Salt in the Blood | Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: You live in a quiet fishing town far from the mess of politics, superheroes, and global conflicts. At least, you did, until a stranger with sharp eyes, a metal arm, and a haunted look shows up at your dock one evening, asking for a boat.
MCU Timeline : Pre/Early The Falcon and The Winter Soldier
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: Blood, stitches, gunshot wounds, general violence, brief descriptions of open ocean waters
Word Count: 9.1k
Author’s Note: this is something i dug out of the depths of my google drive—started writing it back when TFATWS was airing and then... never touched it again. until now. figured it was time to finally finish it! also, yes, there is indeed a sam wilson cameo at the end. seemed fitting.
The air smelled like salt and rain.
Not fresh rain—nothing that clean. The kind of rain that had been waiting offshore all day, heavy and humid, pressing against the horizon like it had nowhere better to be. It clung to your skin, thick with the scent of rotting seaweed, damp wood, and the unmistakable brine of the Atlantic. The tide was rolling in slow tonight, dragging long fingers of foam up onto the shore before pulling back again.
It was late, or maybe just early enough to be something in between. The docks were quiet. No tourists, no weekend fishermen, no drunk locals stumbling out of the Rusty Gull looking to piss into the harbor. Just the occasional sway of a boat knocking against its mooring, the distant cry of a gull that hadn’t realized it was too dark to hunt, and the faint hum of the broken radio drifting from the bait shop down the way.
Your town didn’t have much in the way of industry anymore—hadn’t since the last cannery shut down five years back. Now, it was all small-time charters, independent boats, and the kind of people who stuck around because they didn’t have anywhere else to go. That was fine. You liked it that way. You’d come here looking for quiet, and for the most part, you’d found it.
You nudged a stray coil of rope with the toe of your boot, then crouched down to check the lines. The wood of the dock was damp, slick from the mist rolling in off the water, and the lantern you’d set beside you barely cut through the gloom. The boat rocked gently under your hands as you double-checked the knots—not that you needed to. You could tie these blindfolded by now.
A low murmur of thunder rumbled somewhere out past the breakers, distant but coming closer. Another hour, maybe two, and the storm would hit. Not enough to do any damage, but enough to make the air thick, the ocean restless.
You sighed, stretching your shoulders as you stood. Your shift had ended an hour ago, but it wasn’t like you had anywhere better to be. The docks were empty, and you liked them that way.
And then—footsteps.
Not heavy. Not hurried. Just the slow, deliberate kind, the kind that didn’t belong to someone who had a reason to be here this late. The hair at the back of your neck prickled, your fingers still curled loosely around the rope you’d been tying off.
The footsteps stopped—just at the edge of the dock. You glanced over your shoulder.
A man stood there, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. The low glow of the lantern threw shadows over his face, but you could see the sharp angles of it, the set of his jaw, the way his mouth was pressed into something just shy of a frown.
A stranger.
Which was odd. You didn’t get strangers here.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the creak of the dock shifting under your weight, the distant slap of water against the pilings. He stood just outside the reach of the lantern’s glow, watching you in a way that felt more like waiting.
“Bit late for a stroll,” you said finally.
His head tipped slightly, like he was considering that. “Yeah.”
Not much of an answer.
You turned fully now, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “You lost?”
“No.”
That didn’t sound like the truth, but it also didn’t sound like a lie. His voice was low, steady, just gravelly enough to suggest exhaustion more than anything else. He shifted slightly, glancing out over the water before looking back at you.
“I need a boat.”
That gave you pause.
You blinked at him, then let your gaze flick down the dock. A dozen vessels sat bobbing in the gentle current, most tied up for the night, a few still prepped for morning runs. There was no shortage of boats—but there was a shortage of reasons why someone would come here in the middle of the night asking for one.
Something in your gut pulled tight.
“You a fisherman?” you asked.
“No.”
“You with the Coast Guard?”
“No.”
You arched a brow. “Then why do you need a boat?”
The stranger was quiet for a beat. Then he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “You always ask this many questions?”
“You always avoid answering them?”
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite amusement. More like resignation. His gaze flicked past you, scanning the boats again, like he was making mental calculations.
You watched him carefully. It wasn’t just the fact that he was here at this hour, or the way he carried himself—tense, coiled, like something waiting for an excuse to snap. It was something else, something quieter.
Like he was running from something.
