what you’d expected. Not the softness and light in his eyes, even more than usual. And the small smile on his face, like he knew a secret. 

“I thought I lost you and Buck for a second,” he’d said, and you’d flushed.

“Sorry-“

“No, I’m glad you guys are here. And happy.” Steve had sighed dramatically. “Mostly that you’re happy, honestly.”

You’d frowned at him, trying to work out what that meant, and Steve had kept going.

“I mean, I didn’t think Bucky would even come tonight. I told him he didn’t have to, ‘cause of what day it was. But then-“ He’d laughed to himself. “Told him you’d be there. And he was all for it.”

Steve had given you a knowing smile. You don’t know what you’re supposed to know.

“Why wouldn’t he have come?” You ask stupidly, and Steve blinks.

“He didn’t- Oh. Never mind.”

“Steve, you- You can’t just-“

“Ask Bucky.” He’d shoved his hands in his pocket with a casual shrug, and you’d glowered. 

“Steven Rogers-“

“I’m not going to say something that’s Bucky’s story to tell.” Steve had said firmly, giving you a strange look. “But you should ask. He’d tell you. I mean-“ He shook his head with a low breath. “He really hasn’t been this happy in a while. So, anything that keeps it going.”

You were too fucking drunk for this. 

“Keeps what-“

Bucky had called your name, then Steve’s. There had been a big, wide grin on his reddened face, and you’d dropped it. Smiled right back, and taken his drink. Let he and Steve joke about the art and tell old stories, and tried not to over analyze how close Bucky was standing to you. How it must look, to anyone passing by. 

Eventually, Steve had gone back to talking to the patrons, trying to sell his art. You and Bucky had stayed in the corner, gossiping and giggling about every weird, rich-person hat and weird, holier-than-thou phrase you heard whenever someone tried to talk to you. You’d been hanging off of each other. Bucky’s grin had never wavered from his face. The room had gotten more and more crowded, and you’d started to get antsy, and Bucky had almost been sticking to you like you were an anchor in a storm, and- 

Now you're here. Bucky’s head. In your lap. Your fingers in his hair. His breathing deep and even, as he lay against you in the dark. Steve’s words bouncing around your head. 

And your willpower and brain never strong enough to stop words from falling out of your mouth. Not when Bucky’s so close, and he’s always made your tongue a little too loose. 

“What’s today?”

Bucky grunts, and the sound vibrates through your whole body. “Uh… Saturday?”

“No- I-“ You tip your head back, biting your tongue. “Um- Never mind.”

“Huh?” Bucky shifts in your lap. “What? What’s never mind?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

He says your name, almost sternly, and you risk a glance down. 

He’s so pretty, in the low light of the back room. Looks just like every single, sinful dream you’ve ever dared to have. And his eyes really are almost enchanting. When he raises his brows, prompting you to continue, you don’t know how to do anything but obey. 

“Steve said… I dunno. Is today- Something?”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then he groans, rolling back to bury his face in your stomach. Your hands move to hold him, before you can think. 

And suddenly he’s hugging your middle, and you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Fuckin’- Gonna kick that punk’s ass-“

“I’m sorry, forget I said-“

“No, it- ’s not your fault, baby.” Bucky sighs, words muffled against your stomach. “Gotta tell you eventually.”

“You- You don’t have to.” You whisper, the wind a little knocked out of your body by the baby. He called you baby. 

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “I do.”

You’re breathing shallow. Trying to stay as quiet as you can, like the wrong word might scare him away.

“I was sorta a POW.” He mutters, face still buried in your abdomen. “Prisoner of war. And they didn’t exactly have big more questions about the Genova conventions.”

Bile rises in your throat, and you’re petting his head again. Before you can even realize what you’re doing. “Bucky…”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t need it to be like- A thing.” He holds you a little tighter. “Only bringin’ it up cause it’s- Today. The anniversary of when I got… gotten.” He laughs to himself. “Not a great anniversary. I don’t even get a discount on therapy.”

You want to laugh at his joke. He always laughs at yours, and it’s a silent agreement that, even when it’s not funny, you laugh. For the other’s sake. 

But you can’t find it. You just feel heavy, like a storm cloud is gathering in your chest. He’s never been anything but kind and light to you, and you’ve never asked him what happened to his arm because you didn’t want to push it, but… You’d hoped it wasn’t something like that. 

You’d know, deep down, it had to be. You’d read his poems for your workshop. Seen the darkened look in his eyes, when he was doing something he hated or just standing in a corner alone. It’s always seemed to dissolve when Sam or Steve—or you—go over to him. But it’s still there. 

So you can’t laugh. It’s not your pain, and he won’t want your pity, but that doesn’t change the ache for him in your heart, or the fury in your hands that someone could do that to him.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” You whisper softly. “That- That sucks.”

He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. Like he’s crying, or at least fighting tears. 

“Yeah. It does.”

“Is there anything-“

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re already doin’ everything. Just…” He hums against your body. “Wanna stay here.”

You swallow. “Oh- Okay.”

There’s a long silence, as you both just breathe. You tip your head up, and watch the lights on the ceiling shift as cars pass. Your fingers don’t move from Bucky’s hair. He doesn’t move from your lap. 

“You smell good.” Bucky mutters, and your lips twitch.

“Thanks.”

He hums, burrowing impossibly closer. His fingers are tracing on the base of your spine, and you sort of feel like you’re floating. 

“I think I…” He pauses, and lets out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods. 

“Yeah.”

And for once, holding him in the dark, you don’t overthink what that means. You think you already know, anyway. 

Things keep getting away from you. 

People filter out of the gallery. Steve pokes his head to check on you and Bucky, and sighs. He volunteers to drive you both home, but he lives on the opposite side of the city, so you manage to talk him into just calling you an Uber that will drop you both at your apartments. 

But you never get to both your apartments. You get to Bucky’s first, and tell the driver to wait while you get him upstairs. He hangs off your body, and you both giggle and whisper the whole way. When you stumble into his apartment, you almost trip and fall down. He snorts, and covers your mouth. 

Your eyes shine on his. He scans over your face, pupils blown out, and slowly lowers his hand, barely an inch away-

A light flicks on, and you almost vault away from him with a squeak. Bucky just manages to catch you around the waist, before you fall.

“Jesus.” Sam grumbles, glaring between you. “Flirt quieter, some of us are tryin’ to sleep.”

Bucky groans. “Shut up, Sam, you’re supposed to be somewhere else-“

“It’s my apartment too, Bucky.” Sam shrugs. “But I’m nice. So I’m gonna put on headphones.”

He turns and walks away, but it’s too late. The spell is broken, and this is the part where you’re supposed to walk away. Go back down, and take the Uber back to your place. But Bucky shifts on his feet, glaring at where Sam disappeared to, and clears his throat.

“You wanna… Uh- Stay here-“

“Yes.” You blurt, and it’s worth it. 

For once, there’s no question about if this risk is worth it. Not with how Bucky’s face splits into a grin, and how you’re almost certain this drunken feeling isn’t the champagne anymore. 

It’s just Bucky. 

Things move in a slow, easy blur. Bucky pulls out a spare toothbrush, and large t-shirt that smells like him. Not the piney cologne he’d been wearing all night, but just Bucky. 

“You have a musk.” You giggle, walking out of his bathroom, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“You got a- Uh-“ He squints, like he can’t think of an insult for the life of him. “You’re mouthy.”

“Oooh.” You flop onto bed, grinning up at him. “I didn’t know you were a million, James.”

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, at the use of his full name. You could swear they get a little darker, too. You’d overthink it, if you could think anything useful at all. 

“I’m not a million, doll.” He rasps, and you shrug.

“Only old people say mouthy.”

“We’re the same fuckin’ age-“

“No.” You point a finger at him, pulling your knees up to your chest. “You’re older.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, eyes flicking down to your knees, then back to you. He coughs, and nods. Grabs a pair of sweats off his dresser, and turns abruptly to the bathroom.

“Alright. ‘m older.” He gives you a stern look over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

You laugh again, giving him a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

His mouth twitches. “Sergeant.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a Sargent, doll.” He drawls. “You gotta say yes, Sargent.”

You stare at him, and he fucking winks. Smiles, and winks, and goes into the bathroom like a buttface. 

Everything is so warm. It all smells like Bucky, and it’s soothing your brain. You pick at your fingers while you wait, but not until they bleed. Eventually, you realize that your shirt had ridden up, when you lay down. Exposing your thighs and the boxer briefs Bucky had lent you, to his view. But it only makes your face heat. You’re to busy spinning on the high of being this close to him—even if he’s in another room, you’re clad in him and drowning in his things, which sort of makes you his thing, and you can’t stop giggling—to care. 

When Bucky comes back, he flops down next to you, and lets out a slow breath. 

You turn to look at him, and find him already watching you. For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dark. Bucky’s hand slides forward, and his fingers rest over yours. His tongue darts over his lips, gaze burning into you, and you can’t help it. 

Another soft giggle bubbles up in your throat. Bucky’s lips twitch, even as he groans in exasperation. And then you’re both laughing at absolutely nothing, in the dark, together.

And you know. Neither of you are going to fall asleep. You feel far too free right now, to just let the moment slip away like that. 

It not really clear what you’re doing, for the rest of the night. Bucky tries to teach you a few phrases in Romanian, but you just end up getting them wrong and laughing. You explain to him the plot of some show for about two hours straight, and he stares at you like you’re telling him the secrets of the universe. You scroll on your phone while he tries to braid your hair, because you teased him about not knowing how. 

“You’ve got better hair than I do-“

“That’s not true. I don’t think anythin’ is better than you-“

“Stop kissing my ass, Bucky.” You’d pointed a firm finger at him, and he’d snorted. “You’re learnin’ how to braid, and that’s that.”

He’d nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”

And now your head is on his knee, and he’s moving slowly. Deliberately. You’d done it twice on yourself, just to show him. When he’d muttered that you make it look easy, you’d laughed. You’d been doing it your whole life. Of course it was easy. 

“Oo.” You shove your phone into his face. “Look at that.”

He frowns at the screen. “Studies show that fish experience love. Huh.”

“That’s cool, right?”

“I guess, yeah.”

You pout at him. “I think it’s cool.”

He chuckles. “‘Course you do, doll.”

“What does that mean-“

“Nothin’.” He grins at you, and you narrow your eyes. “I’m serious.”

“I don’t believe you-“

“You’re just cute.” He shrugs, holding your gaze, and your mouth falls open. 

Bucky reaches forward, and closes it. Just like he did earlier. Only now, it’s with his metal hand. It sends a shiver through your body, the cool material against your skin. He grins at you, and boops your nose with his soft hand. You pretend to try and bite him, and he laughs.

“Someone’s gettin’ feral.” He drawls, and you scowl. 

“Shut up.” You try to whack him, but your hand lands on the metal arm, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Ow-“

“Shit, baby-“ Bucky drops your hair in a second, pulling you up into his lap as tears start to well in your eyes. “You can’t hit that arm, you know that-“

“I forgot.” You whine, and it doesn’t even really hurt that much. You’re just drunk, and near Bucky, and all your feelings seem to be stuck at a million. “Bucky- It hurts-“

“Well stop tryin’ to move it.” He mutters, giving you a pointed look, and you go almost limp.

“Sorry.”

“’s alright.” He mutters, looking back down to your hand. “Just don’t wanna have to stitch you up, doll. We’ll have to wake Sam and Nat up, and then…” He sighs, voice dropping under his breath. “Never gonna hear the end of it.”

You frown, and can’t even begin to work out what that means. So instead, you mumble, “Did I hurt you?”

Bucky chuckles. “No. You didn’t.”

“Oh.” You pause. “But… Can you even feel it? When I-“ You reach out with your free hand, and trace over his bicep. 

He freezes, still cradling your mock-injured one. 

“Yeah.” He grunts, eyes hooded on yours. “I can feel it.” His throat bobs. “All of it.”

You nod absentmindedly, glancing back down to your phone. 

“I think the fish thing is really cool, Bucky.”

He lets out a soft laugh, and nods. “I know you do, doll.”

“Why don’t you. You like the ocean, don’t you want it to experience love?”

“I don’t think the article is talkin’ about the ocean itself,” he drawls your name, and you shake your head. 

“No, I think it is.” You lean forward, trying to get him to understand. “I think there’s a lot of love, Bucky. I think it’s in everything, and I think it can all feel it. Does that make sense?”

He gives you a soft, affectionate smile. His voice is low and soft. “Yeah. It does.”

“Good.” You look back to your hand. “Am I gonna die?”

Bucky huffs in amusement. “No, baby. Not right now.”

Then he picks up your hand, and kisses your knuckles. Sweetly. Like they’re something priceless, and delicate. You’re going to explode into a million, shimmering pieces that all sing his name. 

“I- Um-“ You swallow, and Bucky grins.

“Yeah?”

You nod, unsure what you’re agreeing to, and he laughs.

“Y’know, they’re pretty sure love is just a chemical reaction.” He tilts his head at you. “That make you think anythin’ different about it?”

You shake your head, still staring at him, and his tongue flicks over his lips. It’s really unfair, when he does that. You’d follow him off the edge of the earth, if he just asked you to with that little tongue thing. 

“Nothin’? Really?”

“I don’t think the stars are less beautiful, just cause they’re balls of gas.” 

Bucky blinks at you for a moment, then chuckles. Shakes his head and leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your brow. 

“Lie down, baby. You’re talkin’ like a muse again.”

You don’t know what that means, but Bucky’s asking something of you. So you listen, and lie down. He lowers himself to your side, and when you grab his hand, he doesn’t pull away. You pick up his hand, and start to play with his metal fingers. You can feel his eyes again. It’s sort of static, over your skin. 

For once, you don’t really care about the future. You just care about what’s happening right now. 

“You’re beautiful.”

Bucky’s words are so quiet, you almost don’t hear them. When you turn to look at him, he’s still so pretty in the dark. His hand folded securely in yours, a small smile on his handsome face. You reach up slowly, tracing your fingers over his cheek. He leans into the touch, his own hand shooting up to hold you against his face. And when you blink at him slowly, your head spinning and chest almost floating out of your body, he smiles. 

“So beautiful.” He murmurs to himself, and something about the way he says it seems sober. This isn’t Bucky’s thoughts being addled by the champagne, or pulled out of him against his will by the exhaustion. It just sounds like pure, honest and raw truth. He says it like it’s all he can see. 

“Bucky…” You whisper, and he gives you soft, knowing look. 

“Can I tell you something?”

You shouldn’t say yes. Nothing safe comes of you saying yes. Because for once, it’s not a question of what he’s going to say. It’s knowing what’s coming, and not being certain you’re going to be able to handle it. To catch it properly, and stop it from either tears you apart or slipping through your fingers. 

Bucky says your names, pushing up on his elbow, and you swallow. Nod. He grins, and suddenly, all caution is gone. You just want to be the one he smiles at, forever. 

“I don’t, uh,” he clears his throat, gaze dropping to where he’s still holding your hand. He’s pressed it to his chest. You didn’t know his heart could beat this fast. “I don’t love a lotta things.”

“Buck-“

“I know, I know.” He sighs, giving you a pleading look. “Just… Let me say it. Please.”

You swallow, but nod. And Bucky takes a ragged inhale, squeezing your hand tight. 

“I don’t love a lotta things.” He starts over. Like he’s been practicing this, and he refuses to miss a beat. “Love my Ma. Love my sisters, and Stevie, and- Sam and Nat, even though they don’t get to hear it. ‘Cause I don’t say it that much either. Never been good at sayin’ it, never gotten better.” He pauses, voice dropping as his thumb starts to trace circles on your hand. “Never had a reason to get better. A reason to… try things. Do things. Stop just hidin’ in the corner alone.” He laughs softly to himself. “But I guess I’m still in the corner. Just isn’t lonely.” He smiles. “I like hiding with you, doll. And I-“

“Bucky.” You cut him off softly, squeezing his hand tight. You’ve never wanted to hear anything more. You’ve never been so afraid of something that you wanted. “You- You said-“

“I know what I said. But I also remember sayin’ you could pretty easily change my mind.” 

He leans down, until he’s less than a breath away. His eyes scan over yours, and your head is starting to pick up again. Tracing every single thing you could do here, everything you could say. What might make him fall more, what might wake him up and force him to decide you’re really just not worth his time, what you’ve already messed up here—cutting him off, twice, not moving away fast enough, not saying this first, although you could’ve never said it first because what if you were reading it all wrong—and how you can fix it, and-

“No, You- You said,” your eyes flick down to his lips. His tongue darts out, and your voice gets higher. “Bucky, you said-“

He ghosts his mouth over yours, not even a real kiss, and your words fall into a soft, breathy moan. Your eyes flutter shut at the electrifying sensation of Bucky’s mouth over yours. Fingers dig into his thin shirt, trying to both keep him right where he is, and pull him closer. Bucky stays hovering over your, one forearm planted right next to your head and the other hand placing yours gently on your stomach. Wandering down, to rub the bare back of your thigh. You don’t remember locking your legs around him. 

But he really can’t be close enough. 

“You said I seemed like the type of person who could get you to make a mistake.” You whisper, watching him with wide eyes, he shrugs. 

“If this is a mistake.” He mutters, searching your gaze. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna care about the consequences.”

Bucky shrugs, his smile that same, secret one from before. And you’re already gone. Already his. You just have to let him carry you away. 

His lips brush against yours again. Your back arches. For a moment, he tries to lean up. Get away. Your nails sink into his neck, pulling him back down. 

Bucky gives you a vaguely amazed look, lips parted and his hand on your thigh freezing. 

“Yeah?” He says lowly, and you nod.

“Yes.” You try to tug him lower, but he remains firm and unwavering above you. “Bucky- Please- Oh-“

Your mouth falls open as his hand on your thigh drags lowers, cupping your pussy right over the boxers. Your chest heaves as the pleasure rushes through you, and a shameless moan falls from your mouth as he starts to rub you with a firm, unwavering hand. 

“That good?” He murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. 

You nod, a small whimper escaping the back of your throat as his fingers press down near your clit. “Fuck- Bucky-“

“Yeah.” He drops his brow against yours, gaze falling to where you’re grinding into his hand. “That’s good.”

And fuck, it is. Bucky watches you move on him for a few more moments before looking to you with darkened, eyes, shining with lust. Pure, unwavering lust that makes your head spin and a little, nervous giggle escape your lips. He freezes, brows raises, and panic floods you fast.

“N- No, I like it- I-“ You try to grab his wrist, trying to tell him something you don’t have words for. “Bucky, I- I’m just-“

“You’re thinking.” He mutters, scanning over your face with an almost terrifying amount of focus. “You want me to take of that, baby?”

You swallow, legs spreading as his palm presses firmly on your cunt. “Take care of it?”

He hums, mouth pulling into a smirk. “Take care of this,” he kisses your brow, and a happy little sigh escapes your throat. “And this.”

He slaps your pussy, light but sharp, and you squeal. He laughs, and before you can even think to shove him and whine, he’s descending onto you. Pressing his lips over yours in a firm, certain kiss that has you melting so fast you almost spill open beneath him. He’s done so little—just rubbing your pussy through the boxers and nipping at your lips—and you’re already wrecked. Your legs spread wider, your hips rolling to try and gain more friction. Bucky presses his tongue between your lips, and you take him in, the kiss becoming wet and sloppy. Your fingers shoot into his hair and pull, and he lets out the most sinful groan you’ve ever heard in your life- 

Bucky pushes off of you, panting and dark eyed. For a moment, his hand leaves your cunt. Moves to you face, when he gently cups your jaw. You blink up at him slowly, whining and writhing in the sheets without any pressure. His knee shoves up between your thighs, and you moan loudly. 

Bucky makes a low sound from the back of his throat, eyes falling down to where you’re fucking his knee. He reaches down with his free hand, to pull up your shirt. Finds the massive wet spot, against the boxers. 

When he looks back to you, his eyes are wild. He does the stupid fucking tongue thing, and you shiver. You’re so close, and he’s still done so little-

“Can I?” He says, voice rough. His eyes flick back to where you’re humping him, then meet yours again. “Please?”

He works his jaw, expression desperate, and you don’t have to ask to know what he’s talking about. You’d have to be insane to tell him no. 

The breath of permission barely leaves your lips before he’s diving down. One last kiss that leaves you gasping for air, as he starts to work down your body. He pulls the shirt up, but not all the way off, and cups your breasts as he kisses over your stomach. Lower, his thumb starting to work your nipple. Lower, and he grabs your hips with both hands. Pins you against the bed, and shoves his face right against your cunt. 

You call his name, hands shooting into his hair as he starts to make out with your core through the boxers. His tongue presses you through the fabric, every yank of his hair making his groan, low and deep and making your whole body shake with pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky- Oh, god.” You moan, the heat too much to bear. “More, please-“

He responds with a grunt, and a firm squeeze of your hips. You can feel his lips through the cloth, and you’re so wet it’s soaking right through and making him feel stuck to you, but it’s not enough. You need his lips and tongue deeper, into you, taking you and carrying you away-

“Hold on.” He mutters, drawing back suddenly. He kisses the inside of your knee with a small grin, and you whine. “Relax, doll, I’m takin’ care of you.” He slowly drags your boxers off, eyes raking down your body and landing on your glistening pussy. “Fucking… God.”

He towers over you, as two metal finger leave teasing touches on your folds. You grab his wrist with one hand, the other fisting in the sheets. 

“Bucky…”

“I know, sweet girl.” He mutters, and you light up with the soft praise. “But you’re so pretty like this.” He kisses your ankle, slowly pressing one finger into your cunt. 

You clench around him, the sensation of fullness combined with the temperature difference almost too much to bear. He chuckles, slowly pumping in and out, and look up to your slack, almost broken expression. 

“Bucky- Bucky-“ You almost scream as he pulls away again. “No- come- come back-“

“I’m coming, babydoll.” He mutters, and you just manage to register that the hand which had been working you only a moment ago is now rubbing against the tent in his crotch. “I’ve got you. Just-“

He presses your legs up, until your knees are pressed to your chest and your pussy is fully exposed to him. He ducks down, pulling them over his knees, and his breath on your cunt makes you whimper. His fingers push back into you, two this time and you’re shaking. Grabbing at the sheets as you hover right on the edge, release just about to snap as his fingers crook and rub inside of you. 

Bucky’s mouth latches over your clit, his tongue working in fast little kitten-licks, and you fall over the edge with a scream of his name. Your vision goes white, and he just keeps going. His fingers leave you fast, replaced by his tongue, and his nose bumps your swollen button as he devours your cunt like he’s been starved of it forever. You cum again, yanking at his hair, and it only seems to spur him on. 

You’re a panting, shaking mess, when he finally draws back up. Your legs feel like jelly, and there’s a beard burn on your thighs that you hope never goes away. 

Bucky grins at you lazily, licking his lips, and suddenly you’re not spent enough. More. You make a pathetic, hopeful sound as you reach for him,  and you need more.

Bucky stares at you, then laughs. “Not enough, baby?”

You shake your head, and he looks annoyingly smug with himself. 

“Can’t even talk? Already fucked you that dumb?” 

You pout at him, and pull a soft, “Don’t you want to?” From the back of your throat. It’s supposed to come out teasing, about the massive fucking boner he’s pressing against your thigh. You just sound desperate, and Bucky smiles. Crawls back over your body, kisses you sweetly, and murmurs against your lips. 

“More than anything, doll. You- Got- No- Idea.”

He thrusts his bulge against you with each word, kissing all over your face, and you moan weakly. Bucky kisses your shoulder, soothing the hem of your shirt and lightly toying with your pussy again, as he leans up and examines you.

“What?” You breathe out, and he grins. 

“Nothin’. You’re just perfect.”

“Bucky-“

“Hold on, doll.” He says, squeezing your waist. “Wanna see you.”

He pulls you up, helping you out of the shirt. There’s a moment where he just stares at you with hungry, almost fond eyes—metal hand tracing over every curve in your body, going back a few times when he sees how they make you react—and then his eyes meet yours. 

Bucky ducks down, pressing an almost impossibly chaste kiss to your lips. Then he flips you onto your stomach with barely a grunt, pulls your ass into the air, and presses the head of his cock over your clit. You make a high noise, and Bucky starts to rub himself up and down s your pussy lips. You’re clawing at the sheets, making breathless pleas for him to just take more, but he’s deadset on going slow. 

And you expected him to keep teasing and playing with you, once he had you splayed out below him, too cockdrunk to bite back. But the heat seems to be affecting him too. He squeezes your ass with one hand, slapping his cock against your pussy, and grunts when you whine. 

“I got you, babydoll.” He mutters, his own voice sounding wrecked. “Relax for me, just gotta- fuck-“

Bucky groans, as he starts to push into you, and you’re too far gone to do anything but take it. The burning, perfect stretch of him into your cunt. How impossibly full he makes you, when he bottoms out. How he pulls you up against his chest like a ragdoll, his cock still buried deep in you and bumping against electric, needy spots nobody’s ever been able to fully hit. 

For a moment, you just sit in each other. The heat of your bodies, so close together. The sensation of Bucky’s lips, scattering kisses over your neck, and his hands grabbing at your skin possessively. But then it grows, and grows, and it’s too much. 

“Bucky-“ You gasp, reaching up to claw at his neck. “Bucky- God, move-“

He nods, kisses under your jaw, and mutters a low, “Yes, ma’am.”

And you fly right out of your body. 

His thrusts are short and rough, but they do more than enough. His arm across your chest traps you against him, and he sets an unyielding pace that has your already abused cunt gushing and fluttering in only a few moments. His lips don’t stop sucking and licking at your skin, as he slams against places that make stars form behind your eyes.

You grab his forearm, desperate for something to keep you grounded. Bucky’s grunts and moans of your name, combined with the firm but gentle hold on your body, make you feel worshipped. 

And when you start to build up to that high again—slowly, the minutes of Bucky drilling up into you with sinful, wet sounds dragging into what feels like hours—you cry out a warning of his name.

He groans, and his metal hand drags back down. Finds that sensitive, wired spot, a little neglected as his cock slides in and out of you in the most graphic, lewd way you’ve ever seen. You almost shriek, and he starts to play it like an instrument. Fast and unwavering, like he’s been doing it his whole life. 

You cum with a scream of his name, and Bucky fucks you through it. His thrusts become uneven and sharp, his mouth almost attached to a sensitive spot on your body. Before you’ve even fully come down, he’s shoving you down onto the mattress. Fucking you fast and hot, face pressed into your neck, and yanking out with a sudden grunt. 

“Where-“

You roll over in a cockdrunk, needy daze, and open your mouth. 

You’ve never seen Bucky’s eyes go so wide. His hand—fisting his cock and beating it in a way that shouldn’t be as hot as it is—stutters, and his voice cracks. 

“Are you-“

“Please.” You stick out your tongue, and that’s all it takes. 

Bucky crawls over you, movements short and uncontrolled, and calls your name with as you take his throbbing cock into your mouth. 

You suck, looking up at him under fluttering lashes, and that’s all it takes. He doubles over, and shoots himself down your throat with the deepest moan of your name you’ve ever heard. 

You swallow what you can, but a little spills between your lips. Bucky looks at you like you’re an angel when he pulls away, reaching down with soft fingers to wipe your mouth clean. He pauses, the offers the fingers in a silent, request. 

You lick them clean without hesitation, and Bucky moans again. It might be the only sound in the world better than his laugh. 

“I…” He stares at you, thumb tracing reverently over your cheek as he thinks. 

You just listen. For once, your head is purely, truly empty. And when Bucky smiles at you, and you feel like the prettiest thing in the world.

“I am so glad I went to the gallery tonight.”

You wake up before him. Watch him in the morning light, too many thoughts spinning through your head. But his heartbeat is steady under your hands, and his hold is firm. 

So you fall back asleep, with your cheek pressed into his chest. And when you wake up, Bucky’s not in bed. 

It’s his apartment. He can’t run out on you, when he’s the one who lives here. And his side of the bed is still warm, so he can’t have been here that long ago. 

You roll out of bed slowly. Still not entirely convinced last night wasn’t a dream. It would be easy if it was. If you’d just thrown Bucky’s now ripped shirt across the room because you got too hot. If the sheets were changed not because Bucky had picked you up and set you on the dresser with a kiss and mumble that he didn’t want you sleepin’ in such a mess, but because of… something else you can’t think of. 

But there’s no denying the wet stain, on the boxers Bucky had nuzzled his face into. Or the dark hickyes, littering your neck like medals of honor. Or the slight sway in your step, as you grab another one of Bucky’s shirts—one from the bottom of the drawer, that still smells like him but he couldn’t possibly care about you wearing—or the soreness on your thighs when you squat down to grab a blanket, and wrap it tight around your body. 

You poke your head out the door, checking for people before you shuffle into the hallway. You just need to find Bucky. Ask if he can give you a ride home or something, before you get embarrassed about the tiny daydream you might have gotten lost in. 

That this wouldn’t be a what if. That Bucky would tell you exactly what you were, then kiss you, and your fragile heart would be bubble wrapped safely in his hands. But that’s not how this gets to work. That’s not how any of this works, because you woke up alone- 

“Morning, doll.” Bucky says from behind you, and you whirl around. 

He’s standing in the doorway with a smile, and messy hair, and the red marks on his neck are from your nails, and oh, god-

“Don’t think.” He warns, and every thought spills from your head. “C’mon. I made you pancakes.”

Your heart does a funny little skip, and when Bucky offers his hand, you take it without a second thought. He made you pancakes. He actually made you pancakes.

Fluffy, with syrup and fruit, and a glass of juice already out, and coffee right next to it. He sits with you, just watching as you eat with the blanket wrapped tight around your body. He hadn’t walked out. He’d just been making you pancakes. 

And it hits you hard and fast. How fucking real this is. 

It’s something you need. Something soft and good, that feels like it’s going to settle into you. Going to be something that lasts forever, that you’re going to be able to hold onto, that you’d like to engrave even further into your heart than it already has, that could be like stone. Holding you down, pressing into you, immovable and never able to do anything but become easier. Smoother. 

But it could also be made of glass. It could be beautiful and clear right now, but then you apply pressure and it all falls apart. And you lose it. You have Bucky, in his kitchen, making you pancakes. His hair is still stuck at the angles you pulled on last night. Your thighs are still pressed together from his ministrations.

This is something you could have. This is something you could lose. 

Bucky’s not eating. When you hold up a fork with a bit of pancakes on it, he smiles, and open his mouth. You feed it to him, and he looks at you like you made the whole world in his name. 

Stop thinking, he said. But you don’t know how. 

When you finish the pancakes, he grabs your wrist, kisses it, and clears your plate. You watch the muscles of his back flex as he washes it, trying not to think about how they rippled under your hands last night. Trying not to think about how they’re going to be touched by other women, once this ends. Because it’s going to end. Bucky knows, probably better than you do, that all good things end, and this is just his way of letting you down easy-

He braces his hands on the table, standing across from you. Says your name, his gaze burning into your soul. You’re going to vomit. 

“Bucky, I-“

“What do you want this to be?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I know what I want this to be.” He says firmly, holding your gaze. “I know what I want us to be. Had a whole speech about it last night, before you rudely interrupted by lettin’ me just fuck you without my romantic gesture.”

He cracks a small smile, and you flush. Look down to your fingers, picking at them. You know what you want. You don’t know how to say it. 

Bucky sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna finish the speech. Not gonna hold you for that, and it… wasn’t very good, anyway. Steve helped, and he’s real bad at speech writin’. Gets too in his own head, and-“

“Steve knew?” You blurt, eyes shooting to Bucky’s, and he laughs. “Don’t- It’s not funny, why didn’t he tell me if he- If he knew you were- How long-“

“After the gallery.” Bucky gives you an amused look. “He guessed when I asked about you. I told him outright after the party. Why did you think he was never talkin’ about it, doll?”

“I don’t know, I just- He’s not that nosy-“

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, he is.”

“But- He should’ve told me-“

“Yeah?” Bucky’s brows raise. “And what would you have told him?”

Silence falls quickly over the kitchen, and your mouth hangs open. You know what you would have told Steve. You still can’t manage to say it to Bucky, because what if. 

“What was the end of your speech?” You whisper. 

“That I’ve been a goner since I saw you.” He says, no hesitation in his voice. “That I like hidin’ with you. That I’m in love with you, and I’m gonna get better at saying it so you don’t forget.”

You swallow. “But… What if I didn’t love you back?”

Bucky takes a heavy breath, but doesn’t waver. “I don’t know. Do you?”

You shake your head, then quickly nod, not sure which question you’re answering. “I- Bucky, what if I do, and you stop loving me?”

“I don’t see that being an issue, doll.”

“But what if it is? What- What if someone you love more comes along, and you can’t help it?”

Bucky drawls your name, leaning forward on the counter. “There is no one I’m gonna love as much as you.”

Tears prick in your eyes. “What if someone I love more-“

“You’ll break my heart.” He says simply. “But only ‘cause I love you so much it hurts.”

“What if I get sick? Like, really sick, dying sick-“

“Then I’ll take care of you.”

“What if your family hates me-“

“They won’t.”

“What if we have to move for my job, you’ve lived in New York forever, and-“

“As much as I adore your places feel things theory, my love, I think I chose you every time.”

Fuck. “What if this is a mistake.” You whisper, because it’s all you have left. 

And Bucky just smiles at you, words soft. “Then I’m happy to make it, baby.”

You stare at him. So far away, across the counter. So close that you know, if you reach out and touch him, he’s going to move forward and into you forever.

And he’s still so calm, but you can see it flickering in his eyes. Red on the tips of his ears. The nerves. The openness, and how it’s leaving him vulnerable, and how easily you could crush him to pieces. 

You never want to hurt him. You just want him.

“Are you happy?” He asks, words so low you almost miss the crack. “With this? Are you happy, takin’ the risk?”

There are so, so many reasons to say no. Countless. Your brain can’t come up with them fast enough. 

But you only need one reason to say yes, and it wipes them all out.

And they die so easily, when you look at him. When Bucky smiles at you, and there’s nothing in your head but him. No risk big enough that you wouldn’t take it, just to have him.

“Yeah.” You smile. “I am. I’m happy.”

And Bucky smiles right back. 

✦End note: I love falling in love in mundane and simple settings it's deeply important to me please understand.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Divider by @cafekitsune✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[chaniyahs]

Ending actually made me cry. What is your problem. I love this so much. People with anxiety disorders everywhere are in shambles from this. Thank you for this art it resonated so fucking much 😭

[elixirfromthestars]

No Rest For The Wicked

Pairing: Vigilante!Bucky x FBI Agent!Reader 

Summary:  When the notorious Brooklyn Ripper strikes again, you’re more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. Even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor Bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.

WC: 31.5k

Contains: crime show level of violence, themes, and action (think of criminal minds/law & order svu as examples) / murder mystery with a serial killer on the loose / friends to lovers / horror elements such as suspense / female reader / mutual pining / Bucky is your hot neighbor / mentions of homicide + case details / descriptions of fatal injuries, blood (nothing in extreme graphic detail) / stalking (not from Bucky) / carnival fun and frights / a bit of a slow burn / a third party has a crush on you, but it's not reciprocated / lots of cameos in the world building / fluff + angst / Alpine shenanigans / hurt + comfort / happy ending

a/n: It seems autumn comes around and suddenly I remember I'm a writer. 😅 This is my piece for the stan-o-ween collaboration! This fic was an idea two years in the making and I spent almost the entire month on it, so I am so excited that it's finally done and yours to read! 🥰 Thank you to all my lovely mutuals who encouraged me along the way while writing this 💖 and to my biggest cheerleader @lomlbuckybarnes 🥹💖 who without her, I'd probably chicken out about posting anything ever again. 🫶🏻 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

“Here,” Special Agent Carol Danvers places a freshly brewed cup of coffee on your desk, its earthy aroma wafting through the air to settle within you with a promise of alleviation. “And before you say anything, don’t. Just drink it. You look like you need it,” She says as a matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. She leans against your desk, crossing her arms with her eyes trained on you like you're her next big case she has to investigate. You take a deep breath, whether to prepare for her lecture or because you need it, who knows? You can feel the radiating warmth of the mug on the back of your hand, tempting you to bask in its caffeinated contents. 

For the fourth time today, no less. 

“I really shouldn’t. I’ve had enough caffeine today to last me the whole week,” you say, and yet your hands betray you, wrapping around the ceramic FBI mug like it holds all the answers to what’s been ailing you for months. 

Carol looks at you with bemused pity, “When’s the last time you had proper sleep?” 

“Last night.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.” 

“Really?” Carol’s eyes drift to your hands, analyzing the way you stir your coffee—with a pen. 

You blink, taking a second to realize what you're doing, taken aback by the sight of your black pen in your coffee. It seems exhaustion had seeped its way so deep into your bones, you were no longer aware of your own actions.

“Okay… so maybe I haven’t been getting the best sleep lately,” you admit despite yourself, removing the pen from your coffee and throwing it away. Carol scoffs, "No kidding."

“I bet you haven't eaten anything either, have you?" Special Agent John Walker inserts himself into the conversation, placing a small bakery bag on your desk before he goes to sit in his—across from yours to the left. He gives you the same look Carol is giving you now, expressions filled with an equal amount of worry and sympathy. It makes you wonder if they show this much care to your other colleagues and friends.

“You two spoil me too much," you state, appreciatively grabbing the bakery bag and opening it to find a golden chocolate chip muffin inside. It's still warm, meaning John must have gotten it right before he came back to the bureau from being out in the field. First coffee and now this, were you that predictable or were your friends that perceptive?

"I promise I’m fine. You both have nothing to worry about. I'm just a bit overwhelmed with the case,” you explain, hoping to placate their worry, but the weariness in your voice does little to quell the concern both blondes feel for you.

And it's written all over their faces.

"I can help with the case if you need any," John offers, a sly smile on Carol's face as she exchanges a brief look with you. You hold back from rolling your eyes at her. For some time now, she has been convinced that John has feelings for you, but you always interpreted his kindness as just being a good friend. It's not like you can take his flirtations seriously when he's flirted with every single female agent in the bureau.

"Thanks John, but you and Lamar are busy enough with the Hydra investigation as it is," you reply, before adding, "Plus if Laura found out I had anyone else helping me with the case she'd kill me. Nat told me yesterday Clint's been moody ever since he found out his wife messages me more than him," your last statement pulls a laugh out of both blondes. "That does sound like Barton—both of them," John chimes in with amusement, easing the a bit of the tension from your shoulders.

Truth be told, it's not like you wouldn't have appreciated the help. A tiny part of you feels bad for turning John down, but unbeknownst to the entire bureau, you already have all the help you need.

Help they can never find out who you're getting it from.

"It's better Walker here doesn't help anyway. Hopkins would miss his work husband too much to let him work on the Brooklyn Ripper case with you," she teases John with a cheeky grin, making him roll his eyes at her.

"Lamar is not my work husband."

"No? Then why is Hopkins bringing you homemade breakfast and lunch every day? Not to mention, he's the one always driving you two around like you're his pretty little passenger princess."

"First of all, those meals are made by his wife and they're delicious. And second of all, what the hell is a passenger princess?"

You sigh internally—here they go again.

You tune out their bickering, used to the way they get under each other's skin and quarrel like siblings. Sometimes you wonder if they had been in another life.

Your mind goes back to the case at hand, The Brooklyn Ripper case. It's files strewn across your desk like pieces of a puzzle you have yet to solve. This case lies between your typical serial killer investigation and a potential connection to Hydra. A criminal organization tied to a litany of crimes including blackmailing influential figures, money laundering, exploitation, mysterious killings, and more. All with the end goal of moving their organization to the top and spreading their influence beyond New York.

Even if it means entertaining a serial killer in their ranks.

The Brooklyn Ripper has taken the life of seven women so far. The first was killed in September of last year, with NYPD detectives handling the investigation. They were in charge of the first four murders, but when the fourth woman was found to have been working for Hydra, they dropped the case and handed it over to the FBI. Anyone working in law enforcement knows how dangerous it is to cross Hydra. Not many would step up to go against them, unlike your boss Nick Fury, the director of the FBI. He has no issue making Hydra his enemy.

You've worked in the New York branch of the FBI for a few years in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence unit, before being transferred over to the criminal services unit eight months ago. You didn't mind the transfer due to budget cuts since you felt like you needed a change of routine anyway. And as fate would have it, out of all the cases that could have been assigned to you, you got The Brooklyn Ripper case along with Special Agent Laura Barton as your partner. Since you've been on the case, three more women have been killed, with all three women having connections to Hydra.

Laura left for maternity leave two months ago, and ever since then you have been investigating the case alone due to too many cases on priority and not enough staff to handle them. Out of seven women, one of them was murdered under your watch alone, and that's a fact that makes you lie awake at night.

"I still think the killer is the White Wolf," at the mention of that specific alias falling from Carol's lips you come back to the present. Your head snapping in her direction, eyes widening ever so slightly having been caught off guard by the name. She tilts her head at you, shaking it with fake disappointment, "You weren't even paying attention to me were you? You really should go home."

The reassuring smile you give her is not convincing at all, "No, no, I was listening. I just got lost in my thoughts for second, why did you bring up the White Wolf?"

"Because, he's obviously your killer."

"He might be one of the possible suspects, but I think others make more sense than him," you reply, composing yourself from your earlier slip up, "He's only ever taken credit for the deaths of higher officials with deep ties to Hydra. Rumlow still makes more sense than the White Wolf here. We don't even know who the guy is or if his background matches what we're looking for," you point out.

Your colleagues have no idea who the White Wolf is, but you do.

You had dinner with him last week.

"I hate to say it, but Danvers might be right," John cuts in, agreeing with Carol for the first time in his life. "He's the only possible suspect who's gone after Hydra apart from the FBI. The last few women have all worked for Hydra, it makes sense he'd go after them."

Carol can't believe what she's hearing, "Walker is making sense—the world is ending."

"You never give up, do you?"

"But he's never gone after women or children, why would he switch up now?" You ask, cutting into their exchange to play along in the conversation. You don't want them to think you're playing defense for the White Wolf.

John shrugs, "Guys like that, they snap," he snaps his fingers for emphasis, "Maybe something happened in his personal life and it set him off. Made him think he had to go further with his vigilante justice and started going after whoever he could get his hands on at Hydra," he theorizes, but everything he says is further from the truth of what the White Wolf stands for—of who Bucky really is.

"Maybe, but as a theory it wouldn't explain the motives for the first three women who were never found to be connected to Hydra at all. In the end, none of the suspects make complete sense," you say, sighing in solemn displeasure.

"Look, your main suspect is still Brock Rumlow—Hydra's guard dog. Lamar and I, we're working hard on the Hydra case, but that doesn't mean we can't find the time to help you out with something. Our cases are most likely connected, so we could always help enough to get some of the weight off your shoulders," John offers again, a soft genuineness to his voice that most don't experience often from him. You give him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in mind."

He returns the smile before looking at the notification that pops up on his phone. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he gets up from his chair, putting the files on his desk into one pile, "Sorry for ending the conversation here ladies, I gotta go. You two have a good night." And with that, John packs up the last of his stuff and he's gone.

"Jealous?"

You frown at the question, completely lost as to why Carol would ask you that and why she's smirking at you. "Jealous? Of what?" The pure confusion on your face has Carol letting out a breathless laugh, "You really weren't paying attention, huh? John's going out on a date tonight."

You snort, "Oh? When is he not?"

"So you are jealous…"

You roll your eyes at her attempt to tease you, "Carol. No. John is my friend and he's nice and all, but you know I don't date divorced men—it's too messy."

She shrugs, taking a few steps forward to take a seat on his desk. Oh, if only John could see her now. "Yeah, but you know I'm right when I say he likes you." You look at her like she's said possibly the dumbest thing you've ever heard, "Carol, please be serious. John has flirted with every single female agent in the bureau. Well, except for you, but only because you scare him."

Carol snickers in delight, "That's true. And it's not like he hasn't gone after some of our friends. I still cringe every time I think about how he fumbled that dinner date with Ava," you both grimace at the reminder, "But god, its kind of pathetic how many rebound dates he's gone on that have gone nowhere. He needs to be stopped for the sake of all women in New York," she can't help but take a jab at him even when he's not around.

"Okay, that's enough about John. How's the Punisher case going?" She thankfully takes your cue to move the conversation along, and begins updating you on her investigation. You do your best to keep up as you organize the files in front of you, but truthfully, it's all going in one ear and out the other.

"You know I can tell when you're not paying attention to me, right? I just act like I don't," she calls you out with mirth, you have the decency to be sheepish, "Sorry…"

She shakes her head softly, speaking to you in a tone only a big sister would use, "Don't be, just go home. Take a day off if you can. The case will still be here tomorrow."

"So will the killer."

She can't deny that, "He will, but that's just how things are in this line of work. You take one down and another one pops up tomorrow. There's not much we can do about it—that's just the way the world is." What Carol says may be true, but you don't want to dwell on such harsh realities. Not when it'll make you spiral more into a darker hole than the case already has you in.

Maybe it is time for you to call it a day.

"Are you heading home too?" You ask her as you start to gather your belongings. She nods, the relief she feels at you finally deciding to go home evident in the way her demeanor changes. "I am, but I'm gonna head over to tech first and see if Stark can figure out what's going on with my access ID. This thing only works half the time and I'm sick of it. I think I need to get it replaced."

You grab your messenger bag in one hand and the small bakery bag in the other, "If you're seeing Stark then let's hope he thinks a new ID is in the budget," you jest, causing her to groan. "God, don't say that. Stark and his stupid budget will be the death of me." You laugh, wishing her luck talking to Stark before you're off as well.