Or someone.
“Look,” you said, keeping your voice even, “this isn’t exactly a rental dock. If you want a boat, you need to go through the right channels. Permits, all that.”
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “Don’t have time for that.”
Your pulse kicked up just slightly. “That a problem you want to elaborate on?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Another pause.
He took a step forward, just enough for the lantern to catch the edge of his face. The cut of his cheekbone, the faint shadow of stubble, the cropped hair. The glint of metal where his left arm should’ve been.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew who he was.
James Buchanan Barnes.
The Winter Soldier.
The realization hit like a riptide, cold and fast. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be anywhere near here. His face had been all over the news too many times, his name dragged through too many histories for you not to recognize him.
And now he was standing on your dock, asking for a boat.
And from the look in his eyes, he already knew you’d figured it out.
The dock creaked beneath your boots as you shifted your weight, your stomach still sinking in cold, briny dread. The tide had turned, the slow, rolling waves slapping against the pilings in time with the pulse in your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he.
The lantern swayed in the wind, casting shadows that stretched and curled across his face, catching in the sharp line of his jaw, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Looked like if he stopped moving, even for a second, something might catch up to him.
The wind tugged at your jacket, damp with salt spray. You let the moment stretch, the distant rumble of the storm pressing low against the sky. A part of you wanted to turn him away, to let him walk into the night and leave this whole thing behind.
But the other part—the part that had seen what desperate men looked like—knew he had nowhere else to go.
You swallowed hard and licked the salt from your lips. You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through your hair before gesturing toward the nearest boat. “I don’t loan out boats to strangers.”
His expression didn’t change. “Figured.”
“But,” you continued, stepping closer, watching for any signs of tension in his stance, “if I were planning to take my boat past the breakers for a few hours—no questions asked, no paperwork filed, just disappearing off the grid for a bit—I’d probably want someone to keep an eye on the wheel.”
A beat of silence.
His gaze flicked to the boat, then back to you. Considering.
“You saying I got a ride?” His voice was careful, like he didn’t want to put weight on the idea before it was solid.
You exhaled sharply. “I’m saying if you want to go, you’re going with me.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not relief. Not gratitude.
Something closer to understanding.
It was a risk. A stupid one. But if he was running from something, if someone else was looking for him, you’d rather he be with you than taking off in the only working boat at the dock with no idea what the hell he was doing. And if someone was looking for him, you sure as hell didn’t want to be standing around the docks when they showed up.
And besides, you weren’t convinced he wasn’t bleeding.
“Storm’s rolling in,” you pointed out, nodding toward the horizon. “You afraid of a little rough water?”
His mouth twitched, something like amusement, but not quite.
“No,” he muttered, glancing back toward the town, toward whatever he was running from. “Afraid of what’s behind me.”
That, more than anything, made up your mind.
You let out a slow breath, then turned toward the boat, stepping onto the slick, creaking deck. “Then let’s go.”
The sea was restless.
Beyond the glow of the dock lights, the water stretched out into an abyss of shifting black, its surface rippling under the weight of an oncoming storm. The tide had pulled in deeper now, and with it came the scent of churned brine and something heavier, something electric. You weren’t worried—not yet. You’d been through worse.
The engine rumbled beneath your feet as you guided the boat past the harbor mouth, the shoreline fading behind you. The town’s dim glow flickered like a memory, swallowed by the dark. The lantern you’d brought cast just enough light to catch the silhouette of the man standing near the bow, his frame cutting sharp against the night.
Bucky hadn’t spoken much since you left the dock.
Not that you’d expected him to.
You watched him through the dim light as he braced himself against the gentle sway of the boat, his weight shifting with the water like it was instinct. He had pulled his jacket tighter against the spray, the collar popped just enough to shield part of his face. From what, you weren’t sure. The wind, the cold, the world. Maybe all of it.
He was watching the horizon, like if he let his guard down, something might rise out of the deep and swallow him whole.
You turned your gaze back to the water, adjusting the throttle as you cut a steady path toward open sea. There were no destinations this far out, nothing but empty miles and the promise of deeper waters.
Finally, after too much silence, you exhaled and glanced at him. “You gonna tell me what’s so important past the breakers, or are we just playing hide-and-seek with the coast guard?”
Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp even in the low light. He didn’t answer right away, just shifted, adjusting the strap of his bag where it rested against his hip.