Autumn brings in the beginning of change. Trees shed their leaves, going from forest greens to vibrant shades of auburn, blanketing the ground and blowing in the wind like they're searching for their final resting place. The chill in the air invites you to wear your coziest sweaters and visit your local shops to try anything with cinnamon, maple, or pumpkin spice to really welcome the season in.

Tonight, however, the breeze you feel when you step out of your car is icy and sinister in a way that makes you do a triple take of your surroundings. It has you guarding your bag close to your body and locking your car twice. A season that used to bring you a serene comfort is now cold and unforgiving like the end of life.

The wisps of the wind curl around your body, clinging to you as you step into your apartment building. You give a small yet polite greeting to the property manager's father, Yori. A sweet old man who sits at the front desk all day playing crossword puzzles or watching baseball games on a small television behind the desk. A cheerful smile spreads across his face as he returns the greeting. Thankfully, he's engrossed in a Yankees game or he would have pulled you in for a conversation already.

The sound of a crunching leaf that's stuck on the sole of your shoe follows you into the elevator and to the third floor. The clinking of your keys joins it, echoing down the hallway as you walk to your apartment. You're just about to insert your key when the door to the apartment next to yours opens, a meow you can only describe as a hello follows it.

It's your neighbors, Bucky and Alpine.

"Hey you two," you greet them warmly, appreciating the sight of your very handsome and very muscular neighbor holding his cat in his arms like she were something precious and delicate. The sight of him in his navy Henley is enough to turn your night around for the better.

"Hey," Bucky starts, but then Alpine interrupts him by hopping out of his arms and prancing her way to you. She rubs her soft fur against your legs, before pawing at them—her way of saying she wants you to hold her.

You laugh softly, placing your messenger bag on the floor against your door and crouching down to pick her up. You stand with her cradled in your arms as careful as Bucky did in his. Alpine immediately nuzzles into them, letting out a content purr.

Bucky looks at the two of you in a way that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. "She missed you. Haven't seen much of you lately," he points out, voicing only half a truth. What he really wants to say is he missed you, but he'll let that truth hide in the affection of his expression.

You give Alpine a gentle head scratch, your smile turning softer, "I missed her too—and her dad," you add, not being able to hide it like Bucky can. The affection in his eyes only grows fonder at your words.

"Sorry I haven't visited lately. This case has a hold on me and I'm not sure it's going to let go of me any time soon," you say honestly, holding Alpine just a little tighter. Bucky notices, stepping closer to get a good look at you. There's no hiding the tiredness that seems to stick to every part of you like it's a second skin. "I thought so. You dedicate yourself to your job more than others, and it's admirable. But you have to take time to take care of yourself, doll," He reminds you and you find yourself exhaling a little harder, "You're not the first person to tell me something like that today. I try, but it doesn't feel right focusing on anything else when he can strike at any point again."

Bucky searches your eyes as if they hold the answer to how he can get through your stubbornness, "There's a difference between working hard and overworking yourself."

You have nothing to say to that.

Bucky leans down, grabbing your bag and nodding toward his door. "Let me make you dinner. Something tells me you haven't had a proper meal in days." As if on cue, your stomach lets out a grumble loud enough to reach your ears. Bucky bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, sparing you further embarrassment by walking back to his apartment and holding the door open for you. You follow him inside with ease, having been at his place enough times to consider it a second home.

"I'll have you know I had a muffin today, and like four cups of coffee," you mumble out that last part, feeling small at the thought of Bucky being able to read you so closely—like there was nothing you could ever hide from him. He lets out a sound between a huff and a chuckle, "Exactly my point. None of that is a proper meal," he places your bag on the couch in the living room, "You should get some rest while I finish making dinner." You open your mouth with a question on your mind, but he narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what you're about to ask, "No talking of the case right now. Not until after dinner."

"But I want to know—" he cuts you off by shaking his head, "I know what you're going to ask, and no—I haven't found any new leads in any of the Hydra communications and their databases haven't been updated. There's nothing new since last month's murder. Now sit," he insists gently, and this time you listen. He makes his way to the kitchen, and you plop down onto the couch, settling comfortably against the cushions while Alpine makes herself comfortable on top of you. There's a part of you that wants to stay awake and pay more attention to Alpine, but as soon as your body sinks into the couch, you doze off, letting the world around you disappear.

Bucky looks through what he has in his cupboards and refrigerator, deciding on making a simple Alfredo pasta. He calls out your name, wanting to know if that's something you'd want to eat, but when he hears no response, he strolls over to check on you. He sees you fast asleep with Alpine in your arms and he can't help the warmth that grows within his chest at seeing you snuggled up in his home like this. He reaches over to the armchair and grabs a throw blanket—the red and black plaid one you gifted him. He covers you with it, gently tucking both you and Alpine in.

There's a lightness to his step when he goes back to the kitchen. He takes his time making dinner, all with a lingering smile on his face. If anyone had told him before he met you he would be granted these moments of peace—of normality from his somewhat unconventional life—he wouldn't have believed them. It seems like it was just yesterday when he was still in the clutches of Hydra, doing their dirty work as the Winter Soldier to save his family from a fate far worse than death.

And all for what? In the end he escaped, but at the cost of his former life. Disappearing from Hydra's traces and distancing himself from his family and friends for their safety. Years of never staying in one place for more than a month, living alone across the country on the run—all to come back to New York to seek revenge on the organization that took everything from him.

He never made a place a home. And then over a year and a half ago he moved here, thinking it would be a temporary place to set some of his plans into motion, but staying here ultimately led him to Alpine and you.

Alpine, a scrawny little kitten he found in an alley, under the pouring rain in a unforgiving city. Left to fend for herself—she reminded him of himself in a way.

You, his next door neighbor with a heart of gold and a smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. You're everything good in this world he wishes he felt he deserved.

There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep this new life—this fresh start—safe and sound.

When dinner is ready, Bucky reluctantly walks over to you, crouching down to softy nudge your shoulder. As much as he wants to let you sleep, he knows you need to eat something before you go to bed for the night. After a few nudges, your eyes slowly blink awake, but as the scent of dinner drifts your way you perk up, causing Bucky to chuckle fondly at the sight. Alpine yawns from where she lays across your torso, standing on her paws and stretching as she awakens from her beauty sleep.

"Come on, doll. Didn't wanna wake you, but dinner's ready."

You yawn as you get up from the couch, giving your body a good stretch before you follow Bucky to the kitchen table where there's already two delicious bowls of pasta waiting. Bucky pulls out the chair for you and you utter a dozy thank you before digging into the plate in front of you.

You hum in satisfaction at the taste, "Have I ever told you, you could make it as a personal chef?" Bucky takes a seat beside you, practically preening at the way you compliment his cooking. "No, but it wouldn't work out anyway for me. I don't like cooking for other people."

You frown, taking another bite of pasta, "But you cook for me." He grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows something you don't, "You're not just people to me, doll. You should know that by now." His words have your heart fluttering in your chest in a way only Bucky ever seems to make it. You shove another bite of food into your mouth, anything to preoccupy yourself from thinking too deep and asking him what he means by that.

You don't need to have that answered right now.

Bucky can tell you're holding back, but he doesn't pry—just smiles to himself and continues eating beside you. Your curious nature will get the better of you soon enough, and Bucky is a patient man. He can wait until you're ready to discuss this.

Whatever this is.

There's a comforting silence that falls between you, only interrupted once by the little tune of Alpine's automatic feeder signaling her food is ready. The silence continues until it stretches to the point you feel like breaking it.

"We talked about you at the bureau today," you mention, catching Bucky's attention.

"Oh?" He mutters out between bites, his tone in that one syllable indicating he's wary of where this conversation is going. You know he said not to talk about the case, but this surely doesn't count, right?

"Yeah, my coworkers think that you—the White Wolf—are the Brooklyn Ripper," you say, words laced with an undertone of mirth at such a inconceivable thought. Bucky on the other hand reacts differently to how you thought he would. He finishes his bite, his jaw tensing like it's hard to swallow.

"Do you?" he asks, the air between you shifting into something heavy. You adamantly shake your head, upset that he even felt he had to ask, "Of course not. I'm pretty sure I've been your alibi for almost every victim, Bucky," you let out what can only be described as an awkward attempt to laugh while trying to lighten the mood, but he's looking at you like what you say next could break him.

"But if you hadn't been… Would you believe that I was the killer? That I was capable of that?" He holds his breath waiting for your answer. The weight of what he's asking settles itself deep in your heart. He's asking you if you would ever believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. Someone who kills for the sake of it and not with a morally just reason behind it. Bucky's past is no secret to you. He's been open and honest about everything from the moment you gained his trust. You would never take that for granted by believing him to be someone as cruel and ruthless like the Brooklyn Ripper.

You lock gazes with Bucky, needing him to clearly see the truth in your heart, "No. I would never think that of you, Bucky. I swear." The conviction in your voice eases the fear in Bucky's heart, feeling like he can breath again. He finds solace in the color of your eyes, and after a moment, the air shifts back to something comfortable—familiar.

"Why was I even brought up in the first place?" He wonders, and you wish you would've paid attention earlier to give him an exact answer, "I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere when Carol and John were talking. It wasn't until they mentioned you that I started to listen. I think they were throwing around ideas for suspects since Rumlow isn't talking."

"Still? Let me guess, Pierce keeps covering his ass?"

"More like sending us on a witch hunt every time we want to ask a question or collect a piece of evidence. He impedes every step of the case with legal jargon."

He grunts, having firsthand knowledge of how Alexander Pierce operates, "Just say the word and I'll delete all the files on his computer—for fun."

"You wouldn't."

"If you asked me to I would."

The temptation to make Pierce's life a bit harder is difficult to brush off, "I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm also not going to tell you what not to do." The mischief that makes its way to his face is impossible to miss.

You're halfway through the pasta in your bowl when you've had enough of the conversations involving you, "Anyway, enough about my work, anything new in yours?"

"Not really. Same old boring I.T. stuff," he waves it off like it's not even worth mentioning.

"How's Sam?"

"Still a pain in my ass."

You playfully bump his shoulder with yours, "Stop it, he's not that bad," his face deadpans at your defense of his coworker, "Sam's nice. He gave me the recipe to his grandma's pecan pie when he came over for my birthday dinner."

"Yeah, cause he's a kiss ass," he grouses, nose scrunched up in annoyance. You giggle, watching as Alpine jumps onto Bucky's lap, her head butting his abdomen in an attempt to ease her dad's grumpiness.

The bubble of serenity surrounding you bursts at the sharp and sudden sound of your ringtone. Your stomach lurches with a sense of dread, losing all its appetite. You know there's only one person that can be calling this late.

Bucky utters your name like a silent plea for you to ignore the call and go back to how you were, but you're not listening. You're already up from your seat when he says it, walking over to your bag, and picking up the phone.

"The Brooklyn Ripper struck again."

And just like that, your night takes a turn for the worst.

Bucky feels helpless sitting at the kitchen table, watching as your face falls to something grave as Fury relates to you the details of everything he knows about the most recent victim. There's not much he knows, so he's sending you the location of the crime scene for you to investigate.

The call is over before you know it. You start packing your stuff, needing to head out to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

"I have to go. There's been another murder."

"Let me go with," Bucky knows you'll turn him down, but he offers anyway. The wooden chair scrapes against the kitchen floor when he stands up, striding over to where you're standing. He knows there's nothing he can say to make the situation better, but at least he can try to do something—be helpful.

You shake your head, looking over at him with eyes that say I wish you could, "It's not a good idea, Bucky. The White Wolf is still on the suspect list and as long as Hydra is connected in some way, you'd only be putting yourself at risk for exposure." Against his better judgment, he pushes the topic, "I don't care if Hydra finds out that I'm in the city or if the FBI figures out who I am. I only care that you're safe."

You swallow hard, the depth of what he's saying not getting lost on you. You need him to understand the sentiment is mutual, "Bucky, I would never forgive myself if you were found out because of me. I care about your safety too and I'm not letting you fall back into the clutches of Hydra for my sake," you stand firm on your decision, "Let's just stick to what we usually do. I go out into the field and you stay here listening in on the Hydra communications and checking the databases for all the information on the victim," you instruct, leaving no room for argument. He had no choice but to listen.

"I don't like this," he says like it's painful to watch you go. "I know, and I'm sorry, but that's just the way things have to go," you remind him solemnly, not able to look him in the eye while heading towards the door. Two bowls of unfinished dinner going cold at the kitchen table.

Alpine meows beside Bucky almost as if to say goodbye or stay, you weren't sure. You couldn't meet her eyes either.

"See you later, Buck."

"See you."

The door clicks shut behind you.

It take you about twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene. You mask your face with indifference as you walk past the vultures who call themselves the media. It's like at the first spill of blood they can scent it in the air—scrambling to get a headline instead of seeing it for what it is.

Someone has lost their life today in a brutal way. The least the media could do is have the decency to offer the family privacy and the chance to find out the devastating news from the proper channels and not through a social media post.

You ignore their existence, eyes darting to the buildings surrounding the crime scene to try and locate any cameras. The Brooklyn Ripper is smart enough to avoid them, usually placing the bodies in blind spots if there are any. He always kills the victim in one location and then drops it in another, meticulously staging it so the only clues you find are in the victim's autopsy.

If there are any camera's around, Bucky is probably looking through them right now. You sent him the location Fury gave you as soon as you got into your car. He's probably sulking as he watches from afar instead of at your side. You feel a strange sense of comfort wash over you at the thought of Bucky watching your back through the cameras. It helps knowing there's someone looking out for you with a case this severe on your hands. You hope Bucky understands you look out for him too—in your own way.

You pass by the buzz of local news station reporters, and a small crowd of people forming at the sight of law enforcement. You flash your badge to the NYPD officer keeping the reporters at bay, and he lets you pass the yellow crime scene tape. Like all the other crime scenes, nothing seems to be special about this one for the killer to have picked it. It's your average looking alley, tucked ominously between scattered operating businesses on the almost vacant street. It's late enough that most businesses are closed and the streetlights offer but a sliver of light to enter. There's a metallic bleach like scent that hits you almost at the same time that the foul odor of the garbage from the bins does. It's potent enough to be aware of it, but not enough to bother you. You've smelled worse in this line of work.

You carefully make your way over to the black tarp covering the victim's body. The chief medical examiner, Dr.Helen Cho, is discussing something with one of the members of the crime scene unit when you approach. There's about a handful of the unit here collecting all the evidence they can find.

You know if the presence of Dr.Cho was warranted, then there's no doubt who the culprit of this murder is.

"Dr.Cho, did she have the markings?" you inquire, cutting straight to the point. Dr.Cho nods grimly, beckoning you to come and see for yourself. "An off duty officer found her. He was in a drunken stupor when he stumbled his way out of the bar from a few doors down and ended up here. He claims to have sobered up when he saw the body." She hands you a pair of evidence gloves. You slip them on, bracing yourself for what you're going to find.

"He called the FBI tip line when he saw her neck," Dr.Cho crouches down to carefully lift the tarp from the victim's face. You follow suit, crouching down beside her to get a better look. At first glance you notice the way she's laying in a sleeping beauty pose, no blood on her clothes or hair. She looks like she was heading somewhere nice, having no idea of the end that was awaiting her. But most damning of all is the wound on her neck, fitting the Brooklyn Ripper's M.O..

There was an end to end gash along the front of her neck that would indicate it was sliced open. However, when you look closer you can see the swelling and faintest marks of bruising underneath the skin of the wound. A slight deformity that Dr.Cho is sure to conclude happened prior to the slicing. A slice that was clean and precise, with little blood around it. It wasn't done in the heat of the moment or with abruptness. It was done because he needed to do it, not because he wanted to. Without a shadow of a doubt when the victim is transported for an autopsy, Dr.Cho will find she died of a broken neck.

The slicing was done as a cover up.

"I'm confident enough to say the Brooklyn Ripper did this," you conclude solemnly, scanning the alley as Dr.Cho covers the victim again. "Let me guess, there's no evidence the victim was murdered here, is there?" Dr.Cho shakes her head, lips pursing at the lack of evidence. "There are no blood splatters, footprints, or any other indicators that anyone else had been here besides her. The only organic matter we have apart from the trash in the bins is the vomit from the officer who found her body. Other than that, everything else is staged as usual. The victim was laid on the ground in a sleeping beauty pose with her belongings tucked at her side. Her purse seems to have everything in it, but the phone is missing, same as the other victims."

After Dr.Cho recaps the evidence, you ask for the purse. Once you have it you search it and find a few packs of gum, lip gloss, a pocket mirror, some miscellaneous receipts and bits of trash, and what you were looking for—her wallet. You take it out, reading over her ID for the basic information.

Beth Johnson, twenty eight, born on October 10th—her birthday had been last Friday.

You swallow the lump in your throat with a regret you're in no place to have.

Inside the wallet you find a few dollar bills, a debit card and a couple credit cards, but what stands out to you most are two things tucked away behind her ID.

The first item, a polaroid picture of the victim hugging a child in her arms. They share the same smile and fluff of blonde hair. The words Toby's fourth birthday, are written on it in blue marker.

The second item, Alexander Pierce's business card.

You waste no time calling Fury after that, informing him of all the details you knew so far. This was now the second woman to die under your watch, and the eighth woman the Brooklyn Ripper has taken overall. You weren't going to drag your feet in this investigation.

Fury was livid. He hated feeling like someone got the upper hand on him and this war with Hydra was driving him up the wall. He made it clear he wanted you back at the bureau as soon as possible. He was going to call in John and Lamar for an emergency conference and he would be seriously considering formally connecting both the Hydra and Brooklyn Ripper cases once and for all. There's too much overlapping evidence for him to not start connecting them.

You let Fury know you'd be there as soon as you were done at the crime scene before hanging up the call. You take a picture of the victim's ID and the polaroid in case it comes in handy later. You then hand all the victim's belongings to the crime scene unit to be put away in evidence bags.

You step away from the crime scene, letting the crime scene unit finish their job without you hovering. You converse with a couple of the NYPD officers to help them locate the next of kin to deliver them the tragic news. It wasn't until it was absolutely certain that you weren't needed that you walk back to your car, pass the police tape and away from the reporters yelling at you for a chance at an interview.

Your hand grips the handle of the driver's side door tightly, your heart and mind an entangled mess of emotions, blurring the lines between personal and professional. It was never this complicated when you worked in counterterrorism. It was second nature to detach yourself in that unit, but in this one? You can't avoid it.

Before you step into your car, it starts to drizzle. You look up at the night sky and manage to spot a traffic camera on a streetlight.

The sight of it brings you comfort.

"You seem to conveniently neglect the decision my client has made to remain silent over these preposterous accusations."

"I recognize the decision, but given that it's a stupid ass decision—I've elected to ignore it."

Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce have been going at it for over half an hour, not letting Brock Rumlow get a word in—not that Pierce ever does anyway. He sits in the metal folding chair opposite you in the interrogation room, eyes glued to the table. His shoulders droop like he's about to fall asleep and his face is resting in a look that can only be described as pure boredom.

You've been studying him the entire time you've been in here, your role as the good cop meant you couldn't push and get on their bad side like Fury was doing now. But there's only so much rapport building you can take until you eventually break. Having to refrain from spilling all the questions and accusations you keep behind tightly sealed lips can only hold for so long.

There's a knock at the door that breaks Fury from his rant. He strides over to the door, and Rumlow takes this brief moment without him to make eye contact with you. It's only for a split second, but the challenge you saw there was unmissable.

He's daring you to make a move—to show your hand. He's been in plenty of interrogation rooms with you to know you're both tired of this game.

You want to get to the truth.

Special Agent Lamar Hopkins is on the other side of the door, discussing something with Fury and handing him a folder with what you assume is evidence from the case against Hydra. Pierce whispers something in Rumlow's ear while Fury shuts the door. He makes his way back to your side, opens the evidence folder, and plasters a multitude of pictures on the table for everyone to see.

It's pictures of Rumlow and the victim, all taken from seemingly harmless and innocent interactions. Rumlow helping her into a car, passing by her at a nightclub, leading her into an office, dropping her off at home, and many more. There's nothing necessarily incriminating in them, but the twitch in Rumlow's jaw is a blatant tell this struck a nerve with him.

"We can go in circles all damn day if you want, but I'm more interested in what the hell you were doing being seen with the victim so many damn times. And these pictures, they're just from this month," Fury drops another two dozen pictures on the table, "these are from the last four months."

Pierce scoffs, swiping his hand in the air in dismissal of the evidence, "This is ridiculous. My client can be seen with all employees at some point on any given day, this doesn't prove anything. This is a reach and you know it." Fury slams his hand on the desk, "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to me like she's another woman who was last seen with your client that ends up dead." The brash accusation cuts through the tension like a knife, and you can tell it's testing Pierce's patience on another level.

But more than anything, it severs your willingness to continue the good cop bad cop play.

"Brock, if you didn't do this, then I need you to help us here. Look at her," you take out your phone, having had enough of this endless back and forth. All eyes are on you as you slide the picture of the victim and her son in front of Rumlow. He looks down at it, but you get no reaction from him at the photo.

"Beth, she had a son, Toby. I'm sure you already knew that, maybe even knew him. Last Friday, she and her family celebrated her twenty eighth birthday, and now she's gone. In a few hours, Toby will wake up and ask his grandparents where his mother is, and they won't know what to say to him. It'll be awhile before he understands his mom is gone and never coming back. She won't be there for his future birthdays, she won't be taking him trick or treating on Halloween, having dinner with him at Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the new year comes in, he'll have to welcome it without her," Rumlow bites the inside of his cheek—this is good, you got him to react. "I don't care about what the FBI wants. I just care about him," you point to little Toby in the picture, "I care about giving him answers and catching the bastard who took his mom away from him." There's a conviction to your voice that clearly drives the message home.

For once, Rumlow beats Pierce to speak.

"You ain't got to worry about the kid. She was one of us, we take care of our own—including him," Rumlow's voice is rough with disuse, but at the very least you finally got him talking. You plead with your eyes, leaning in as a calculated sign of trust, "But he still deserves answers. I know there's something you could tell me that'll help me here." Rumlow looks at you with something that's close to pity, "Sorry, honey, don't know anything that could help. And as for finding the guy, I'm sure you're more than capable of it." He grins smugly, like he's doing you a favor with the half compliment. Irritation make its way up your body, hands eager to take action, but you can't. Instead, you give Rumlow a look like you're disappointed in him, but your eyes tell the full story. And his, it's like they're taunting you with the words cut the bullshit. It's clear you don't trust each other. Everything either of you do or say is done with ulterior motives.

Neither of you will get the full truth from each other any time soon.

"Alright, are we done here?" Pierce spits out in indignation, but Fury mocks him with an ardent laugh. "Not even close. You might as well start getting comfortable in here. Excuse us for a moment." With those parting words, Fury escorts you out of the interrogation room. Outside, John and Lamar stand on the other side of the two way mirror, having been listening in the whole time.

There's only a brief acknowledgment between you with an exchange of glances before Fury starts speaking. "I want you three to go to the main conference room and start operating as if we're connecting the Brooklyn Ripper case and the Hydra one. Agent Hill has already supplied it with with the evidence files from both cases. There's a few protocols I have to follow before I can officially connect them, but when I'm done I want you two," he points to John and Lamar, "to take a round interrogating Rumlow. You have a deeper rapport with those two, so I'll be counting on you both to get something useful out of them. In the meantime, exchange notes to prepare for the interrogation, and you," Fury turns to you, "as soon as you're done filling Hopkins and Walker in on your case—go home. You've done a great job tonight, but I'll need you rested and ready tomorrow for what comes next." You know better than to argue with him, so you bite your tongue and reply with a clear, "Yes, sir."

He turns and walks off, leaving you three to head to the conference room.

"What a way to end our Monday, right?" Lamar breaks the silence between you awkwardly. You let out an uncomfortable sound you try to pass for a broken laugh, "Yeah, you could say that…" You know he means well by the question, but it doesn't sit right in the space between you, falling flat.

"This didn't ruin any plans did it?" John cuts in curiously, directing his question at you, disrupting the discomfort in the air. You shake your head, a pang in your chest when you think about Bucky watching you leave. "Just dinner," you say it with a somberness you hadn't intended, so you quickly add, "but I'm sure you're more disappointed about your date being cut short. And I bet Mrs.Hopkins isn't any happier about Lamar getting called back to work." Your last statement brings out a small chuckle out of both men, and the sheepish expression on Lamar's face is confirmation enough that you're right.

"My date wasn't really going well, so I don't mind being called in. I don't think she'll be calling back for another, so I appreciate work keeping me busy," John admits, voice laced with self deprecation as you enter the main conference room. The table in the middle already stacked with files from both cases, just like Fury had said. You take a seat next to John when Lamar mutters something about a delivery and walks back out. You feel sympathy for your friend, the dating scene is hard enough, you can't imagine what it must be like navigating it as a divorced father.

Before you can second guess yourself, you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, he meets your eyes at the gesture, "Hey, don't let it get to you. I don't think many of us have a good track record with dating. I mean I think it comes with the job. I'm sure the right woman for you is right around the corner." Your words seem to strike a chord with him, the corner of his lip tugging, "Thanks. I'm sure she is."

He doesn't look away from you when he says that.

Before you can fully wrap your head around any deeper meanings, Lamar walks in with a pizza box in his hands. The strong scent of pepperoni pizza distracts you, your hand falling from John's shoulder like it never belonged there in the first place. Lamar is none the wiser, putting the pizza box in the center of the table and sitting across from both of you.

"I thought we'd need it for the long night ahead of us—coffee's already brewing in the break room," Lamar adds and you both utter a thank you. You try to brush off whatever just happened, even though a strange air lingers in the space between you. Even. Carol's voice echoes in the back of your head with a boisterous I told you so.

She's going to have a field day with this when you tell her.

There's an orange piece of paper that suddenly slips off the pizza box when Lamar opens it. You reach for it out of reflex, the big bold letters in black contrasting with the pumpkin orange background catching your eye.

FOR TWO WEEKS ONLY—THE CARNIVAL OF TERROR IS BACK IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS.

"My oldest loved going last year. I'm taking the whole family again this year," Lamar comments when he notices you reading the flyer. The nostalgia hits you hard, "How nice. I remember when my dad used to take me to these things when I was little. Those memories stick with you forever." You have to pull yourself back from drowning in a sea of memories you'll get lost in. From the past, from memories you used to hold close to your heart, to happier moments you used to give yourself the grace to experience.

To the person you used to be before this case ever landed in your hands.

You shake those thoughts away, hands gravitating to grab your phone. You're not sure what for at first, not until you open your text messages and click on your conversation with Bucky. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing up a quick text letting him know you'll be staying at the bureau for a bit. You're not sure what time you'll be getting out of here and you'd hate to have him waiting around for you. His response comes not even a minute later.

Okay, doll. Let me know if you need anything.

Will do. Goodnight, Bucky. Give Alpine a goodnight kiss from me. <3

What about mine? :(

You can't hold back the smile that forms after reading that text.

Have Alpine give it to you for me x

Fine. But yours would have been better. Goodnight.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Lamar's question makes your head break away from your phone, mouth slightly parted as you blink at him. "What?" A boyish grin appears on his face, eyes crinkling like he's discovered a secret, "Your boyfriend. That's who you're texting, right? No one smiles at their phone like that unless it's someone special on the other end." You find yourself unsure of how to respond because while Bucky may not be your boyfriend, it feels wrong to deny he isn't someone special to you.

Lamar takes your silence as a yes.

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, harshly clearing his throat, "I think that's enough small talk, we should focus on the case," his words slash through the silence, causing you to nod in agreement. You need to focus on what you're supposed to be doing—updating these two on everything you know about the Brooklyn Ripper case, so they can go back to interrogate Brock Rumlow.

It's gonna be a long night.

The next morning when you wake up, the sun is at its highest point in the sky. You manage to find the energy to slip out of bed and into the shower. The water cascades down your body in an attempt to wake you, but it does little to help. You continue your morning routine, nevertheless, putting on a hoodie and pajama bottoms before you make your way to the kitchen. Much to the dismay of the rumble in your stomach, your fridge is empty of everything—even leftovers. You also can't remember the last time you went grocery shopping.

Just as you've resigned yourself to brew a batch of instant coffee for breakfast, there's a knock on your door that stops you. On the other side is Bucky with containers of food in his hands.

"Good morning," you greet him with a lazy smile, trying not to make it obvious you're staring at the way his muscles strain against his workout shirt. He chuckles, eyes raking over your hoodie with a twinkle in them, "Good afternoon, doll. I brought over some leftover pasta from yesterday. Thought you'd be hungry and have no food in your fridge."

You step aside to welcome him in, one word in particular catching your attention, "Afternoon? Wait, how did you know I was awake?"

"Thin walls," he shrugs like that explains everything, "Didn't hear anything all morning, so I figured you slept in." He looks at your hoodie again, "Is that my hoodie?"

You still, looking down at the dark gray hoodie on your body. You know it's not yours, but you're in no mood to give it back, "No." You don't sound convincing, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he's thoroughly enjoying this. You cross your arms, dropping the subject all together, "There's no way I slept in, I don't do that."

You glance behind Bucky at the clock on the wall. It's already noon.

You overslept.

He gently taps your nose to get your attention before you start worrying about what you missed, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Oversleeping is not the end of the world. Just let your boss know what's going on while I get lunch ready, okay?" He heads over to your kitchen like he belongs in that space, the lingering comfort of his gentle tone stays with you as you walk to your room to grab your phone. You notice you have a couple missed calls from Carol, so you send her a quick text before sending Fury an apology and letting him know you'll be at the bureau later. Almost immediately he tells you there's no need, John and Lamar have already done the interview with Beth's parents and are currently following leads from it. So instead he orders you to continue with the routine protocol you follow after the victim's family has been interviewed.

Meaning, it's time for the stakeout.

You head back to the kitchen, a bowl of pasta already waiting for you. You sit on a stool at the kitchen island and Bucky joins you on the stool beside you. "Care to fill me in on last night?" He asks and you do, filling him in on the investigation, the victim, the interrogation with Rumlow and Pierce, and your conference with John and Lamar—excluding the part where you might've lead them to believe Bucky is your boyfriend.

You didn't feel that was necessary to include.

"So I guess I'll have to start co-investigating the Brooklyn Ripper case with the Hydra one," you reiterate, looking down at the bowl of pasta like it held answers to the gut feeling you couldn't shake off.

"You don't seem happy about that," Bucky points out, and you sigh, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. "It's not that I'm not happy about it. Something just doesn't feel right," you can't find the exact words to describe what about it feels wrong. You feel like you're missing a big piece of the puzzle—maybe one of the most crucial pieces—and not being able to pinpoint it is eating away at you.

"I think I know what you mean. Last night, I went through all of Hydra's communications, but the only time the case was mentioned was when they took in Brock for questioning," Bucky mentions while you move the pasta in your bowl absentmindedly before you reply. "I don't doubt he's done some terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the look of someone who could care less who lives or dies as long as he gets paid enough to do it. But I don't think he did this. If it is someone at Hydra doing this—it's not him."

Bucky nods in agreement, "Brock's been an asshole since the day I met him, but Hydra wouldn't make their golden boy do this. They'd have someone else do it. Like one of the other Winter Soldiers they recruited when I left." The reminder tastes like acid on his tongue, his jaw clenches, eyes glossing over with the ghosts of his past. Your hand reaches out to gently hold his wrist, the metal cold to your touch and yet it brings him the kind of warmth only you seem to provide him.

"Maybe," you give his wrist a light squeeze, he turns his metal hand over to hold yours, like he needs it to anchor him, "but I have a feeling no matter who the suspect is, the answer lies with the first three women the Brooklyn Ripper killed. The ones without any connections to Hydra."

"The ones the NYPD screwed up embarrassingly?"

"Yeah, those. It was like they had never worked a homicide before. By the time me and Laura were put on the case none of the families wanted to talk, so Fury instructed us to prioritize the most recent victims instead. But even those victims don't make complete sense. They all worked for Hydra, sure, but in different sections for different people—like they were chosen at random. An assistant, an exotic dancer, a housekeeper, a working girl, and the most recent, a club waitress. Asking anyone at Hydra is a dead end, the families won't talk to us, and we always end up with very little to go on. It just feels like were on a wild goose chase while that bastard chooses his next victim," this time Bucky gives your hand a steady squeeze when your frustration gets the better of you.

"Hey, we're gonna get this guy. He might be smart at covering up his tracks, but he's bound to slip up—they always do. And when he does, we'll catch it and get him. Don't forget we're a team, doll. The killer doesn't know you have a Hydra expert on your side, and that is your upper hand," his little pep talk does wonders to reignite that spark of hope in you.

"Let's hope he slips up sooner rather than later," you add before looking at your phone. It's almost time.

"Thanks for lunch, Bucky. I don't mean to cut this short, but I gotta get going."

"Are you heading to the bureau?"

You shake your head, "No, I'm heading out to do a stakeout. Gotta get some pictures for evidence, some protocol Fury wants me to follow. It's usually John and Lamar that go, but they're busy following some leads so Fury's sent me instead." Bucky nods, getting up from the stool, "I'm coming with." You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head firmly, "Nothing you say will make me back down from this one. I couldn't be there yesterday, but there's no reason I can't be in the car with you this time."

He's right, there really is no issue with him coming with you this time, and truthfully you feel safer knowing he'd be there.

"Fine. But this is my case, so you follow my lead, alright?"

A cheeky grin grows on his stupidly handsome face, "Yes, ma'am."

"I can't believe you brought Alpine along," you laugh incredulously as Alpine gets out of her carrier and makes herself comfortable on a blanket Bucky fluffed out in the backseat for her. He scratches the back of his neck, before he explains, "She's got separation anxiety." Your eyes dart to Alpine, then to him, and then back to her, holding back a burst of giggles, "She's got separation anxiety?"

"Yeah, she can't stand being away from me for too long."

"Sure, Bucky."

"I swear, doll."

"I'm sure you do."

Bucky's deadpan expression does little to nothing to stop you from laughing. Even Alpine is looking at her dad like don't put this on me.

You and Bucky have been sitting in your car for about fifteen minutes. You're stationed in a parking lot of a small general store a few houses down and across from where Beth Johnson's residence is. It's a quaint brownstone, a little beat up on the outside, but homey nonetheless. The victim lived there with her parents and her four year old son Tobias, or Toby as she called him. If Hydra follows the same pattern, then like the last four victims, Alexander Pierce would come around offering financial restitution for the families. The money in exchange for their silence.

John and Lamar already had the initial interview with the victim's parents, so all there was left to do is wait. A camera laying patiently in your lap for the moment Pierce makes his appearance.

"You're doing it again," Bucky's voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn to him, even when he attempts to cover his face with a baseball cap and hoodie, his eyes give away just how handsome he is beneath it all. It's unfair.

"What am I doing?"

"Staring holes into something like it'll give you answers if you look at it hard enough," his perceptiveness never fails to make you feel small. As if he could unravel all your secrets and vulnerabilities like it were nothing. You attempt to assure him with a smile that everything's okay, but it doesn't reach your eyes. He looks at you like he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how.

"It's just, this all feels like a waste of time. Sitting here for who knows how long to snap a couple of pictures when we could be doing something else instead. Maybe even find a proper lead for once, one that'll lead us to the actual killer," you hate feeling like a sitting duck. Like you have to wait for the evidence to come to you instead of going and getting it yourself.

"You don't agree with Fury sending you here," he says it as a statement, not a question.

"I don't. We already know what's going to happen. Getting a few pictures won't make Pierce or Rumlow talk. It won't even get the family to cooperate. So what's the point?" You fidget with the settings on the camera mindlessly.

"If the killer is a part of Hydra then it's important to get proof of every shady deal they've made to protect him."

"And if he isn't?"

He mulls it over, "Then it's even more important. That could mean he's been manipulating the evidence in his favor and making it seem like Hydra's behind it."

That's a possibility you hadn't really considered because who could possibly be stupid enough to cross Hydra like that?

You think back to the list of possible suspects excluding Bucky: Frank Castle, Logan Howlett, Wade Wilson, and Brock Rumlow. You recall the details you know of them, but none of them seem to be the kind to place the blame on someone else. Some of them take credit for their kills proudly while others are only on the list because they fit the military profile the Brooklyn Ripper's alleged to have. Plus, Bucky's already done extensive background checks into every single one of these men. If there was something that could've pointed you in their direction, Bucky would've found it already.

"If he is covering his tracks by putting the blame on Hydra, I wonder why they haven't caught him? He's a liability whether he's part of them or not."

Bucky takes your question into consideration, "It's hard to believe they wouldn't know who the guy is by now. If he wasn't one of them they'd have no problem getting rid of him. But if he is one of them, then they either know who it is and he's too high up in the ranks to cut him loose or they have no idea who the killer among them is," Bucky theorizes and you add, "It could be why they're giving the victim's family hush money disguised as charity. It keeps them quiet long enough for them to try and figure out who it is before the FBI does."

You feel like you're going in circles with the same set of clues, turning them over and over again as if eventually they'll give you a different result. You fall forward, gently resting your head on the steering wheel, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You just need a moment to collect your thoughts. The first few days on a new murder investigation can always be the hardest, so you just need to pick yourself up and move forward.

Bucky places his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles in the space between your shoulders. Your body gravitates towards his touch, leaning into it. "You have shown more effort and dedication on this case than anyone previously assigned to it did. I know you're not used to dealing with victims and families on a personally. You feel every loss on a human level, and that's your strength. It means you're not giving up til the end and you should be proud of yourself for that. I know I am."

Sometimes you remind Bucky of his younger self. The one who had to come to terms that evil exists in this world as the blood on his hands grew. The one who had to make a deal with the devil in exchange for his family's salvation.

He had to pull himself out of a very dark place years ago. He'd make sure you'd never fall into it like he did.

You lift your head from the steering wheel, turning it to lay the side of your face against it. You don't know what to say, but you manage to whisper out a small thank you. You didn't know how badly you needed to hear those words until you heard them. It's hard to not feel out of your element when you're not used to this. You rarely had one on one interactions with victims or families when you worked in counterterrorism. Working in national security was miles away from what you've experienced in this case in the last seven months.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb softly caressing it. "Always," he whispers the promise in an oath to you, and the sincerity in his eyes causes you to let out a soft gasp. It's like if you search his eyes hard enough for something you've been searching for all your life, you'll find it.

Alpine suddenly jumps onto the center console, startling you both. You both pull away as if you've been caught doing something wrong, while Alpine stares at something ahead meowing at it. When you follow her line of sight you're surprised to see a black Rolls-Royce pulling up to the victim's residence. You quickly reach for the camera and start taking pictures. "Remind me to bring her along to the next stakeout," you say in awe that Alpine caught that. A few clicks of the camera later and sure enough, Alexander Pierce steps out of the car along with a couple bodyguards.

"Good girl," Bucky praises Alpine as she jumps onto his lap waiting for a proper thank you. He chuckles under his breath, muttering something about how spoiled she is before giving her the attention she wants. He steals a glance at you while you take pictures of the license plate, finding beauty in no matter what you do.

Alpine meows in his lap, as if questioning her dad why he hasn't made a proper move yet. He pets her fur in thought, wishing he could give her an answer as to why.

The days go by in a blur of paperwork and evidence files until the weekend is but a shift way. You've spent the last couple of days studying the Hydra case, familiarizing yourself with it now that Fury has merged your case with it. As expected, after Pierce visited Beth's parents they stopped cooperating with the FBI, claiming they had no further information to share that could help the case.

Having a team to work with had its pros and cons. On one hand, it was nice to bounce ideas off of John or Lamar, and to have someone to go to when you were stuck on a piece of evidence. However, having to report and update them whenever you wanted to do something and needing a majority vote to go through with it—well, let's just say you had a good idea how the rest of the investigations were going to go and you didn't like it.

You were currently in the bureau's record room, returning some of the files you pulled out of evidence in place of taking others. John and Lamar were somewhere in New York investigating a lead in the Hydra case. You felt like you were between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to step on anyone's toes, but also not really seeing yourself fitting in with that duo.

Both of them did things by the book, followed all the rules with no exceptions. They never pushed the boundaries or took risks to get to the truth. It's why they were one of Fury's favorite pairs. He never had to do any extra paperwork or pull any favors to save their asses.

But you? You were secretly working with a vigilante. One wanted by the very institution you work for. If John or Lamar were to find out, you have no doubt in your mind they would turn you in.

You take out your access ID and place it up against the card reader to access the files. You're sorting through them, exchanging some of the ones you had when something on the screen catches your eye.

There's a name that stands out in the history list of who last accessed files for the Brooklyn Ripper and Hydra cases. There beside your name, John and Lamar's is Carol's. You frown at the sight. Why would she need to have accessed them? You don't remember the Punisher case having anything to do with either of those cases.

You make a mental note to ask her about it later.

Back at you desk, you sit in it for another hour looking through files until you can't take the lack of action anymore. There's one lead you have been thinking of pursuing, but you know if you brought it up to John, Lamar, or Fury—they'd all shoot the idea down.

It's a good thing none of them are in the building right now, right?

Beth Johnson used to work as a waitress in Hydra's nightclub The Red Skull. It's owned by the head of the organization, Johann Schmidt, and he uses it as a hub for a lot of Hydra's operations. A logical step to take with that information is to question the people who work there for anything they might know of the victim that could help uncover her killer. The problem? The couple of times John and Lamar have been able to make it past security to question people inside, have only ended with guns drawn the moment they figure out they work for the FBI.

But you, there's only a couple of people that could recognize you, you're not really on Hydra's radar. They don't even know you're part of the Hydra case now. Armed with all the knowledge you've acquired from these files and Bucky's stories, you could go undercover. Find one of the weak links, maybe a friend of Beth's and prod at them until they crack and tell you something you could use.

This is risky, but exactly the kind of action you were hoping to take. No one could find out you were going, not even Bucky. If he found out you were going into the lion's den he'd have a heart attack or insist on going with you, and you'd never agree to that. You're not letting Hydra take him from you as selfish as that sounds.

You were on your own for this one—what's new?

You couldn't go home and change into something more appropriate for a club because if Bucky saw you walking out in a skimpy outfit and heels he'd most certainly question where the hell you were going. You might have to pull a favor with your friend Ava Starr, the head of the undercover and sensitive operations unit at the FBI.

Before you can back out of the plan, you head to her office. She greets you when she sees you, but narrows her eyes at you when she sees your suspicious demeanor.

"Hey, remember when you almost fumbled the Skrulls operation until I stepped in and saved your ass?" You bring up a memory from last year from an undercover operation you did in the counterterrorism division alongside Ava and others. She had made the wrong call and almost put the entire team in jeopardy, but an improvised plan from you saved the day and her job.

"Yeah… Thanks for the reminder," the sarcasm drips from her lips as they pull into a thin line. You close her office door so only she can hear what you say next, "I'm here to cash in that favor."

"Do I want to know for what?"

"It's best you don't."

She gives you a hard look. As your friend, she wants to pry and find out exactly what she's helping you do, but on the other hand, she believes in you and knows if you're telling her she shouldn't know then she won't question it.

"Alright, come on then. Tell me what you need."

By the late afternoon you're inside The Red Skull. Ava had done an amazing job with the makeover, giving you a sparkly black mini dress to wear with skin colored tights underneath. The dress itself was pretty, but stubborn on clinging so tightly to your body that every curve of it is on display. She caked your face in makeup, something subtle yet fitting for a night at the club. You hadn't recognized yourself when you looked in the mirror, but that was a good thing. The more unrecognizable you were, the better.

The only things you weren't used to were the false lashes on your eyes and the size of the heels on your feet. You can't remember the last time you got all dolled up like this, much less the last time you wore shoes that weren't your work ones. You felt like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.

To lower the chances of getting caught, you left your FBI badge in your car, keeping the items in your purse simple except for the gun that rests inside for your safety. You weren't sure you were going to make it past security at first. However, you managed to sneak in by flirting with some college guy who was there with a large group of people. You walked with them in line, avoiding being carded by sneaking in as part of their group. You ended up having to follow them to some booth in the back by the dance floor, but you were able to excuse yourself after a few minutes to go to the bathroom.

As soon as you step away you examine your surroundings. Scanning through the sea of people to locate all the entrances and exits, where the main office is, and where all the employee rooms are. The boom of the bass from the speakers shakes the room, the lights and music bounce off the walls, making you feel the liveliness of the party on every inch of your skin. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and substances much worse permeate the air into a toxic cloud you have to be careful not to inhale in too deeply.

You had a handful of people in mind you wanted to approach before you came in. The club itself is too dark to make out a lot of the faces from afar, but you know for certain there's someone working the bar you might be able to get answers from. One of the bartenders, Pietro Maximoff, has a sister Wanda Maximoff who also works as a waitress in this club, just like Beth did. Wanda and the victim could have been friends, and you know her brother must be feeling extra protective after what happened to Beth.

It was all you had to go with to try and get some answers.

You saunter over to the bar, sitting on one of the seats across from Pietro when you locate him. His eyes land on you and he flashes you a charming smile that you return with ease, "What can I get for you, gorgeous?" You play up the charm with a flirty giggle, "Just a whiskey on the rocks, please." His eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise, "And here I thought a pretty girl like you would order one of those fruity drinks, something as sweet as you." He lays it on thick, probably hoping for a good tip. You look at him through your lashes, "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." He hums in approval, grabbing one of the bottles behind him to prepare your drink. Things seem to be going smoothly so far, even if your undercover skills and flirting tactics are a bit rusty.