“Few miles out,” he said, voice even, quiet. “Just long enough to be off the radar.”
You arched a brow. “That easy, huh?”
His mouth twitched—almost something like humor, but not quite. “Expecting a high-speed chase?”
You shrugged, shifting your grip on the wheel. “Considering who you are? Maybe.”
That got a reaction. A small one, but you caught it—the brief clench of his jaw, the flicker of something in his gaze before he turned his attention back to the water. Like he hadn’t meant to let that slip. Like the weight of being recognized had already settled in his ribs.
He stood silent and still in that way that told you everything you needed to know. The tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, the way he shifted his weight like he was bracing for something unseen. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Like he was hurting.
You watched him for another second before looking away, letting the silence stretch again. The wind cut through your jacket, damp and biting, but you didn’t move to pull it tighter. You were used to this kind of cold. The kind that settled in your bones.
The boat rocked slightly with the swell, the waves growing more restless beneath you.
You exhaled sharply, reaching into your jacket and pulling out a ring of keys. You tossed them toward him without warning, and he caught them without looking, his reflexes as sharp as you expected.
He turned his head slightly, brows pulling together in quiet question.
“There’s a medical kit under the mattress in the cabin,” you continued, nodding toward the door leading below deck. “Go fix yourself up.”
Bucky hesitated, just for a second, before sighing through his nose. He adjusted the strap of his bag and moved toward the stairs, boots heavy against the damp wood.
You didn’t watch him go. Just kept your eyes on the dark stretch of water ahead, listening as the door creaked open and then shut behind him.
The minutes stretched. The wind picked up.
Six miles past the breakers, you killed the engine. Better to be safe than sorry.
The quiet was thick, stretching out in the absence of the steady hum of the boat cutting through water. You let out a slow breath, adjusting your jacket before turning toward the door leading below deck.
You hesitated.
Something about this—about him—was making your instincts pull in two different directions. One part of you was saying to keep your distance, let him patch himself up and be on his way. The other part—the part that had noticed the way his breathing had been just slightly uneven, the way his stance had been just a little too careful—was telling you to check.
He had been quiet. Far too quiet.
Which, in theory, should’ve been a good thing. If he was actually using the damn medical kit instead of just bleeding all over your boat, that was a win. But something about the silence unsettled you.
With a quiet exhale, you made your decision.
The door groaned slightly as you pushed it open, stepping into the cramped space below deck. It was small but functional—one narrow cot, a small table, a rusting storage cabinet shoved against the far wall. The air was thick with salt and the faint scent of engine grease. The light overhead flickered, casting dim light over the space.
And there, sitting on the edge of the cot, was Bucky.
His shirt was off, tossed beside him. The dim glow of the light caught the sharp lines of his torso, the thick, roped scars that cut across his flesh, old wounds layered over new ones. His left arm—the metal one—was steady, braced against his knee, while his right hand clutched a needle and thread, hovering over a deep gash along his ribs.
A deep gash he had clearly been struggling to stitch.
His shoulders tensed as you stepped inside, his gaze flicking to you, sharp even in exhaustion.
“Need a hand?” you asked, nodding toward the half-finished stitches.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers against his knee. “I got it.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” You stepped closer, tilting your head as you took in the mess he’d made of the stitching. The edges of the wound weren’t closing right, the thread already darkening with blood. “Pretty sure that’s not how you’re supposed to do it.”
Bucky huffed out something close to a laugh, but it was humorless. He didn’t argue.
You moved toward the small cabinet, grabbing the bottle of antiseptic and some fresh gauze before stepping back toward him. “Sit still.”
He didn’t move as you crouched in front of him, didn’t say a word as you carefully took the needle from his grip. His skin was warm under your fingers. Up close, you could see the new bruising along his ribs, the faint hitch in his breath whenever the boat rocked too hard.
You wet a piece of gauze with the antiseptic, pressing it gently against the wound. He didn’t flinch, but you caught the way his fingers curled slightly against his knee.
“You always this bad at taking care of yourself?” you asked quietly, threading the needle.
Bucky was silent for a long moment. Then—“Been out of practice.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
Didn’t know if you were supposed to say anything.
You glanced up at him. His face was unreadable, his expression carefully schooled into nothing. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp, tired in a way that didn’t just come from lack of sleep.