"So what brings you here tonight? Waiting on someone?" He asks you while handing you your drink. You pretend to take a sip of it, shaking your head, "I'm not waiting on anyone. I'm looking for something." Your vagueness intrigues him. "Something or someone?" There's temptation dripping from his lips, the blue of his eyes stormy in a way that tries to pull you into them until they're the only thing you can look at.

Too bad you're not into blondes.

"Something," you repeat, giving him a sly smirk while reaching into your purse, "Something maybe you can give me." You've piqued his curiosity with that, and he watches your every move as you brush past the cool metal of the gun in your purse to take out your phone. You have to hope this doesn't backfire or things could get ugly real fast.

You unlock your phone, opening up your gallery to a picture, and turning it over so he gets a clear view of it.

A picture of Beth with her son Toby, the one from the polaroid.

His expression falls, an iciness to it that crawls up your spine when he sneers, "You're a fucking cop?" You keep your cool, shrugging nonchalantly, "I prefer to give you plausible deniability on that."

He scoffs, leaning forward on the bar table separating you. He's so close the iciness in his stare contrasts the heat of the anger that radiates off him, "So you are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you kicked out of here—or worse?"

"Because I'm here for her," you grab your phone to put the picture back in his view, "I came for answers, and I know you can give me some." He avoids looking at the picture, it's like he can't stomach the thought of her being gone.

He clicks his tongue, "Stop acting like you care about Beth. You don't care about her, you don't care about any of them. You just want to get your job over with, maybe even get promoted."

"Olivia, Alice, Karli, Sharon, Ruby, Ophelia, Aida, and Beth," you list out the names of every single victim, catching him off guard. "I remember all of them. Each one of those women aren't an assignment to me, or some statistic I'll write in a report at the end of the year. Those women were like me. They were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—they were people. And I have to go to bed every night knowing I've failed them." Your voice breaks at the end, opening an album on your phone to show him the images you've kept of every single victim. All pictures of happier snapshots of their life, reminding you who you're working so tirelessly for.

He takes a step back, staring at your phone like the pictures would haunt him if he stares at them for too long. "I need to get justice for these women. I want to give their families answers as to why this happened. I want the bastard to pay and face the consequences of what he's done."

You land on Beth's picture again and he looks away like it's too painful to see. "I can't help you, I—" you cut him off, "Wanda's your sister right? She works here as a waitress just like Beth did. They were probably friends, weren't they? What if she's next?"

He looks almost offended you would say that, "Don't say that. I'd never let that happen."

"I know you wouldn't. But I'm sure if you ask any one of the family members of these women they'd tell you the same. People always think something could never happen to them until it does. Wanda has you looking out for her, but this killer is smart and covers his tracks well. Your employers don't seem to give a damn about protecting the women working for them, so Wanda could very well become his next target."

"No, she wouldn't. I'd never let her get involved in that."

"Get involved in what?" Your question makes him realize what he said and he curses under his breath. "Please, just give me something I can investigate further. Do it for them, not for me." You show him the picture of Beth one last time before shutting your phone off, the bar was starting to get a bit crowded and you didn't want the wrong people finding out what you're discussing.

He takes a deep breath, searching your eyes for your true intentions. There's a genuineness there that makes him feel like he can trust you. He subtly scans the bar, taking your drink and pouring it out before getting you another one to blend in. He leans in close, resting himself on his arm on the bar table like he were having an intimate conversation with you.

"Hydra runs two escort services. The one you probably already know about is run by a madam named Agatha Harkness. It's mainly used for making easy money off of cheating husbands and other degenerates," he says this with distaste on his tongue, "Then there's the other one. Hydra keeps this one under wraps, the only evidence of it existing is if the women have any. It's used to blackmail important figures, government officials, world leaders—you name it." You're grateful the necklace Ava gave you is recording constant audio because he's giving you lots of crucial information.

"The madam that runs it is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She has her own escort service, but she integrates it with the Hydra one. There's only a small group of women from Hydra that work for her. She usually approaches girls that are in need of money, preys on them, and gives them loans in exchange for sleeping and dating whoever Hydra wants to get dirt on and under their control next. A few months ago we were hard on money and Valentina approached Wanda about joining, but I refused to let her," you can hear how protective he is of his sister in the way he speaks about her, "I picked up extra shifts at the bar instead. The only reason I know about this service is because my sister told me."

"There should still be some sort of digital footprint of all of this though, no?" You ask yourself more than him. If there was one, Bucky would've found it already. Pietro shrugs, "All I know is that it's super secret and no one openly talks about it. I picked a fight with my boss about it when Wanda was approached and he told me to drop it for both our sakes." You try to absorb all the information he's given you. It's a bit to take in at once, especially when there's multiple questions you want to ask you know he doesn't have the answer to.

He pulls away to get back to work when you go silent, "You're one of the good ones, I can tell. Cops usually look the other way when things happen to people like us."

Before you can respond, he glances at something behind you and curses under his breath, "You need to go—they know you're here." You pretend to take a swig of your drink, turning your head to see from the corner of your eye two big burly men whispering to each other while looking at you.

You reach into your purse to grab a couple of bills, with your business card tucked between them. You hand them to him, "Thank you for your help. I promise I won't stop until I get the guy. You and your sister stay safe, okay?" He takes the money and notices your card, slipping it into his pocket along with the bills. "We will. Now go, get out of here. There's an employees only exit down the hall from the bar. Take it."

You thank him for the tip, getting out of your seat as smoothly as possible to avoid further suspicion. You make it seem like you're heading towards the bathrooms, but using the line outside of them to slip between the people and cover yourself from being noticed taking the exit Pietro had suggested. You don't know if you're being followed, but you're not looking back to find out.

You're able to make it down the hall and to the exit, stepping out into the autumn rainy night. You find yourself in the alley at the back of the nightclub. You would have to walk about a block in the rain to your car. Luckily, it's only a light pour, so your view isn't obstructed.

You're about to head in the direction of where you parked when out of nowhere, someone grabs your arm. You swing your arm and hit them with your purse, the stranger calling out your name with a familiarity that causes you to still. You look over and hiding below a blue baseball cap is a pair of cerulean eyes you know all too well.

It's Bucky.

"Bucky? How are you here? How did you find me?" You're relieved to see him, even if a part of you doesn't believe he's right in front of you. "Did you seriously think you were going to fend off a possible attack with a little black purse?" He looks at you like he can't believe your first defensive move was a purse hit. Especially after everything he taught you.

"You caught me off guard. You're lucky I went with the purse and not my gun," you retort, watching the way Bucky's body is tense like he's prepared for anything. He lets go of your arm, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. "You're lucky the bouncers didn't search your purse before letting you in."

Seems like you were both favored by luck tonight.

"Let's get out of here, my car's a few blocks away," he says, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction of where your car is parked.

"My car's closer, let's just take mine," you tell him, trying to keep up with his pace. He notices and slows down a step, "There's a lot we need to talk about, but there's still a possibility we might be followed, so just trust me and follow my lead, okay?" You nod, continuing your walk down the narrow street, one hand in his and the other holding his jacket close to your body. It smells like his cologne, a woodsy scent with a hint of leather.

You make it down the street just fine, but when you round the corner you can tell something's wrong by the way Bucky tightens his hold on your hand. He lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping your arm around his for a closer hold.

"Don't look behind us, but we're being followed. Just stick close, and try to keep up as best as you can," he whispers the instruction before picking up the pace. You balance your weight on your heels to keep up. You don't look back, but you can hear the slight thump of footsteps a few feet behind you.

Your heels click against the asphalt in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat. You lean into Bucky's side to steady yourself, the moisture on the ground from the rain making it harder for you to get stable footing. You don't question Bucky for every turn he makes, every street he crosses, or any shortcuts he takes. You're not exactly in the nicest part of the city, and you trust him to know his way around enough to get you back to safety.

The footsteps behind you never falter no matter how swift Bucky is at changing directions. The rain starts to pour down harder, lowering visibility and causing you to stumble. Bucky steadies you, taking off his baseball cap to place it on your head. You can see better now, and notice that you're headed toward a park.

The ground beneath you softens, and the trees make a decent shelter from the rain. Bucky turns his head to scan the area behind you and his shoulders relax. You're not being followed anymore.

Lightning strikes the sky before the world seems to shake from the thunder. Bucky leads you to a small wooden gazebo to catch your breath. Letting you go in first while he scans the park one last time. A breathy laugh escapes you, whether from the nerves or the adrenaline of being followed—you're not sure.

"You find this funny?" Bucky joins you under the shelter, water droplets falling from his hair after being smothered by rain. You frown, crossing your arms, "No, of course not. I get the severity of what just happened, the laugh just slipped out."

"What the hell were you even thinking back there? Do you understand what would've happened to you if I had arrived a second too late?" Bucky's voice shakes with a desperate anger, his eyes swimming with a despair that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It's still trying to catch up from the run, and the look Bucky is giving you isn't helping.

"But nothing happened, Bucky. I'm okay," you assure him gently, like he's a frightened animal you're trying not to scare off. Bucky shakes his head, his eyes shining from the rain or with tears, you're not sure, but it's devastating either way.

"You're okay because I was there. If I hadn't been…" His voice trails off like it hurts to finish that sentence. He runs his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff, "God, the worst part is I know exactly what would've happened to you. And I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life."

You bridge the space between you, taking his hands into yours, "But nothing happened, Bucky. If something were to happen to me you can't put the blame on yourself like I'm your responsibility."

Your name leaves his lips with a longing that causes your heart to skip a beat, "You know that's not what this is about," he lets go of one of your hands to motion between you, "We can dance around this all you want until you're ready, but don't pretend like you don't know what you mean to me. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."

You feel an overwhelming surge of emotions you've held back for so long fight its way to the surface. You hate seeing how upset he is at the thought of losing you, but you get it. You'd be lost without him. And it would be the end of him if he lost the one person he opened up to after years of isolation and managed to make a part of him he thought was broken whole again—you.

You go to embrace him, needing to feel close to him and hoping to convey with your hold what you want to say, even if you're not ready to say it. He reciprocates your hug immediately, holding you just as tightly—like you'd disappear if he let go.

The rain patters against the roof of the gazebo creating a calming atmosphere around you. It's like you two are the only ones who exist in the world right now. You've never felt safer than here in his arms, so you savor it for as long as you can.

Until the thunder rattles the gazebo, reminding you of where you are.

"Is this a bad time to mention I got a good lead?"

He laughs in disbelief, "Of course you fucking did." You laugh with him, catching his eye and seeing a twinkle in them. "Is this a bad time to ask you who told you that outfit was a good idea without checking the weather?" You roll your eyes and playfully smack his back, "Shut it."

You're about to pull away, but his hold stays. "Give me a minute, doll. Just stay with me for another minute." The plea in his voice is gentle, like he'd let go if you really asked him to, but you won't. Clearly, you both need this pocket of peace to last a little longer. So you stand there in your shelter from the rain and hold each other like it's your only lifeline in this world.

Bucky and Alpine came to your place that night for an impromptu sleepover. You both showered in your own apartments before reconvening at yours. There was a lot you needed to discuss, which you did over chow mein and pot stickers from your favorite Chinese restaurant across from your apartment, Uncle Lou's. You told Bucky what happened from the moment you decided to go undercover, to why you did it, what Pietro revealed to you, and everything else leading up to when he met you outside the nightclub. He still wasn't happy about it, but what's done is done.

Bucky on the other hand explained he had heard your full government name in one of Hydra's communications, apparently one of the patrons recognized you although the name of the patron wasn't disclosed. That's how he knew you were there. He has your name flagged in the system for safety reasons, and it's a good thing he did because as soon as your name was mentioned an alarm went off on his phone. He was able to access the security cameras at The Red Skull, and when he confirmed you were in fact there, he rushed over as quickly as possible.

He knows how Hydra operates, so he had a tow truck arranged to get your car from the nightclub's parking lot and tow it back to the bureau out of an abundance of caution. There was no guarantee that you could drive your car safely back home without being followed. He parked his car at the park where the gazebo was, somewhere out of the way enough where he could shake off anyone that attempted to follow you.

Bucky had thought of everything.

He wasn't surprised to hear about the secret escort service, although it wasn't around when he was there. He didn't recognize Valentina's name, but he had a vague recollection of Agatha's. You play the audio recording from your necklace on your laptop, so he can get a better idea of everything that was said. To say he didn't appreciate having to hear you flirt with another man is an understatement.

The rest of the night was spent researching and bouncing off theories to each other. You ended up falling asleep on the couch, your feet resting on his lap. He dozed off right after, with Alpine curled up in the space between you.

The weekend is spent collecting as much evidence as you can, so that following Tuesday you can face Fury and hopefully keep his anger at bay as you tell him about your unofficial undercover mission. You hope the discovery will be enough to not be reprimanded too harshly.

But Fury truly lives up to his name.

Things don't start off as smoothly as you hoped when you tell him what you did, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk, laptop in your lap at the ready with a presentation of evidence displayed on the screen. You've lost count how many times he's cursed in the last five minutes. Going off about if he's just a painting on the wall and does no one understand what the title of director means?

The worst part is how he looks at you like a disappointed father would, making you feel like a scolded child. He exhales heavily, sitting down in his chair, "You recognize what you did was stupid and reckless."

"Yes, sir, but I—"

"And that you could've very easily gotten killed and jeopardized not only your case, but the Hydra one as well."

"Yes, sir."

"You also recognize that while it was extremely reckless it resulted in obtaining the biggest lead we've had on the Brooklyn Ripper case since we've had it."

You can breathe again, "I do, sir."

He nods, approving that you understand, "Alright. While you did manage to get a good lead, this can never happen again. From here on out, everything you do with this case goes through me, got it?"

"Yes, sir." you reply, but he doesn't see the way you cross your fingers in your lap.

"Good. Now, show me what you found." It seems in the pursuit of taking Hydra down, Fury doesn't care what methods are used.

You start from the beginning. How you came to the conclusion of checking out the nightclub, and how you infiltrated it—omitting the part where Ava helped you look the part. You tell him what Pietro told you, letting him hear some of the audio clips for himself. You don't mention being followed afterwards, instead sticking to a story that you left as soon as Pietro gave you the warning and took a taxi home while your car was towed here out of precaution. Fury praises you for the quick thinking and you have to stop yourself from giving Bucky the credit he deserves.

You then go in on the finer details. You dive deeper into Valentina and her off the record escort service she runs with Hydra. You mention how Valentina has been arrested twice for promoting prostitution, but was released with a warning both times. Word on the street—what Bucky discovered—is she's got plenty of blackmail on enough cops in the NYPD to keep her out of jail. She has no official ties with Hydra, but she does get paid to take a few girls from them, teach them the works, and offer them to higher paying clientele. If your speculation is true, then every woman killed connected to Hydra was part of this underground escort service. Whether Valentina knows it or not, the girl's Valentina is taking in from Hydra become the Brooklyn Ripper's preferred victims.

Fury takes in all the information you give him, "We need to bring Valentina in, but without giving away what we know. I'll get a detail on her to locate her whereabouts. As soon as she slips up, she'll be arrested. We'll have to have her brought to a trusted police station, and instead of one of the local detectives interrogating her, it'll be one of us. We can play it off like we're making sure she's safe from Hydra."

Fury's plan seems like the logical play. Getting a one on one chat with Valentina could prove to be crucial to uncovering the identity of the Brooklyn Ripper. She probably even knows who it is without knowing it's him, and having her in custody would help in getting warrants to access her personal property. You would be able to get a hand on all the numbers and channels she uses for her communications that Bucky could then investigate deeper. There's also a possibility she might still have messages or other evidence on her devices that could connect her to the victims.

"You said one of the patrons recognized you?" Fury breaks your thought process with a question.

You nod, "It must have been. At the time I was in the nightclub, Pierce and Rumlow were located to be in different parts of the city, so they couldn't have recognized me. I'm not working the Hydra case close enough for anyone else there to have recognized me. I didn't have my badge on me, so whoever saw me knew me from somewhere."

He taps on his desk like he's mulling something over, "You have to be more careful then. If this escort service is being used to blackmail high profile people, anyone you've been in contact with at the any of the city's charity galas or events throughout the years could be a client of Valentina's. We'll have to be more discreet from here on out."

There's an uneasiness that settles its way into your heart when you think of all the people you know and how any one of them could've been so cold to rat you out like that. Especially knowing what Hydra would have done to you.

After another brief exchange, Fury dismisses you as he has a virtual meeting to attend. You walk back to your desk, letting out a breath of relief. John is sitting in his when you approach, giving you an are you okay look, "Everything okay? That sounded intense for a minute there."

You sit down at your desk, a heat spreading on your face when you realize your coworkers most likely heard Fury reprimanding you. "Yeah, I kind of went over his authority, so the yelling was warranted…" John's expression is one of surprise, not thinking of you as someone who would break the rules.

If only he knew about your vigilante partner.

You quickly summarize the events to John. You'd tell him a more detailed version of it later when you both reconvene with Lamar, but for now a more condensed version is all you can give with the energy you have left after being yelled at. John's demeanor shifts immediately, "That was extremely dangerous, you could've gotten really hurt." He scolds you, his disappointment matching Fury's, but somehow coming from John it doesn't feel as serious.

"I went in knowing the risks, but I'm here now aren't I? It's all good," you try to brush it off, not wanting to hear another lecture. His eyes narrow, "No, it's not. The few times Lamar and I have gone up to The Red Skull while chasing a lead—we've never come out without having to get into a fight with security and have their guns drawn on us. It's a miracle you came out unscathed."

"Not a miracle, I just got lucky."

"Lucky or not, some of us really care about you," he follows his statement with the mention of your name, "And we—me, honestly I don't know what I would have done if you got hurt." The heavy weight of the sentiment beneath the surface of those words sits in your chest uncomfortably. Carol's words echo in your mind, but beyond that, there's a wave of nausea that hits you. You always considered John a good colleague and friend, and you'd be lying if you said you'd ever thought of him in any other way.

This is the man who showed you the ropes when you first got transferred here. He's the kind of guy that would get up mid conversation to hold the door open for someone on the other side of the room and the kind of partner that would take a bullet for you—he's done it twice for Lamar. He does have his quirks. Saying things that come off wrong, on bad days being impatiently temperamental, and walking around with the confidence of a man who thinks he's owed attention. Sometimes he's not the best guy, but he's always been a good friend.

You feel like you've been put between a rock and a hard place. Made even worse by what he says next.

"There's actually something I'd like to talk about with you—maybe over dinner or coffee?" There's a hope in his voice that's hard to miss, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole then and there. You've never been put in this position before. How do you stay truthful to how you feel, but not make things awkward or lose a friend?

"John I—I don't… Could we hold this conversation off until I'm done with this case?" You try to buy yourself some time. Hopefully enough to figure out the best way to turn him down.

"You're allowed to live your life outside of here."

"I know, but it wouldn't sit well with me."

John give you a tight smile, like he already knows this is going nowhere, "Okay, I get it. Don't worry about it, okay? Have a good rest of your day." He gets up from his desk and walks off, out the doors and out of sight.

There's a pit at the bottom of your stomach when you watch him walk away. You find yourself getting up from your desk as well. Looking across the room and feeling relief when you notice Carol is at hers. It's almost like she can sense your distress the way her eyes look up from her computer and lock with yours. You beckon her to follow you into the break room and she doesn't hesitate to get up and scurry along to meet you there. And when you tell her what happened with John, her I told you so is as smug as it is jovial.

"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe he finally asked you out and you turned him down like that," she says almost in awe, like she's sorry she missed the interaction.

"Carol, I thought it was clear I don't date divorced men."

"But John's also your friend."

"Yes, my divorced friend."

She tilts her head like she's recalling something, the curiosity in her eyes evident, "Did you say no because of that or because of this secret man you have everyone talking about?"

You do a double take. Surely, you misheard her. "Excuse me, what? I have a secret man that everyone's talking about? What do you mean by everyone?"

She snickers, enjoying how flustered you're getting, "Well, rumor has it you have a boyfriend—a secret lover." Her tone is playful, so you don't know if you can take her serious or not.

"Carol this isn't funny."

"Oh, it's not. I'm the closest friend you have and you didn't tell me that you're seeing someone? I should be offended."

You roll your eyes at her dramatics, "There was nothing to tell you because I don't have a secret boyfriend." You then add with a hint of panic in your voice, "Is this like a big rumor in the bureau?" She shakes her head, "No, I was just teasing you. Lamar told me you were texting someone special." You let out something between a groan and a sigh.

"God, you're the worst."

"Oh, you love me."

You chat with her for another few minutes, but the conversation mainly consists of her teasing you and taking jabs at John. When the laughter quiets, a memory comes back to you.

"By the way, have you tried accessing any of the Hydra or Brooklyn Ripper files recently?" You ask her, recalling her name in the access history. She thinks it over before shaking her head, "I don't think so. My card only works like half the time I try to access any of the Punisher files. Why?"

"It's nothing, it's just your name popped up under the history of those who last accessed the files," you mention and she scoffs sarcastically, "Great, so now my card is glitching out the system. If only Stark weren't such an ass about the budget." You hum in agreement, at ease now that that's cleared up.

"That was a good attempt at changing the subject, but you're not getting away from telling me all about this guy," she looks at you expectantly, like you better not even dream of hiding anything from her.

"There is no guy, he's just my neighbor." Your very handsome neighbor who you're in love with and who you're almost certain returns your feelings. Who's waiting on you patiently for something that can become the greatest thing to ever happen to you, but you're not ready to accept you deserve.

That all seems too complicated to explain, so you'll go with neighbor for now.

"Shut up, there is a guy and I want to hear all about it," Carol is determined to get all the details out of you, but your gossip session is cut short when Special Agent Maria Hill walks into the break room. Seeing as she's Fury's right hand woman you and Carol end your chatter there, heading out of the break room and back to work.

However, the look that Carol gives you lets you know this conversation is far from over.

When you go home that night, there's a tension in the air that's palpable enough to feel it in your fingertips. The kind of unrest that makes you want to reach for your gun and be prepared for anything that might happen next. The wind seems to whisper warnings of what's to come and it travels up your spine, making you shiver.

You find yourself picking up your pace, wanting to enter your apartment with the haste of someone who's being chased. In a moment of deja vu, Bucky opens the door to his apartment when he hears you about to enter yours. Alpine isn't in his arms this time, and there's a grim look on his face that makes your body grow cold.

"Come with me. I need to show you something," the urgency in his voice has you entering his apartment without question. Once you're inside he leads you to his living room, and suggests you take a seat before he talks. Alpine jumps on the coffee table, pacing it like even she can feel there's something wrong.

"There's no easy way of revealing this, so I'll just show you," He hands you a manila envelope, it's outwardly unassuming at a first glance. You take it from him, noticing the way there's nothing written on the outside of it. "Yori ended up getting our mail mixed up again. I found that envelope in my mail pile. There was no name written on it, so Yori probably assumed it was mine. When I went down to ask him who delivered it he couldn't remember, and coincidentally the security cameras were down when it got delivered," Bucky explains as you open the folder, reach inside, and find a multitude of pictures inside.

Pictures of you.