You dipped the needle into his skin, and still, he barely reacted. “So,” you said, voice even, “you wanna tell me how this happened?”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing. Like he was trying to decide if he should even bother lying.
“Got into a fight.”
You lifted a brow. “And lost?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Didn’t say that.”
The boat rocked, shifting the shadows across the walls.
You worked in silence for a few more moments, the thread pulling through his skin in steady, practiced movements. He was still as stone beneath your hands, muscles tight but unmoving, like he was used to this, like he had done this more times than he could count. You were sure he had.
Finally, you spoke again. “You always pick fights you don’t need to?”
“Only when I deserve ‘em.”
Your fingers hesitated for half a second before pushing forward. The words had been quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. You weren’t sure what to do with them, but you felt them settle under your ribs all the same.
Bucky was quiet for a long moment. Too long.
The only sound was the distant slap of waves against the hull, the creak of the boat shifting with the tide. His eyes flicked to you, sharp and assessing even as you worked the needle through his skin, slow and steady.
Then—“You always this reckless?”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Some guy shows up on your dock in the middle of the night looking like hell, doesn’t tell you a damn thing, and you take him out past the breakers anyway.” A beat. Then, quieter—flatter—“You that desperate to get yourself killed, or just real bad at telling when to walk away?”
Your hands stilled for just a second—just long enough for the weight of his words to settle between you.
Then you kept stitching.
“That what this is?” you asked evenly. “You planning on killing me?”
Bucky didn’t answer. Not right away. He just watched you, something unreadable passing behind his gaze, before his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“No.”
You tilted your head slightly, glancing up at him. “Good. I think my judgment is just fine.”
A low huff of air. Maybe amusement. Maybe something else. “That right?”
“I’ve dealt with worse men.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly. “None of them were me.”
That stopped you.
Your fingers hovered just over the wound, your grip tightening around the thread before you forced yourself to keep going. But the shift in the air was impossible to ignore. He wasn’t saying it as a threat. He wasn’t saying it to intimidate you.
He was saying it because it was the truth. Because you knew who he was.
Not just the name, not just the face. You’d seen the footage—grainy surveillance clips, shaky cell phone recordings, headlines stamped over still frames of wreckage. You’d read the words ex-HYDRA asset, government pardon, ongoing rehabilitation. You knew that people still whispered about what he’d done and whether he could ever really be something else.
He wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore.
But that didn’t mean the world had forgotten.
Your fingers tightened around the thread as you finished another stitch. “You saying I should be afraid of you?”
His jaw flexed, gaze dropping briefly before flicking back to yours. “I’m saying you should have better instincts.”
You tied off the last stitch with a steady hand, letting the silence stretch for another beat before you finally sat back, tossing the bloodied needle into a tiny metal tray beside you.
You exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through your hair. "I thought about saying no."
His brow twitched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
"I saw you on that dock, and for a second—" You swallowed, flexing your fingers in your lap. "For a second, I felt it. That instinct. The one that says run."
Bucky's jaw clenched.
"But I didn’t."
His gaze flicked to yours again, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “Why not?”
Your fingers curled loosely against your knee, considering.
"Because men who are dangerous don’t show up asking for a boat," you murmured. "Men who are dangerous take."
The boat rocked slightly, shifting the shadows along the walls.
"And you didn’t."
Bucky exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off something heavy.
"That was your mistake," he muttered.
You scoffed, shaking your head. "No. My mistake was thinking you’d be more grateful for the stitches."
His mouth twitched again, but there was something else behind it now—something you couldn’t quite place.
You pushed yourself to your feet, rolling the tension from your shoulders as you moved toward the cabinets. The space was narrow enough that you had to turn slightly to fit, the wood creaking under your weight. You pulled open the first cabinet, scanning the shelves, fingers trailing over old bottles and dusty tins, brushing past things left untouched for too long.
Behind you, you heard the rustle of fabric as Bucky pulled his shirt back over his shoulders, the faint hitch in his breath as he maneuvered the stiff muscles beneath fresh stitches.
The first two bottles you picked up were worthless. Expired. Probably more vinegar than alcohol by now. You turned them over in your hands, checking the faded labels before setting them aside with a quiet thunk. The third one—better. The glass was cold against your palm, half full, the amber liquid inside sloshing slightly as you tested the weight.
Good enough.
You uncapped it, took a slow, burning swig, letting the warmth curl down your throat before turning, holding the bottle out toward him.
"You trying to clean the wound from the inside?" he muttered.
You smirked. "Something like that."
He hesitated—just for a second—before taking the bottle. He tipped it back, took a slow swallow, then another, before lowering it again. The light swung gently with the shift of the boat, throwing broken light over his face, glinting off the dark amber liquid still clinging to the glass.
You leaned against the counter, watching him.
“Y’know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “when I was younger, I used to take my little brother to the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. He loved it—dragged me through it a dozen times. I could probably still recite half the plaques from memory.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Hell of a segue."
You huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your head back against the cabinet. "Yeah, well. You don’t seem like you’re much for small talk."
A beat passed. Then—"You still walk through it?"
You arched a brow. "No. Haven't been in years."
Bucky let the bottle hang loose between his fingers, watching you carefully. "Why not?"
You shrugged, glancing at the low ceiling before meeting his gaze again. “Dunno. Maybe it got weird after SHIELD fell. After all the shit that came out.”
His jaw twitched. You saw it—the way he braced, the way something deep in his ribs locked up tight.
"But," you added, reaching for the bottle again, "I remember thinking something was off about it. Even back then."
Bucky let you take the whiskey from his hands, watching as you took another sip. “Yeah?" His voice was quieter now.
"Yeah," you murmured, licking a drop from your lips. "For starters, you barely existed in it."
His fingers curled slightly against his knee. His expression didn’t shift, but you saw it again—that flicker of something unreadable.
"Whole damn exhibit dedicated to Captain America, to the war, to the Howling Commandos," you continued, shaking your head slightly. "And you were just a footnote."
Bucky exhaled through his nose, looking past you now, gaze distant. "Guess that was the point."
You studied him, watching the way his mouth pressed into a thin line, the way he stared at nothing like he was seeing something else entirely.
“Even before everything,” you mused, passing the bottle back, “you were kind of a ghost.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn’t respond.
So, you pushed.
“I used to think you were attractive,” you admitted, voice even. “The infamous James Buchanan Barnes.”
That did something.
Bucky blinked, the briefest hitch in his breath, like you’d said something he hadn’t expected. His gaze flicked back to you, sharp and searching.
Then—he scoffed, shaking his head. “You and every other girl in Brooklyn.”
You smirked. “Maybe.”
Bucky let out a slow breath, rolling the bottle between his hands. "Let me guess," he muttered. "You’re about to say I don’t look like that anymore."
You tilted your head slightly, considering him. The dim light carved deep lines into his face, caught on the scars that weren’t there in the old photographs. He looked harder now, sharper. Older in ways that had nothing to do with years.
"No," you murmured. "I think you look better."
His gaze snapped to yours, something sharp cutting through the exhaustion.
You held it.
A breath. A shift in the water. The slow rock of the boat beneath you.
He huffed softly, shaking his head. “You must be drunk.”
You smirked, plucking the bottle from his hand again. "Not yet."
The boat drifted back into the harbor under the weight of the tide, the slow churn of the engine humming beneath your feet. The night had stretched long, thick with salt and whiskey and words you weren’t sure either of you had meant to say. Somewhere between the breakers and the horizon, the former Winter Soldier had loosened his grip on silence. Not by much, but enough.
Enough to take the bottle from your hands without a second thought. Enough to let conversation stretch past reluctant one-word answers.
Enough to make you forget, just for a second, who he was.
The docks were creeping back into view, the lanterns throwing long shadows over the damp wood. The Rusty Gull’s sign flickered dimly in the distance, the sound of a lone gull cutting through the night. The town was as still as you had left it.
Or so it seemed.
Bucky had gone quiet again, leaning against the side of the boat, the nearly empty bottle of whiskey loose in his grip. His eyes were fixed on the dock ahead, shoulders tense, breath slow and measured. You knew that look. A shift in the air, a change in the current. He was listening to something you hadn’t caught yet.
You slowed the engine, coasting toward the dock. The boat rocked slightly, the ropes creaking as the current nudged it forward.
Bucky moved before you heard it.
A gunshot cracked through the night, splintering the quiet, and before you could even react, Bucky was on you. His arm slammed into your chest, knocking you off balance, sending you sprawling against the deck. The whiskey bottle hit the wood with a dull thunk and rolled away, forgotten.
Another shot. Wood exploded near the bow, sending splinters through the air.