At the grocery store, walking into and out of work, at the coffee shop you love by the bureau, getting food from a delivery driver outside of your building, pictures of your window where you can be seen reading and cooking—all candid pictures of you dating back months ago. Even Bucky can be seen in some of them with you, but they're all mainly of just you.

Someone had been watching your every move for months.

And that someone would most likely be the Brooklyn Ripper.

The blood drains from your face, your stomach churning the more you stare at the photos. You've had moments where you felt like you were being watched, but you brushed it off thinking this case had you unjustifiably paranoid. At first glance, you thought the pictures were taken by someone working for Hydra, but after analyzing the changes in your hair, your clothes, and the environment around you—these pictures go back to over half a year ago. Almost to around the time you were assigned to this case.

"Did you ever notice you were being watched or followed?" Bucky sits next to you on couch, his stance protective, like if he could somehow protect you from this dark reality he'd do it in a heartbeat.

You shake your head, "No, but I should have. I'm trained for stuff like this, I shouldn't have missed all of this. I'm so off my game, I can't believe I let this happen." Your grip on the pictures tightens, and Bucky has to pry them out of your hands. "Don't blame yourself, doll. This guy is a professional fucking creep and he knows how to do this without being caught. I'm trained to notice stuff like this too and I didn't catch it either."

"This picture here," you grab the one that has you and Bucky walking down your home street, "the dress I'm wearing in it is the one I wore to your birthday dinner. That was seven months ago, around the time I was assigned the Brooklyn Ripper case. If he's been watching me this whole time, then why hasn't he done anything?"

Bucky grits his teeth, "Because this is some kind of sick twisted game to him. He kept an eye on you even though he was sure you'd never catch him—but that was before. If he had the guts to send you these pictures now and show his hand like this, that means you're getting close to finding him. This is his way of scaring you off." You like the idea of the killer getting nervous you're onto him, even if it meant having to face being stalked.

"You said the cameras were down when the envelope was delivered?" You repeat, and Bucky grunts in annoyance, "They were compromised. Someone managed to cut the wires at the exact moment the mail is usually delivered. It wasn't a hard fix so I fixed them up for Yori. I even went over and hijacked the cameras from Uncle Lou's restaurant across the street to keep on eye on the windows."

Your lips part, "Bucky, you did not."

He doesn't look one bit ashamed, "I did too. I don't take your safety lightly, doll. Which is why you're staying here tonight."

"I own a gun, Bucky. I'm sure he knows not to get too close," you say to lighten the tension, but in all honesty, you're not against staying here with him tonight.

"Don't make me beg, doll," he regrets those words when he sees your smile widen, giving you a look like it's not the right time to mess with him. Although, he'd prefer to see a smile on your face than anything else, so if you wanted to tease him right now, he won't complain. Even Alpine comes over and jumps on your lap to give you the prettiest eyes that ask you to stay.

Yeah, you weren't saying no to either of them tonight.

You were still shaken up from the pictures when Bucky accompanied you to your apartment to get a few things for the night. You had lost your appetite, so after showering at his place and changing into a comfy pajama set, you were ready to call it a night. Bucky had brewed you an herbal tea before bed to calm your nerves, one he said his mother made him when he was anxious. You discussed how the talk with Fury went over tea, and what the FBI was planning to do with Valentina. Bucky agreed it was a smart move, and mentioned he'd be able to get access into her private files as soon as the FBI obtained her devices.

The weight on your shoulders feels lighter after the tea and the talk with Bucky. A new sense of hope you haven't felt in a long time settles in your chest. Bucky notices you start to blink slower and your yawning gets more frequent, so he tells you to go to bed. You don't resist, sleep is calling your name like a lullaby.

You make your way to the living room, prepared to set up the couch when Bucky stops you. “You're sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.” Your eyebrows raise, eyes darting between him and yourself. Out of the two of you, you'd surely be more comfortable on the couch than him. “Bucky, the couch is perfectly fine for me.” 

He points to Alpine, "She’s sleeping with you tonight and she always gets the bed so,” he shrugs like that explains everything. As if on cue, Alpine makes her way over to you and paws at your feet until you pick her up.  

“She’s also—she’s good for nightmares,” Bucky utters quietly and you freeze in your spot. How did he know? You've never told a soul about them, not even Bucky who you trust the most. It was a sore subject for you that stung like an open wound. You rarely had nightmares before, but they became more frequent after seeing the first victim you worked on for the Brooklyn Ripper case back in May. What you've seen since then stays with you even in your sleep.

"I get them too, sometimes. I can tell," he whispers, reading your mind all too well and sharing another piece of himself he finds he doesn't fear giving to you. You appreciate him sharing this with you, this shared vulnerability that establishes a gentle solidarity between you on the subject. “Thank you, Bucky," you reply softly, holding Alpine a little closer to your chest, like hugging her could fix a part of you that you don't acknowledge as broken. You follow up with a small goodnight which he returns. Parting from each other reluctantly, with neither of you voicing the one word that could bring you back together.

You enter his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so Alpine can go in and out easily. You lay her on the bed gently, the moonlight coming in through the blinds casts a soft light in the room as you settle in the bed. His sheets smell of lavender detergent and something uniquely him. The scent wrapping around you like it were the blanket itself.

You close your eyes, in the darkness, the last thing you feel before falling asleep is Alpine cuddling into your side. You always seem to get a better nights sleep when Bucky is around, so hopefully tonight is no different.

Bucky was right about one thing, Alpine is good for nightmares. Minutes into falling asleep you fall into a deep slumber. One that seems will not be interrupted by any bad dreams tonight.

Alpine is, however, not good for things that go bump in the night.

It was around three in the morning when you first heard it. A loud crash in the room on the other side of the wall of Bucky's bedroom. The noise startles you awake. You sit up in bed, your heart hammering in your chest. You wonder if you hallucinated the sound, simply paranoid after the stalking revelation. Poor Alpine had jumped on the other side of the bed when you woke up so abruptly. You're about to reach out for her to comfort her when you hear something else.

A heavy continuous thump on the other side of the wall that might be footsteps, and then a rustling you can't tell what it is. The goosebumps that cover your skin happen at the realization that the room on the other side of this wall is your bedroom.

The Brooklyn Ripper is in your bedroom.

On any other day you might have believed what you heard to be a random break in. But after those pictures you received, there's no doubt in your mind who's in your apartment right now.

If you can hear him, then that means he can hear you. You're careful when getting out of bed, every step you take is as light as possible as you exit the bedroom. You open the door just enough where you can slip through. Your gun is in the duffel bag you left at the foot of Bucky's couch earlier in the night. You have to get to it, this is the closest you ever have been to catching the killer.

Through the warm glow from the lamp Bucky left on in the living room, you see him sprawled across the couch, snoring lightly in his sleep. He's shirtless, muscular chest on display with only his dog tags decorating it. The blanket messily strewn over himself barley covers the way his gray sweatpants are riding lower in his sleep.

Focus, there's a killer in your room.

As you step closer to the couch, the floor board creaks beneath you and his eyes shoot open. They take a second to adjust in the darkness before they land on you, squinting at you quizzically.

“I think the killer is in my room,” you whisper loud enough for Bucky to hear, his expression hardening. You reach for your bag, grabbing your gun and pulling it out while Bucky gets up from his couch. He's quick on his feet, grabbing his own gun from a safety box in the broom closet in his hallway. He prefers to act first, ask questions later.

You join him in the hallway, "I thought I was hearing things at first, but then there were more noises on the other side of wall," you whisper, grabbing Bucky's arm and leading him into his bedroom. You're both careful to not make the floor creak the closer you get to the wall. Alpine is gone from the room, and it's dead silent inside. Your ears strain to pick up any sound on the other side and after a few breaths of silence you hear it, the rustling is back.

Bucky wasn't kidding when he claimed the walls were thin.

You both leave his room with minimal sound. Back in the hallway you whisper, "We have to get in there, Bucky. This could be our chance to catch him." He firmly nods, "Alright, but only if we stick together. We don't know what we'll find when we get in there or what kind of weapons this guy has."

You agree, shuffling over to your duffel bag to grab your keys, taking off the one for your apartment off the ring, to avoid the extra noise. Careful with every step you take, you make it out into the hallway. You hope none of your neighbors are awake to step out and see you and Bucky with your guns drawn, you don't know how you would explain your way out of it without alarming anyone.

Bucky is right behind you when you put your ear up to your door. You listen in for a few seconds, but when you're met with silence you put the key in the lock and open the door. The lights are off just like you left them. The moonlight filtering in through the windows gives you enough light to make out your surroundings. Bucky closes the door behind you quietly, stepping forward first, his military training coming in handy making his steps featherlight.

You're one step behind him, covering his back. Your hands are outstretched with your gun at the ready, eyes darting around your home for any sign of danger. Your one bedroom apartment is small enough that there's not much space you have to clear before heading over to your bedroom.

You're both up against the door, staring at each other while you wait for a sign that the killer is still there. The silence stretches for what seems like forever, until you can't take it anymore and nod at Bucky to know you're ready to head inside. He counts to three on his fingers before you both barge in to the room.

"FBI! Show yourself!" You identify yourself, flipping the switch on your tactical light on your gun to see your surroundings better. Your window is wide open, the small plotted plants you had on your windowsill knocked over and broken on the floor. Your entire room is covered in bright orange flyers—there must be about a hundred of them, crinkling again the ground with every step taken.

Regrettably, you receive no response. Whoever broke in is now gone.

You curse under your breath while checking your closet, but the killer is not in there. You step towards your window, swearing you had it locked shut before you left for work in the morning. You don't see anyone out on the street, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows.

He could even be watching you right now.

You shut your window, locking it a few times before you're certain it stays. You close the curtains and turn around to look at the haphazardly thrown flyers covering every inch of your bed and floor. Bucky has one is his hand, scowling at it like he can't figure out what it means.

You pick one up at your feet. It looks exactly the same as the one on the pizza box from last week. The only difference is that this one has a bright red circle on the date, October 25th. You shine the light from your gun on the flyers, they all have that date circled.

Why would the killer go through all that effort to do this?

Bucky grabs a handful of the flyers catching your attention. He puts a finger to his lips as a warning to keep quiet, before tapping on his ear and you put two and two together. The killer had been in your room long enough to plant these flyers and maybe something else. He could've planted something in here to listen in or keep watch.

The chill that runs through you has nothing to do with icy floor beneath your bare feet.

After another quick check you leave your apartment and head next door to his. He turns on the big light to get a better look at the flyer while you put away your gun.

"First thing in the morning I'll check your entire apartment to make sure that creep didn't plant any bugs or cameras," he promises, assuring you the killer won't get to have anymore access to you. You nod along, but all you can think about is what would have happened if you hadn't stayed at Bucky's place tonight.

"Do you know why he would leave dozens of these in your room? What is it for?" He asks, holding up the flyer. You blink at it, "I don't. It's a flyer for the autumn carnival they host in Queens." That only causes more confusion to appear on Bucky's face, "Have you mentioned wanting to go to someone?" You shake your head, "No, not that I can think of. The only time I've ever seen that flyer was when I was talking to John and Lamar the night the last victim was killed."

"You had this conversation at work?"

"Yes."

Bucky glances at the coffee table where your phone lies. He strides over to it and powers it off. "This guy has been watching you for months. He might have tapped your phone and your devices at work. I'll check your phone in the morning too and see if its been compromised." You're feeling sicker by the minute.

"He's starting to escalate, sending the pictures and then breaking into my room. He must have figured out I wasn't there tonight and that's why he left all those flyers instead," you conclude based on everything so far. Bucky's hand balls into a fist when he thinks of what could've happened if he hadn't offered for you to stay here tonight. It's not a thought he wants to dwell on when you're standing here with him, safe.

"You're close to getting him," he motions to the flyer in your hands, "he circled the twenty fifth. I have a feeling he'll be there that day, and he wants you to be there too." You came to the same conclusion. The Brooklyn Ripper wouldn't exert all this effort for nothing. It was clear he was inviting you on some sick twisted kind of date, one to end things once and for all.

For you or him.

"If that's what he wants then that's what he'll get. I'm sick of this guy and I'm ready to put an end to this." Nothing would stop you from being there on Saturday.

"You'll want to send in back up to monitor the entire perimeter. Maybe even an undercover operation on a larger scale," Bucky suggests, but you shoot that idea down instantly, "No. The FBI can't find out about this."

"Why?"

You gnaw on the inside of your lip, "There's been something nagging at me from the moment I saw those photos. Especially the one from the day of your birthday dinner," you walk over to the TV stand, the photos from the envelope are neatly stacked in one pile on top of it. You look through them, finding the one you're looking for and then handing it to Bucky.

"This picture is from March. The only people who knew I was assigned to this case were part of the FBI. The public knew the FBI took over the case, but only the agents at the bureau knew me and Laura had been assigned to it." Bucky takes the picture from your hand and goes down the same line of thought you have, "Then the killer might be working for the FBI. That would explain why he's so well at covering up evidence, and why he always seems to be five steps ahead of everything."

"I'll have to do this off the record without FBI involvement. At this point, I have to assume anyone at the bureau could be a suspect—even Fury," thinking about one of your colleagues being the killer makes your heart sink all the way to the bottom of your stomach. The way you could have passed them through the halls or had small talk with them in the break room, all meanwhile they were planning their next kill. Any innocent inquiry of your day or about the case could have been their way of taunting you. It was a hard pill to swallow.

"Then, I'll be going with you. You'll need the backup," he states, crossing his arms like he's ready to hear you protest, but you give him none. Instead, you give him a condition, "Only if you promise me you'll run if at any point your identity could be compromised." Catching the Brooklyn Ripper was important, but not worth jeopardizing Bucky's entire life over.

He takes a step closer to you, if he reached out he could touch you, "Not if it's between choosing saving my ass or yours. I'm choosing you every time."

"James."

"No," he echos your name like you did his, "If I get caught then let me face the consequences of my own decisions. I'm choosing to help you. I'm choosing to be there. It's my choice." His stance on this is unwavering and your voice comes out quieter than you wanted to when you reply, "I'm asking you to promise because I care about your safety too. I won't let this monster take away something else from me or anyone else. He's taken enough."

His eyes soften, and he takes another step to shorten the space between you. Yours instinctively rest on his chest, while his right hand raises to cup your face, "I know, doll, but that's something I can't promise, I'm sorry." You sigh, your head falling to his chest, the heat of his skin warming your own.

"Sometimes you can be really stubborn and it's frustrating."

He chuckles, "I can be stubborn? Have you met yourself?" Your reply is a pinch to his hip causing him to laugh again, "Someone's grouchy when they're tired. Go back to bed, doll. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight," you're about to dismiss yourself, finding yourself annoyed at him, but he stops you by gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him so you're close enough for him to plant a soft kiss on your head.

"Goodnight."

You're able to sleep just fine the rest of the night.

The next morning, Bucky checks every corner of your apartment, and fortunately finds the Brooklyn Ripper didn't plant anything anywhere. He cleans the mess the killer left behind, changing the lock on your bedroom window, and making a mental note to buy you new pots to replace the shattered ones. In the meantime, he salvaged what he could and gave the plants temporary homes in plastic cups.

Bucky had also scanned your phone and found it wasn't tapped, furthering the theory that the killer is one of your colleagues. You checked in on Laura while Bucky was busy in your apartment, feeling guilty you had forgotten about her this past week. As discreetly as you could, you tried to pry and figure out if she had received anything interesting in the mail too. You were relieved to find out it seemed the Brooklyn Ripper had only been after you this whole time.

Now you were busy preparing pancake batter for breakfast. Bucky came back by the time you were starting on your first pancake.

Bucky had to take a second when he saw you in his kitchen, morning sunlight highlighting your features to make you shine like an angel. You looked peaceful, happy for once like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.

He'd do anything to keep you like that.

When you notice him, your face lights up making his heart stutter in his chest. You call him over and you fall into easy conversation as he steps in to make some scrambled eggs beside you. The case eventually gets brought up. and Bucky asks you if there's anyone at the FBI you suspect.

"I can't really think of anyone. But there is this one weird guy in the tech department, Quentin Beck," your nose scrunches in disgust when you think of the guy, "He's known to be sleazy, always trying to get women drunk at office events to get them to sleep with him, and now that you mention it, my friend Carol, her access ID stopped working half the time, and the system recorded her ID accessing some files she hadn't."

Bucky stirs the eggs in the pan, "The magnetic stripe on the card could've been messed with. Someone like him would know how to duplicate her card." The idea of the killer being one of your coworkers solidifies itself more and more, getting harder to stomach every time. Bucky can see the shift in your demeanor, so he decides to change the subject.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he says softly, reaching in to the cupboards to grab another pan to start on the bacon.

"Hm?"

"To the day we first met."

You look down at the bubbling pancake and laugh, "That's right. When Alpine snuck into my apartment through the window and scared the living hell out of me. She caused me to burn a perfectly good pancake.

He scoffs, "She did not. She's innocent."

As if knowing she's being talked about, Alpine meows in the distance like she agrees with Bucky. You shake your head at both of them, "She is not! She even caused the fire alarm to go off. You were so grumpy when I told you what she had done."

"That's because you woke me up almost knocking my door down the way you we're banging on it," he justifies his attitude back then, remembering with a smirk, how flustered you were that day when he opened his door in only his boxers. In his defense, he really had just woken up.

"Now you're just exaggerating."

"I'm pretty sure there's still a dent on the door from that day."

You both laugh at his teasing. The memory of that day now fresh in your minds like it happened yesterday. When the laughter dies down to a comfortable silence, you can't seem to look away from each other. A fondness in both your expressions that makes time stand still. He leans into your space and your heart skips a beat. Your eyes fall to his lips for a split second and he notices. The corner of his lips tug into something coy—something magnetic—and when his arm reaches around you, you think you know what's about to happen next.

He uses his wooden spoon to turn the half burnt pancake in the pan.

"Try not to burn these pancakes too, doll," he winks at you, grinning cheekily like he knows exactly what he's doing. You gawk at him as he takes a piece of cooked bacon and eats it, continuing as normal. Even when his expression gave away just how much he was enjoying this.

Bucky will kiss you eventually. This isn't the frist time he's held back from doing so, but he knows the first kiss between you has to come from you. You haven't been as forward as he has with affection, and he doesn't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. So, he'll patiently wait for your move, and when you make it—he'll stop holding back and show you the kind of passion they write about in books.

The rest of the morning into the following days are filled with small moments of normalcy stuffed between extensive hours of planning, prepping, and collecting all the evidence of the case into one new theory. The one involving one of your colleagues being the killer. You end up having to lie to Fury and call into work sick with the flu to give you extra time to prepare for Saturday.

Fury is upset about this as he wanted you to be in there with him to question Valentina, but he wishes you a quick recovery. When they manage to get her on Friday over a parking ticket violation, John and Lamar are the ones to question her. And to no ones surprise, she lawyers up as soon as she's in police custody.

Her counsel? Alexander Pierce.

Fury is not happy about that at all.

The envelop filed pictures, and apartment break in proved to be a better lead than Valentina could have provided anyway, so you aren't mourning the loss of that lead.

In addition, there's one thing that Bucky discovered before Saturday comes that will prove to be crucial for Saturday's showdown.

He reviewed the security footage from Uncle Lou's restaurant from the night of the break in. The suspect was covered in a black outfit from head to toe—gloves and all—so Bucky wasn't able to get a good look at him. However, what he did catch was the suspect getting injured on his way down. As he raced down the fire escape, the drop down ladder got stuck, causing him to have to jump down to get away. The distance itself wasn't high enough to cause a serious injury, but it was high enough that he had to be careful with his landing.

Fortunately for you, he wasn't. It's clear from the security footage he doesn't make the landing right, and slips on his way down putting the most pressure on his right knee and shoulder to break his fall. When he gets up to leave, he clutches his shoulder and there's a limp when he attempts to run. The injuries are severe enough that they won't be healed by Saturday.

This discovery might have just saved your lives.

You hope the next time you go to an autumn carnival is under better circumstances than today. The sun is well past the horizon, with the full moon taking it's place in the sky. There's colorful fairy lights strung to illuminate every path, although the multicolored lights from the rides are enough to light up the entire carnival with its festive glow. Children's laughter blends in with attendee's screams of thrill that invite you to come in and see what the fun is all about.

You and Bucky are dressed in your average fall attire to blend in. To everyone else you look like a couple on a date. However, on the inside of your leather jacket you had your gun and badge neatly tucked into a pocket. As for Bucky's leather jacket, who knows what's hiding in it. Even after all this time, you don't know the White Wolf's preferred method of weaponry.

Your first plan of action is to roam the grounds, scan the place, and get familiar with it. Just enough to locate and block out the different sections: food, games, and rides.

Starting at the entrance, you are greeted by rows of booths with carnival games and smaller rides that taper out to the bigger ones on the outskirts of the carnival. In the middle is a large red and white striped tent with magician and clown shows playing at every hour. And at the very far end is a large family area filled with picnic tables to sit at by a large wall of food trucks and stations with endless amount of choices for food to pick from. All in all, the festival was large, but nicely organized in a way that you and Bucky could make a mental map of it the first time walking around.

Sometimes you thought you caught a glimpse of someone you recognized from work, falsely placing the association on a random stranger if you didn't look close enough. To say you were on edge is an understatement. Meanwhile, Bucky seems to be more composed than you. Even stopping to buy some cotton candy from one of the vendors. He offers to buy you one, but you decline, so Bucky resolves to sharing.

He looks like a kid with the boyish grin he's wearing as he takes a bite of the pink sugary fluff. "You sure are enjoying yourself," you tease him with mirth. He hums pleasantly at the taste, not hiding his delight.

"I'm blending in."

"Right."

"You should try it," he tears away another bit of fluff before offering some to you. You can't remember the last time you had cotton candy, so decide to take a page out of Bucky's book and enjoy yourself for a bit. You pull at the sticky treat, getting a nice little ball of fluff to try. The sugar strands melt in your mouth as soon as it hits your tongue.

"Good right?"

"It's pure sugar, Bucky. Of course its good," you giggle, and Bucky's grin only widens with your response. You're on the second round of walking through the carnival grounds, sharing the fluffy treat when Bucky spots you looking at some of the prizes offered in the carnival games.

"You want one?" He points to the prizes.

"A prize? No, they're like impossible to get. All those games are rigged." You don't think it's worth the money while Bucky looks at you like you've challenged him, "Nothing's impossible when you've got the right skills. Tell me which one you want and I'll get it." You don't take him seriously until he stops walking and waits for you to choose one.

So you stop and look around, there's your generic animal plush prizes, the franchise licensed ones, the ones that cater to kids, and the autumnal themed ones. You skim through them, only one of them catching your eye.

"The bat," you point to it, a plush prize for one of those balloon dart games.

He looks to where you're pointing, "The bat? The one with the grumpy face? You sure?"

"Yeah, it's cute, looks like you," at your comparison, Bucky's face falls and you can't help but laugh. He looks even more like the bat now.

"See, you've got the same expression and everything."

Bucky grumbles something under his breath about how there's no way you just described him being as cute as a bat. He honestly doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered.

You both head over to the game stall. He hands you the almost fully eaten cotton candy treat while he tells the game operator he'd like to play and points to the bat as the prize he wants to win. The operator explains to win the bat, Bucky has to at least pop two balloons in a row. While you do have faith that Bucky is excellent with his aim, you have no faith that this game is set up fairly.

And yet, you should never underestimate a man on a mission. Bucky is handed two darts and throws them back to back, popping two balloons in a row leaving the operator stunned. He gives the bat to Bucky and Bucky hands it to you proudly.

You hold it like it's something precious, the polyester smooth to the touch. No one's ever won you anything before. "I can't believe how fast you won that. Even the operator was shocked," you comment, squishing the bats face over how cute it is. He shrugs like it was nothing, adoring the joy it's brought to you, "Would never want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

Your heart does a little flutter at the term of endearment. As a thank you, you plant a quick, but sweet kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Buck." You don't miss the way his ears tinge pink, and he smiles at you like you're the only reason for his happiness, "Anytime, doll."

You take his hand, leading him down the rows of carnival games to keep looking around. Every step you take is a little lighter, almost forgetting why you were here in the first place.

By the time you make it back to the family area, Bucky excuses himself to take head to the bathroom quickly. You agree to wait for him by the funnel cake stand while you scan the area for something to eat. When Bucky is out of your sight, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

Someone's watching you.

You examine the droves of people around you, no one seems familiar to you, but you know you're not being paranoid, someone is definitely watching you. And they waited for you to be alone to make themselves known. It's not until your eyes dart back to the entrance of the family area that you spot him. Your first instinct is to smile at him, and you're about to wave him over, but something stops you.

He's not smiling back.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes rake over your body like he's trying to get one last good look at you.

And most chilling of all? When he turns to leave there's a limp to his step that confirms your worst fears.

It's John Walker. He's the Brooklyn Ripper.

In your state of shock, you lose him in the crowd.

Your feet move before you can reconsider your actions. It shouldn't make sense—John being a cold blood killer—it shouldn't, and yet it does. As you push through the crowd of people to catch up to him, all that races through your mind are the pieces of evidence connecting themselves to each other with red threads.

Carol's card, Hydra's connections, his dates that always seems to go bad, the many times he insisted helping you with the case, the frequent check ins to make sure you were doing okay really being excuses to see what you knew about the case, and the way he got upset when you found out about Valentina. Logically, it makes sense, but your heart is lagging behind on reconciling the reality that a friend of yours—someone you would have trusted with your life—was the killer you were searching for all along.

Your head whips around frantically as you try to locate John. Some of the people around you look at you strangely, you must look like such a sight right now.

Should you call Fury? Carol? Should you warn them? Calling in backup means surrounding this place with law enforcement and putting Bucky at risk. That might have to be on the back burner until there was no other choice. To accuse John of being the Brooklyn Ripper requires solid proof, and right now you have none. And it's not like you won much merit with Fury after disappointing him so many times.

Plus, you still don't have a lot of answers like his motive, why the first three victims were different, or what caused him to break. John was in the military before being recruited to the FBI, so he does fits some of the profile, but the rest? The rest are pieces of a puzzle you don't even know if they fit.

By the time you get out of the crowd you worry you've lost him, but the rambunctious shriek of clown laughter catches your attention. You manage to catch John heading inside a funhouse while the teenager who runs it yells at him. John has already made his way in by the time you make it to the clown head entrance.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't cut the line and you can't go in there right now." The teenager who is most likely not getting paid enough to deal with as many problems as he has tonight, stops you from going in. You reach into your jacket, taking out your badge and it flashing to him. He looks like a fish out of water.

You glance at the name on his tag, "Peter, is there anyone else in that funhouse besides the man that just walked in?" He shakes his head adamantly, "No ma'am. I'm not supposed to let anyone in while it's not fully operational. One of the generators went out, so no ones allowed inside until maintence is done fixing it." You're relieved to hear it'll only be John waiting for you inside.

"Okay, listen here, kid," he straightens up at your words, "The man that just went in there? He's a possible suspect, so I'll be going in to arrest him. How long does this funhouse take to get through?" Peter has an answer right away, "Twenty to thirty minutes depending on how fast you go."

You nod, making a mental note of that while reaching into one of your pockets and taking out your business card. "If I don't come out in twenty, you call this number," you point to the number below yours, the FBI tip line, "You give them my name and you tell them I need backup urgently. And absolutely under no circumstance do you let anyone go into this place, do you hear me?" He takes your card with a shaky hand, "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh and kid," you give him the grumpy bat Bucky won for you, "hold onto this for me. You guard this bat with everything you got or so help me I'll lock you up myself." Peter's eyes go wide in fear, "Yes ma'am—of course, ma'am." He hugs the bat so tightly to his body it's like he's trying to make it a part of him.

You face the funhouse, looking up at the enormous clown head, it's mouth an open wide entrance. Never having been inside a funhouse before, you have no idea what awaits you.

You step inside, pulling out your gun in perfect position as you walk forward. The clown's mouth leads to a neon spinning tunnel. The glow and the dark green swirls contrast with the blues and purples. They spin round and round, encircling you with the intention of making you dizzy as you walk across a metal platform. Peter mentioned there was only one generator out, so you had to hope which ever ones were fine powered enough things inside to help you get through the funhouse and catch John.

You have no idea how far in he is already, so you push onward. Switching on the tactical light on your gun to light your surroundings better. You're halfway through the metal platform when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know who it is, you know it's Bucky, but you don't have the time for a call. John could be watching you right now. So instead, you quickly take out your phone—ignoring the five texts Bucky sent you prior to calling you—and you send him your live location. He'll be able to find you in no time.

The tunnel isn't hard to get through, and it takes about a minute to complete. The end of it is the start of a mirror maze that seems to have been impacted by the power source. It shuffles through solids colors sporadically—some lasting longer than others. And unlike the tunnel, there's carnival music being played, but it's faint, like someone forgot to turn up the volume.

Your light glares distractingly against the mirrors, so you turn it off before heading in. The strip of lights on the ground are red, your figure reflecting on a myriad of prisms. In the distance there's something that's akin to a chorus of laughter, but you're not sure.

You keep your arms outstretched, using the barrel of your gun to tap on the space in front of you as you navigate the maze. You swipe your legs strategically to feel for what path to take. And it's in the midst of the lights changing from red to purple that you hear someone call out your name.

You whirl in the direction of the sound and three reflections of John stare back at you. You point your gun on them, but you can't tell which one is the real one. He disappears before you can find out.

"John!" You yell out, picking up your pace and accidentally bumping into a wall, "Tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not who I think you are!" You're demanding answers. Not from the killer, but from the man you thought was your friend.

The lights switch to blue.

"You know who I am. You've known me long enough to know." His voice sounds like it's somewhere to your left. You can't rely on your sight in here, so you'll have to rely on getting him to talk to follow his voice.

You bump into another wall, but you brush it off quickly. "I thought I did! A part of me still doesn't think it's true, but tell me John, how did you injure your foot?"

There's a loud metallic clink that echoes to your right—or was it your left?

"You're asking me, but you sound like you already know how," he sounds closer, the lights flashing to green, then yellow, then back to red in a matter of seconds. It's jarring.

"Do I?" Do you?

"You do," there's a sinister undertone to his words that you can't mistake for anything else. John is showing you his true colors and it's hitting you like a slap to the face.

You grow frustrated, whether it's at yourself for not seeing what was right in front of you or at him for betraying your trust, you can't tell. It's probably both.

"But why? How could you do that? Those women didn't deserve it!"

"They did! Those bitches got what they deserved and so will you!" The malice in his shout startles you as much as the crash following it does. It's easy to locate the source, one of the mirror panels was shattered with bits of glass all over the floor. In his anger, he must have punched it, there's a blood smear on the area of impact. That's good. The more he injures himself, the easier it'll be to take him down. You're not military trained like he is, so you'll take any advantage you can get.

The exit to the mirror maze is up ahead, the laughter getting louder the closer you get to it. Past the mirror maze is a room that looks straight out of a clown horror movie. There are big sacks of what looks like cotton candy, swinging back and forth forcibly like it's purpose were to knock you into the wall. They're sticky to the touch, and hung randomly from the ceiling like they were a maze of their own.

If that wasn't enough, there was a constant strobe light illuminating the room in harsh flashes while carnival music blasted in your ears with hounding waves of clown laughter. The room was designed to be disorienting and overstimulating, and you were feeling that and more right now.

You move throughout the room as best as you can, trying to doge every swinging obstacle, but still managing to get hit a few times. You can't tell if John is still in the room with you, so there's an extra edge of fear to every movement you see in the corner of your eyes.

Toward the end, the big puffs of cotton candy stubbornly stick to your body like they're trying to drag you back into the room. The music and laughter seem to be getting louder and the flashes of light more bold and frequent—it's throwing you every which way—you're losing your sense of direction.

When you step into the next room, you are welcomed by darkness. Your eyes are having a hard time adjusting after being battered by lights, the ghosts of them lingering behind your eyelids with every blink. The laughter and music are now faint and blocked out by the partition separating the rooms. It's so silent, the ringing in your ears is the loudest thing in here.

You switch the tactical light on your gun back on, the spotlight reveals a sight that has you grateful you didn't step further into the room.

The entire floor is a ball pit.

From up above you can't tell how deep it goes, but it's at least twenty to forty feet long—about your average pool size—or at least that's what your scattered mind comes up with. It's like a giant rainbow sea, one big enough to hide a man like John inside, and you have a gut feeling that while you were navigating the previous room, he hid somewhere in here—ready to catch you off guard.

You crouch down, slowly making your way inside the ball pit—feet first—knowing you had no choice but to go through it. Whatever twisted game John was playing with you, he was clearly enjoying. He couldn't outrun you and he has too many injuries to take you down as easily as he's used to with his previous victims. He needed to give himself the element of surprise to get the upper hand on you.

The light on your gun reflects off the obnoxious yellow colored walls surrounding the ball pit. You submerge yourself all the way in, the plastic balls surprisingly icy to the touch and coming up all the way to just below your chest.

As if the light wasn't enough for him to know your exact location, you couldn't take a step in the pit without making noise. There was no way you could navigate your way through this quietly. So you needed to do something to make him reveal his location, to make him slip and take away the advantage he has right now.

You swipe at the colorful balls at the surface, they bounce off each other like waves and land somewhere a couple feet ahead of you. You scan the pit with your light, eyes focusing hard on the slightest movement, but you get nothing.

You're going to have to do something riskier like provoke him. John was never good at taking criticism, and if you go at him hard then maybe that would be enough to rattle him and reveal himself.

You take a step forward, firmly gripping your gun, "You know, I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. You don't have many friends at the bureau, and even the ones you do don't like you. Carol always thought you were pathetic loser for never getting past the first date with someone. She was right."

Another step in the pit, another moment of silence.

"Is that why you killed them? Because they didn't give you enough attention?" you spit out the question, another harsh swipe of the plastic toys.

Nothing.

"You couldn't keep a date, so you had to make it everyone's problem? Not man enough to keep a woman by your side, are you?" you taunt him, but it's clearly not enough. You have to hit him somewhere it really hurts.

A few more steps in, you're getting nearer to the halfway point, "And to think you have a son," you scoff, "What is he going to think, John? What will he say when he's old enough to know about all of this and realizes his dad wasn't the hero he claimed to be—just some dead beat fucking loser?"

You think you hear a heavy exhale, but it was too quick and quiet, you honestly could have imagined it. Or maybe it was your own breathing that seems to get heavier by the minute.

Another scan with your flashlight, another step, "With such a poor excuse of a father and man that you are—no wonder Olivia divorced you."

That right there hit a nerve. Everything after you said that happened fast, like if you had blinked in that moment you would have missed it.

There was a slight rustle, a shift in the ball pit to the right of you. You whip your gun in that direction, the light barley catching his eyes from where he was hidden underneath. That slight glint in them visible from where you stood, was the last thing you saw before you felt your feet being swiped from under you.

You're being pulled down into the pit, hands scrambling to get a steady grip on something to pull you up from drowning. In the midst of being pulled you drop your gun, its location visible to you only by the light on it. You don't have time to panic, you push your way through the pit, swiping furiously to get to your gun. Then you feel John's hand grab your ankle and pull you harshly to drag you towards him. You kick back, but he's able to get you close enough to hook an arm around your waist. You kick and elbow him blindly, your lack of visibility affecting you in this moment.

You know his M.O., he'll be aiming for your neck.

You can't let him get that final grip or it's all over.

If there's one thing you're not about to do, is go down easily. You thrash harshly in his hold, ignoring any strain it causes on your body, only focusing on how it detriments him. You recall the locations of his injuries, and try your best to aim your attacks there, but you miss more than you'd like in the dark.

"You think you know everything don't you?" he grunts, scrambling to get a good grip with his injured hand, "A goody two shoes pretentious know it all, who's really just a good for nothing agent that couldn't tell her killer was sitting right next to her every day," his cold ridicule unfurls an insecurity in you like taking off the bandage on an unhealed wound. "I didn't even have to try that hard to gain your trust. Practically offering it to me on a silver platter just because I was fucking nice to you. You want pathetic? Honey, I'm looking at it," he snarls into your ear, shaking you, and it's enough to get you to lash out at him, your anger fueled. You grab a few balls from the pit, twisting in his hold to shove them in his face. They're plastic, so they won't do much damage, but it's enough to disorient him for a moment.

You use that moment to land a proper punch to his face. Unfortunately, it wasn't with your dominant hand, so it's not as powerful and you'll definitely be feeling it later, but it does the job. He barks out a curse, head thrown back and grip loosening slightly. You don't let him catch his breath, almost instantly after, taking as much force as you can muster to side kick him in his injured knee.

The pain knocks the wind out of him and he cries out, no longer being able to properly hold you. You push him forcibly, scrambling to locate your gun and lunging at it when you do. But he only takes a fraction of what you thought to recover, nails scraping at your shoe while you try to kick him off, throwing waves of the balls around you at him like it were water. He uses his good foot and shoulder to propel himself forward practically pouncing on you. You swipe at his face, but he gets a good grip on your hair, good enough to pull you up with him.

You cry out at the pain and in a matter of seconds, his right arm wraps around your neck, his elbow under your chin. His other hand cradles the back of your head, your entire life in his hands. Your hands shoot up to grab him arm and tug at his jacket, but he gives your neck a light squeeze as a warning for you to behave. You go still.

"You have been a pain in my ass since you started to go off script with this case," he grits in your ear, causing you to shiver. "You weren't supposed to do that, darling. You were always a good girl, followed the rules, did everything by the book before you got transferred—what changed?"

You're shaking, both out of ire and fear and he can feel it, his left hand petting your hair in his sick attempt to calm you , "It was never supposed to go down like this. As long as you were kept in the dark you were safe. When Fury connected the cases I thought I could finally pin this on one of those Hydra bastards once and for all now that I would know your every move."

He pulls in his elbow, tightening the grip on your neck for a second to cut off your blood flow. He lets go, laughing sardonically—he's toying with you—relishing the power he holds.

"You know, that Hydra case was supposed to be my big chance at a promotion. The kind that would get my wife to stop bitching about our finances. I worked my ass off for my wife and kid. I stayed back for longer shifts, putting in more hours in the field than any other agent. I did all the shit no one else wanted to, and for what? No matter what I did, it was never good enough." The hollowness in his voice speaks of years of this hatred building up in his heart.

"John, this isn't—" he doesn't let you finish, the hand that was cradling the back of your head now being slapped over your mouth. "You got your chance to talk honey, it's my turn."

He shakes his head, "You're all the same. Never appreciating me, never letting me get a word in," he goes off like a mad man, like he's lost it—letting out what's always been within. "Not my wife, handing me divorce papers on my fucking birthday. Not Valentina's pretentious girls who always charge extra for mediocre shit. Not Fury who calls me in at any goddamn hour because I'm so reliable, but can't even give me a pay raise. And not you, sabotaging my plan to connect the cases so that Hydra went down for it all and I'd finally get the promotion I'm owed. But that's okay, I'll use your death to bury the truth. When I tell Fury one of Hydra's lackeys killed you, and I witnessed it all bravely trying to save you, I'll get the recognition I deserve, " He says that last part with a heated hatred for you. For ruining the one and only chance he had to fulfill his purpose. And yet, being the one thing that can save it.

He's seething, you can practically feel the heat of his anger roll off of him in droves into you. His grip around your neck tightens and you let out a strangled gasp. You think this is it, he's finally going to do it. But he either backs out or something else happens, because he doesn't get to hold you long before you're falling forward into the pit.

The balls break your fall somewhat, and you're stumbling to get a grip on what's going on. You register John crying out, a bit of groans, and the sound the plastic clashing from flying everywhere from an obvious struggle. You don't know what's going, but the light coming from your gun gives you something to focus on. You crawl your way to it, feeling relieved to finally have it back in your hands. With shaky footing, you stand up, gun pointed to the struggle, and you could start crying at the sight of your savior.

It's Bucky. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black tactical mask, but you know those eyes anywhere. Neither of them are getting many hits in, but they're also not going completely unscathed either. Bucky seems to be wrangling John in like he's some wild animal losing control, while John scrambles to get rid of whoever is in his way. He might be injured, but he's still putting up a fight.

Their struggle is a blur and you can't get a clear hit to John without getting Bucky caught in it too. Your mind races on what your next move should be when suddenly, something shiny reflects in John's left hand. It's a knife, most likely the one he's used on every single victim and your heart sinks at the sight of it. You know he intends to use it on Bucky, so you have to act fast before it's too late. Thinking on your feet, you shoot a round at the wall that causes them both to stop at the sound. You take that opening to shoot John in his injured shoulder. He wails out a curse before falling backward into the pit. You ease knowing he won't be able to get out of here on his own.

The gunshots still ring in your ears, but you don't care, you're already trudging over to Bucky when John is out of sight. He does the same, rushing over to you like his life depends on it. You practically throw yourself on him in an embrace, and Bucky holds you so tightly you doubt he'll ever let go again.

"I told you not to do this again, doll. You had me thinking the worst," his voice is muffled by the mask, but you can hear the anguish in it. You start tearing up, your entire being finally catching up to what just went down. "I know, I'm sorry. He just appeared out of nowhere and I felt like if I didn't act right away I'd lose him."

The lights in the room turn back on, and you have to blink a few times to adjust to the difference. You both inspect each other at the same time in the light, desperate to find out if the other is okay. Bucky pretty much looks unscathed, but his eyes harden when he notices the redness and swelling on your hand from when you punched John.

"So that piece of shit, he's been the Brooklyn Ripper this whole time?" He says it like he's sorry he missed it. Like if he knew he would've gotten rid of John a long time ago for you.

He knew he never liked the guy for a reason.

"Yeah, he was, and I…I mean it's—it's all over," your energy depletes as the adrenaline starts to wear off. A hint of the pain that's coming your way from exerting yourself in the fight starts to show itself. You fall into his embrace again like it's the only thing you need right now to keep you from falling apart. He can feel the way you sag against him, and it makes him wish he would've gotten here sooner.

Your reunion is sadly cut short when the music is shut off from every room in the funhouse, letting you hear the sound of distant shouting and sirens. You pull away from Bucky, scurrying to push him out of the ball pit. He finds it amusing that you can barely make him budge, even more so when you glare at him.

"Do not fight me on this," you warn him, thinking back to the one thing he wouldn't promise, "This place is about to be filled with federal agents, and I'll be dammed if I lose you to this, James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper his full name so only he can hear it. It should intimidate him, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes his heart jump in his chest like it's trying to escape and run home to you.

"You won't, sweetheart. I'm with you till the end," he declares softly, eyes shimmering with the kind of promise only pure devotion knows the language of. It leaves you speechless, giving him the kind of look he would only dream of before. The thumping of boots quickly approaching gets louder, and he hesitantly makes a swift exit. His parting words sticking with you when Fury, along with a team of agents, make their way inside the room, guns drawn.

You know you must look a sight, disheveled and torn in the middle of a children's ball pit.

"What in the hell is going on?"

From the moment Fury asks this question you act on autopilot. Switching to a more detached version of yourself, the one you were used to dawning on before working on this case. A professional version of yourself that helps get you through the job.

Maria and Fury help you out of the ball pit, back into the room filled with puffs of cotton candy, expecting answers and yet not being prepared for the ones you give them.

You tell them about the stalking, the break in at your apartment, and how the suspect injured himself in the process. How the Brooklyn Ripper challenged you to be here. You tell them how John Walker exposed himself as the killer, and during a fierce struggle, revealed to you a lot of damning things. You start to connect the dots for them. The divorce, the connections between cases, how the evidence lined up, Carol's card, the stalking—reliving it all was making your head throb. There was still a lot to make sense of, but those are questions John would have to answer for.

John Walker, a man who chose his vices and then punished them for not filling the void inside him. Drowning in his own insecurities and who was now being carried out on a portable stretcher by a team of paramedics. He's lethargic, mumbling incoherences about a monster in a mask.

The Brooklyn Ripper doesn't seem so scary in this light.

"When I asked you to never do anything like this again, I meant it. This is the second time you've disobeyed me," Fury dawns on that disappointed father demeanor again, but this time you're too exhausted to care. "I know, but once there was a suspicion it could be anyone at the FBI, I had to do this alone."

He sighs, crossing his arms, "We'll have to get your story straight later for the report and the higher ups. You did a good job tonight, but if anyone asks, this was my idea." You hum displeased, but you know why he's saying that. He's saving you from getting fired. An insubordinate agent isn't one the bureau would want to keep around, and even Fury has someone he has to report to.

"Yeah, I get it."

Fury gives you a couple orders he's not letting you disobey tonight. He instructs you to go get checked by one of the paramedics, he'll send a member of the crime scene unit to get photographs of all your injuries for evidence, and then you're heading straight home once you're cleared. John's injuries will have him stay overnight at the hospital, and he might not be conscious for an interview until tomorrow. So for now, Fury will stay behind with the crime scene unit and collect as much evidence and witness statements as they can. You have no issue following these orders.

You walk out of the funhouse, every step feeling heavier than the last. You catch Peter's eye and he grins proudly, showing you the bat in his arms all safe and sound. You had almost forgotten about it.

"I kept it safe, just like I said I would." You grab the bat from his hands, feeling a strong urge to hold it close. "Thanks, kid. You keep my card, okay? If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He thanks you in wonder that you'd offer him that.

You don't know how you make it over to one of the ambulances, but eventually you're sitting on the edge of one with an EMT scoping out your injuries and giving you a routine check based on everything you told him happened. Just like Fury said, a crime scene unit member comes over to collect evidence of tonight's events. By the time they're all done taking pictures, swabbing, and prodding at you—you're at your limit.

You're eventually cleared to go home. You look at the chaos across the field, flashing colored lights from the law enforcement vehicles dance across the faces of the evacuating guests of the carnival, the people recording on their phones for social media, and the local news station reporters. All a symphony of chaos you want to run away from.

And then in the field approaching you is your solace and refuge all in one.

"I want to go home," you whisper, and Bucky reaches his hand out for you to take. "Come on then, let's go home," he says softly while you take his hand, the gentleness in which he holds you is such a contrast to the stories the scars on his hand tell. You run your thumb over them absentmindedly, causing Bucky to glance at you and notice something.

"I'm glad to see the bat made it out okay," he comments to lighten the mood. You look down at it, "The kid managing the line kept it safe for me. I knew things would get rough in there with John, so I had to make sure he was safe. I mean, John even gave you a hard time," you point out and Bucky scoffs like you insulted him, "Sweetheart, make no mistake, that was me going easy on him. I could've killed him for laying a hand on you." You frown, not understanding why Bucky would hold back, putting himself on the line if he could have ended things quicker.

His car is in sight when he notices your confusion, "I went easy on him because if I hadn't there would be a lot of injuries you wouldn't have been able to explain and you would've gotten in trouble. John is only alive for your sake." The sincereness in his tone should frighten you, but it doesn't. Not when you think back to the way John had intended to fatally wound Bucky with the knife. If John had been successful, would you have been able to stop yourself from pulling the trigger?

You'll never know for sure, but your heart knows what you would've done.

Bucky doesn't expect you to say anything, but the way you lean into his side before you reach his car is enough to assure him he didn't scare you off. Things had been easier between you before this case. He was the one who was hard to get close to at first, who had too many shadows of his past haunting him. And yet, you never gave up on him even when he wasn't ready or willing to open up to you. So when the tables turned, he always tried to be the light in the dark you had been for him, and patiently waiting for the moment you would let yourself live again.

He hopes you can find yourselves back to that place now that it's all over.

Bucky opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and then heading over to the driver's seat. He starts the car in no time, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot while the other reaches over to keep your hand in his.

You don't let go.

Bucky's apartment is starting to feel more like home to you than your own. You're staying there tonight, of course. Neither of you had to mention it to know it was happening.

Bucky leads you to his bedroom. You sit on his bed putting the bat beside you on the nightstand. He heads over to his dresser, taking out a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt for you to change into. He puts them next to you on the bed before grabbing a pair of black sweatpants from his dresser and stepping out of the room to give you privacy.

You barely make it past shrugging off your jacket when your starts to protest. It's the only thing you manage to take off when attempting to lift your shirt over your head, burns your skin with an intense ache. Every movement you make suddenly feels like you need double the strength and effort to do, as if you had been hit by a truck.

When Bucky comes back into the room he's half surprised to see you still haven't changed clothes, until he sees the way you wince when turning to face him, and a somber expression overtakes him. He walks over to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, "Want me to help?"

"Yes."

Bucky gently, and very carefully, helps you out of your clothes, the act intimate in a way only soulmates would know. He softly brushes past parts of your body that are tender and hold signs of how hard you fought before he got there. He swallows hard, looking at the signs like they've stung him.

"Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." It's written all over his face.

"I can't help it. I'll always blame myself for stuff like this." You sit with the weight of that as he finishes helping you get into his clothes. His dog tags dangle from his bare chest when he tucks you into bed.

You grab his wrist before he can leave, "Stay with me."

"Always."

Bucky turns off the lights, joining you on the bed and pulling you into him. You lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. You feel like you can finally breathe—like you're finally allowed to. And then it all hits you suddenly at once, everything you've been holding back from tonight crashing full force into you.

Bucky can feel the shift in you, the way you start to tremble in his arms before you let out the first sniffle. His hand brushes up to wipe a tear away, whispering your name like an oath in the dark. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe. I got you, doll. I got you. You can let it out." The soft spoken assurance of his words release the floodgates. Your sniffles turning into sobs as you cry into his chest. He holds you close, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and whispering sweet nothings into your ear that come out as an I love you and I'm here in more ways than one.

Time seems to drag on while all your emotions drain out of you. You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but when you finally lift your head from his chest, you feel a familiar longing ache in your chest. You lean into him silently asking for something you've both wanted for a long time. He looks into your eyes as if searching for an answer, and all he finds is a plea that falls between an I love you and I need you.

In the end, you don't know who kisses who first. It's pure and ardent all in one—like it could consume you both if you let it—getting lost in a haze that's all you and him. A kiss that promises the kind of future you've been looking for all you life, but is your salvation for now. Something to tether you to this world and remind you there's still good in it. Nothing outside matter right now except what finally falling into place between you now.

You pull away to catch your breath, snuggling into his chest to listen to the beat of his heart—a beautiful lullaby. He feels you melt into his arms, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Rest now, you deserve it." he whispers of something far more then just tonight, and it doesn't take long after that for you to fall asleep.

There is no rest for the wicked or those who live to stop it, but tonight, you may rest.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

a/n: I always appreciate any kind of interaction, but I would really love to know your thoughts on this one! 🫶🏼 Did you guess who are killer was? 👀

Thank you all again for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

lovelies who asked to be tagged: @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

[rosesaints]

reckless fever, lover girl!

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now. word count: 10.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!

The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.

No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—

She’s in your arms.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”

[chaniyahs]

I’ve just been fucking ruined by the way. You just single-handedly carried my baby-craving period hormones to victory. I hope you’re happy.

[chaniyahs]

I genuinely can’t stop thinking about how a slab of concrete almost crushed three super soldiers. I no shit sat in that theater looking back and forth from the screen to my boyfriend in fucking disbelief. Why did nobody think oh maybe a super soldier would be fine pushing this relatively baby sized rock away. Bucky yanked an armored, weaponized tank with one arm literally less than an hour before that.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[chaniyahs]

This one is a fave and incredibly edible (っ˘ڡ˘ς)

[chaniyahs]

Human

Bucky Barnes x undercover!reader

w.c: ~3.5k

summary: Stalking your best friend is sort of driving a wrench in your super secret mission. Who would have thought.

tags & warnings: (in no particular order) suggestive content. adult themes. making out. fem presenting reader (heels, stockings). race neutral reader! Reader is a little creepy in the beginning ngl. implied self-slut shaming. self-harm in the form of sex that doesn't happen. hurt/comfort. reader is kind of a drama queen. so is Bucky. no use of y/n. not proofread.

a.n: Hi, nice to meet you. This is just a little something while I work on something longer. Thank you for reading! Means so much. Can't promise I'm a steady writer, as I'm a freak college student with a job and many time-consuming hobbies. But I hope I can drop by sometimes and provide something for others to enjoy, or at least share my favorite pieces. The formatting of this post will probably change as I figure out what I want it to look like. Didn't think that far ahead. Okay, thank you bye ha.

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IT'S BEEN SIX MONTHS since Bucky Barnes has last seen you, and roughly three days since you’ve last seen him.

The first time was coincidental. You were in the backseat of a tinted black SUV. Stocking-clad legs had crossed one over the other, the airborne heel dangled haphazardly off your foot, though it was nothing if not intentional. The way the man sat across from you dug his gaze into your flesh almost made it burn with revulsion, but it was one of many testaments to your intentions. You could tell he propped up his left hand on purpose, an awkward position to flash his tacky, yet no doubt expensive, watch in your face to impress you. Your intention. Even the enthusiastic turn of his laptop towards you as he recklessly explained the backgrounds and products of his weapon suppliers; just as you intended.

You'd stored away many of the names in your head. Having a good memory was an important part of your training. The rest of it, though, began to coalesce into background noise. This one had a way of going off on tangents in some way that highlighted his wealth. He wasn't the target by any sense of the word, just a dirty stepping stone, a meager means to an arms-dealer end, and so you were less diligent than you probably should have been. Not that he cared -- you're sure he doesn't think you have much of a brain to listen too long anyway, so you didn't bother to.

Amid your boredom, you'd tilted your head to lean against your hand, elbow digging into the side of the car. Catching a glimpse of the outside world behind him was bittersweet. Your nights were now spent pretending to be interested in one of many forgettable corrupt rich men in the world instead of out there doing anything else. You watched longingly as the people sped by: a group of girls chasing each other and giggling in sparkly skirts, an arguing couple trying to be inconspicuous, a dog half-leading and half-dragging a skinny man along, a new father pushing his baby's stroller as far away from the road as the sidewalk would allow, a leather-gloved hand running through familiar brown locks to drive them away from a familiar stubbled face-

You sat up suddenly. The airborne heel slipped back snug onto your foot as it stabbed into the ground, breath slowing to what felt like a complete halt; heart seized in its beating with a well-known comfort that lied just outside the van. Your eyes followed him as the car raced by, head turning to see him disappear out the back window. Time stops just for you two when you swear he locks eyes with you, but you realize it's probably disbelief at the speed the driver is going on such a crowded street, as this car is far past the legal amount of window tint to be able to see in to. Just as it started, the moment is gone, and he's disappeared into the downtown bustle.

The man you're with doesn't even notice anything changed.

That was roughly a month ago, and it's become something of a problem ever since.

You were meant to be deep undercover, four months of lying and flirting and manipulating undercover. Despite this, in between emotionally draining performances, you'd sneak out to linger around spots you knew he frequented. One of your favorites was the bakery some blocks away from the compound, where he'd sit at the table next to the window and play with the chair that used to be where you sat. Like you were still there, rambling about how unfair the daily New York Times Connection answers were. The only thing new was that he'd swipe any crumbs into a leftover napkin when he got up to leave. That was what you did. Then he'd let his eyes linger on the cold, empty chair and leave, and a couple of minutes later, you'd go in and occupy the same table. On your side.

Weeks of seeing Bucky left you more disheveled than when you began. What started as a one-time thing to get out of your system became a necessity, engrained into your routine and the highlight of your monotonous days. You'd even started to get as reckless as you dared to, wandering closer and closer until this Wednesday when his nose twitched from the familiar scent of you, and you had to duck behind a corner to avoid his searching. You can't help but realize how absolutely out of your mind this op has made you. Pretty much stalking your closest friend. How much lower could you get. Yet you don't stop. Part of you wants him to catch you just once, and so that Friday, you're in his room in the compound while he's out with Sam and Steve, just like he was the first night you saw him.

It hasn't changed much at all. It was still uncannily clean, barely signs that it's lived in if not for the couple of framed pictures on the bedside table. One is of Bucky, Sam, and Steve. Another is of a white cat, one you recognize from a nearby shelter that you, Bucky, and Sam had been to a couple of times. He might have finally got her in your absence, the snowy baby that had captured his heart with her insistence on wrapping herself around his metal arm. Cute. The third, a group picture of everybody in the compound. Towards the front left sat you and Bucky, side by side, your bright smile next to his more straight yet amused expression. Instead of sitting up by the wall, this one laid face up, closer to his pillow. You decide to spare yourself and not think too much into that.

You're about to leave, but something from his bathroom beckons you. Tired fingers drag along his wall as you enter, feeling in the dark for the light switch. When the room finally erupts with light, your gaze is dragged towards the only difference in the room; a folded picture tucked into the mirror's frame, and when you pluck it out to inspect it, its the picture Natasha had taken of you two in some corner of the Quinjet, leaned up against each other. You remembered that day.

Multiple dead-end HYDRA bases had left everyone depleted and disappointed. It had taken Bucky aback when you searched him out and sunk to the floor next to him, filling the quiet he'd found for himself with nothing but your soft breath. At some point, your head lulled to the side, and he began to suggest you go to your sleeping quarters if you're tired, but he can feel your breath deepen, and your weight depend completely on his shoulder, and he can't bring himself to say anything. He would not be able to sleep, certainly not as easily as you had, but in your calming presence he could relax, if momentarily. He could even, remarkably, close his eyes without seeing the bloodstains of his past, and so he did. He listened to the light footsteps that approached without surging up in defense of a perceived attack, though he still opened his eyes again to see Natasha grinning with her phone out, shaking her head.

"Clint owes me $10 now."

There's a small ripped piece of what you assume to be printing paper inside the fold as well, with words written in Nat's handwriting. A date. The exact date you were supposed to be finished with your op, to uphold the timeline of taking down the arms dealer. You knew Nat had a way of knowing things that she should not have; it was her livelihood, but you could only dream of why she'd share it with Bucky. Her teasing of the friendship between you two? If so, certainly spurred on by Tony or Yelena or Sam. Or -- surely not -- had he asked?

A vibration from your phone breaks you out of your thoughts, and glancing at the lock screen, you realize you've spent much longer reminiscing than expected. Like you were never there, you disappeared out the window you came from.

The next week progresses the same. You become somebody else entirely, loosing all parts of yourself, until those fleeting chances at normalcy tempt you again. Eve's apple, your newfound Achilles heel. And when the next Friday rolls around, your heart beats wildly against the confines of your ribcage, itching to claw it open and escape while you climb up towards his window once more. When you finally haul yourself in, you're sure your heart has succeeded at tearing your chest open and abandoning the bloody remains to drop to the floor because you're staring at stormy blue, furrowed eyes instead of an empty room.

The only thing you can manage to do after what feels like an eternity of eye contact is to turn back towards the window. You hear a huff and the scuffle of him standing from the chair he was sitting on, dragged across the room to face the window.

"Don't." His gruff voice calls out, and you almost feel a sense of pleading behind it, but there's not nearly enough emotion to diagnose that.

Your hands grow clammy, and you're suddenly aware of everything: the wind rushing past your face from the night breeze, the way your black jacket hugs you too tightly now, the speeding of your breath, but still you turn back to him in anticipation.

For another eternity, he stares at you, taking in your entire form and then tugging his eye line back up to yours, until finally, finally, he sits again and speaks.

"What are you doing here?" The words are cold and distant and rip the moisture from your mouth. Any response you could have had dies in your throat. You break eye contact with him and lower yourself to sit on the ground in front of the window. After a minute of silence, his voice rings out again, forcing your gaze up with another, louder, "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," You finally shake your head, throat already burning with shame and eyes threatening to spill over with guilt, "I miss you. I miss us."

Bucky's eyes soften momentarily, but he looks away, and now you're wondering if you imagined it. He tries not to let you see how that word affected him: "us."

"You could ruin your entire mission." He practically mutters it, yet it's the loudest thing you've heard in months. He's completely right. You've dedicated many of your personal resources to making sure your escapades stay secret, but what if you weren't careful enough?

"I could."

"And for what?"

"You." The word tumbles out before you can catch it, and his eyes meet yours again. He purses his lips and rolls them out again, sliding his metal hand through his hair like the night you first saw him.

"Me?" He repeats it under his breath again, more to himself than you. Before you can respond, he pipes up again. "How long?"

You shake your head this time, "I was only in here once. Last week."

Another beat of silence, then, as if reading your mind, he answers your question, "You were wearing the scent you always wear. I know it," a pause, "and you left the bathroom light on."

That makes you wince. Reckless. Stupid. Kind of deserved. Then again, that was what you wanted, right? To get caught? The longer you writhe under his unwavering stare, the more you think it’s absolutely not what you wanted. He doesn't even let you hang your head in humiliation for long.

"You've been around other times too?" He poses it as a question, but it's more a confirmation that he wasn't going crazy that day he smelled you. You know he doesn't need your answer, and instead, you try to answer his question of why again.

"I don't think I can do this without you."

"That's bullshit." He scoffs, leaning down to rest his elbows on his knees while his hands hang between his legs. "You've done it a million times before."

The bluntness of his words make a playground of your already bloodied heart. "I have."

He doesn't respond to this one, only leans back in the chair once more, and you know all this movement comes from a place of frustration. You don't let him keep hammering you with questions before you speak again.

"I know who I am now, Bucky," you trail off as a blur of unoriginal recent months curse your brain, "I did. With you. I don't out there."

He quirks an eyebrow up slightly, allowing quiet room for you to gather yourself and continue.

"I am a really hot assistant."

He grunts in sarcastic agreement, but keeps his composure. As he does. Still staring. Still silence.

"It doesn't matter if it's the government or Fury or the millionth rich asshole, Buck. I am a piece of meat-"

To this, he sits up straight and furrows his eyebrows again, rushing to correct you. He doesn't bother to govern his tone this time. "No, you're good at your job. You're luring the arms dealer out. You're going to save hundreds of thousands of people-"

"Bait is still just meat, no?" You're looking down now, in your head, barely registering when Bucky sinks out of his chair and towards you. The call of your name goes completely over your head; the second call goes in one ear and out the other, until finally, on the third exasperated call of your name, he uses his finger to softly guide your head back towards him. At last, recognition seizes your face as you realize he's saying your name, and the expression makes him painfully aware that you didn't even respond to your own name;

you'd nearly forgotten your own name.

The toll of the mission that you'd been holding back for months suddenly breaks free, surging through you like hurricane flood waters, bubbling up and filling your eyes once more. Bucky only allows for one sniffle before he pushes you by the back of your head into his chest, legs caging around you, shielding you from the world with broad, hunched shoulders and wrapped arms. Just like this, he allows you to let out all your sorrows into his fitted black shirt while he holds you, staring out into the night.

When you've finally gotten past the fit of tears, you push gently on his chest. He gets the hint and releases his hold on you, hands floating away from the back of your head and to either side of your face. He can barely stand to see you so broken like this, but holds your reddened gaze intently, waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to break the quiet, and you do.

"I didn't.. feel like that often. Before you. Human."

He uses a thumb to swipe away a stray tear.

Your expression hardens in determination, and you grasp his wrists with your hands. "I need you to make me feel human again, Jamie."

Jamie.

You've only called him that once before, bringing him down from a rough mental snap that threatened to regress him back into the winter soldier. He sucks in a breath and uses his flesh hand to massage your temple gently. He watches intently as you lean into the action. "You need me?" He's back to muttering.

"I need you, Jamie."

Softly, as if scared to spook a wild deer, he brings your face into his, lips ghosting over yours. He only looks up momentarily to search for any indecision in your eyes, and when he finds nothing but pure need, he guides his mouth to yours.

At first, he's feigning innocence, pressing slow and sweet into you. His flesh thumb draws taut circles in your cheek, metal hand skimming the side of your face and curling itself around the back of your neck. Testing the waters. Then your lips part to moan softly into him; he swallows it, and suddenly, the water is scorching his entire body, overrunning his thoughts. His tongue darts out desperately, pushing past your teeth and savoring your taste. He swells up to his knees, drawing your face up and looming over your sitting form in want. Your hands paw at his still damp shirt wildly, tracing the defined curves and muscles under it.

As he explores your mouth and caresses the back of your head, your finger painting descends lower and lower. The curves take a sudden dive, and you follow them, breathless, fueled with a similar scorching fire to his boiling flood, down the low 'v' of his torso, until his hands leave your head and grab your wrists, stopping them in place. You freeze in fear, looking up at him in confusion. You've misunderstood him, somehow. Surely, you think, you've ruined your relationship with the only thing grounding you, but he runs a metal thumb over your lower lip and chuckles lowly. "You're cute, but don't pout, please."

You're still regaining your breath, chasing the warmth of his hand rapidly leaving. Pouting is in your nature. Natasha hates it when you do it, you and Yelena. Your voice quivers slightly as you move to stand up, fingers finding comfort in picking at one another. "I don't understand."

He looks up at you from his knees, blowing stoutly out his nose. You can't help but admire him like this; out of breath, hair messy and casting handsome shadows down his face, his muscles bulging under his jeans as he remains on his knees for you. One hand reaches out from their place on his thigh, slithering around the back of your own and pulling gently until you step forward voluntarily. The same hand dips under your jacket and rises it just enough so that the skin under is exposed to his mouth, where he plants a gentle kiss. His lips linger at the junction between your lower stomach and hip, eyes fluttering closed and then reopening to peer up at you through his downturned lashes. Finally, he uses your hips as means of steadying himself as he stands.

"Fucking me isn't what will make you human, doll." It's under his breath, but tunnels into your being deeply.

You look down in shame, but can't dwell in it for more than a second before he plants a chaste but just as gentle kiss to your lowered forehead. Then his hand shoots up and he flicks the same spot.

You drive your neck back, head following, and go to rub the spot. "Ow? What the fuck."

He laughs again, louder and less intimately this time, and turns away from you to move to his drawer. You watch with your hand on your forehead as he digs through it, pulling things out every few moves: sweatpants, a sweater, workout shorts. He peels his jeans off casually, only giving you a second to sheepishly admit the definition in his legs to memory before he's replacing the jeans with his sweatpants. The corner of his mouth quirks up when he turns back around, throwing the other two items towards you. You catch them dumbfounded as he takes long strides towards his door, opening it to reveal a small snowflake of a kitten. She meows loudly, like she was waiting a long time to be let in, and struts past him, and Bucky scoffs in response, "Yeah, whatever, Alpine. Be nice."

"You adopted her." Your gaze sinks down to watch her kittenish investigation of you.

He hums in affirmation, still staring down at Alpine as she begins to meow repeatedly in recognition. His voice is low and introspective. "Reminded me of you. We both missed you." He observes her rub up against your leg for a beat longer, then looks back up at you. "Change and get comfy on the bed. Movie night."

He's so agonizingly casual about it all. Doesn't even flinch when you let out a confused, strangled noise in response. He only drives the door open more and begins to disappear around the corner, his voice getting louder to counteract his retreat. "I'm getting snacks. Pick something. No war movies." It's said blandly, but you know it's supposed to make you laugh, and you can see his proud grin in your mind when you do.

This sort of ruins all the dramatic yearning you've been doing, but you suppose you don't mind too much. You'll be back to playing a ditsy someone tomorrow, but tonight, you allow Bucky to serve as your personal lighthouse, guiding you back to your own shore; and you allow Alpine to step on your chest as you situate yourself under the covers, even if the weight of her small paws feel like two elephants crushing your ribs.

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[artficlly]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

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

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

Word Count: 9.1k

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

main masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Correct.”

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

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

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

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

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

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

So you steeled yourself.

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

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

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

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

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

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

God, you were pathetic.

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

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

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

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

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

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

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

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

“You seem off.”

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

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

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

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

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

Maybe then he’d be yours.

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

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

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

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

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

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

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

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

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

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

Of course he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

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

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

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

“Only going to get longer.”

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

And then your brain stopped working.

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

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

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need a hand?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,”

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

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

He was savouring it.

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

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

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

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

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

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

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

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

And then he was gone.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

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

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

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

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

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

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

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

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

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

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

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

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

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

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

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

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

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

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

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

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

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

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

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

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

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

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

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

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

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

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

“Bucky…”

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

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

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

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

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

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

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

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

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

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

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

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

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

And then, his mouth was on you.

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

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

Bzzzzt.

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

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

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

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

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

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

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

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

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

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

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

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

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

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

You shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nearly combusted on the spot.

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

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

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

---

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[chaniyahs]

Right. So.

[chaniyahs]

The plan 2day,, w,,wri-write??? :O

[chaniyahs]

I won’t apologize, it’s your fault for believing it