Bucky’s body was over yours in an instant, shielding you as he reached blindly for the edge of the boat, grabbing hold of a mooring line and yanking it, using the momentum to shift the entire vessel sideways, throwing off their line of sight.
“Stay down,” he ordered, voice low, urgent.
Your breath came fast and shallow, adrenaline flooding your system as you pressed yourself into the deck.
The dock creaked under heavy footsteps. More than one, maybe three. They were moving in.
Bucky reached into his bag, and you caught the briefest glint of metal before his gun was in his hand. The barrel gleamed under the pale dock lights as he pressed himself against the side of the boat, jaw clenched, breathing steady.
You forced yourself to move, pushing up slightly, just enough to see over the edge. Four figures. Dark clothing, tactical stance. Not cops. Not locals. These men weren’t here for anything else but him.
Another shot rang out, punching into the boat’s railing just inches from your head.
Bucky didn’t hesitate.
He fired twice—quick, controlled. One of the figures grunted, hitting the deck hard, but the other two didn’t stop. One had already taken cover behind a piling, waiting for his opening. The other was moving, fast, boots heavy against the dock as he aimed for the boat.
Bucky turned to you, eyes dark. “Can you run?”
It wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t doubt. It was calculation.
You exhaled sharply, scanning the dock. The harbor was too open, too exposed. You could take off down the main road, but if these guys had backup, you’d be running straight into it.
A better option—
“There,” you muttered, jerking your chin toward the far end of the dock. The old bait shop. It had a back door that led straight into the alley between the buildings. If you could get through there—
Bucky caught on quick.
“Go.”
The word was barely out before he was moving. A blur of force and precision. He fired again, a sharp, deafening crack. The second man dropped, his gun skidding across the dock. The other lunged.
The impact was brutal—a collision of muscle and momentum. The man swung first, aiming for Bucky’s ribs, but he was too slow. Bucky shifted, catching the strike with his left arm before twisting, using the force against him. He wrenched the guy’s arm back, a sickening crack splitting the air as he drove him to the ground.
He slammed his metal fist into the base of his skull. Hard.
The body went limp.
Another shot.
You turned just in time to see the last man raising his weapon, but Bucky was faster. Too fast.
The gun barely cleared the holster before Bucky closed the distance. A sharp strike to the wrist sent it clattering onto the dock. The man barely had time to react before Bucky’s fist drove into his gut, then his jaw.
The man staggered, but Bucky wasn’t done. He grabbed him by the front of his jacket, yanking him in close, and for a second, there was nothing but the dark, merciless weight of the Winter Soldier staring him down.
The man gasped, struggled—
But Bucky didn’t give him the chance. His metal arm snapped up—
The sickening crack of vertebrae snapping.
The body went slack, dead weight against Bucky’s grip. He let it drop unceremoniously, the limp form hitting the dock with a dull thud.
A new sound split the air—tires.
A car. Fast. Coming closer.
“Shit,” you hissed, backing toward the alley. “We need to go. Now.”
Bucky didn’t argue. He shoved the man away, sending him sprawling against the dock, and turned to you.
“Move.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You took off, boots pounding against the damp wood, the sharp scent of salt and gunpowder thick in the air. Bucky was right behind you, his presence a solid, unshakable force at your back. The bait shop’s door was barely hanging onto its hinges—probably hadn’t been locked in years. You shoved through it, stumbling into the darkened space, the scent of fish and old wood clogging your lungs.
Three more shots.
You heard a windshield shattering, glass exploding outward, before you nearly covered your ears with sickening crunch of metal as the car plowed into the dock piling,
Bucky grabbed your wrist, pulling you forward, past the shelves of rusted tackle boxes and forgotten bait buckets. The alley door was dead ahead, slightly ajar. You hit it hard, the damp night air slamming into your face as you burst into the narrow corridor between buildings.
“Where?” he asked, voice low.
You sucked in a breath, scanning the street. The town was still mostly quiet, but that wouldn’t last. Not now.
“My place,” you said quickly, jerking your head toward the opposite end of the alley. “Five blocks. End of the road.”
Bucky hesitated for half a second. Then—he nodded.
The alley spit you out onto a side street, slick with mist, the air thick with brine and the sharp, acrid burn of gunpowder still clinging to your skin. You ran. Fast, steady, keeping your head down as Bucky moved beside you—silent, controlled, like the adrenaline hadn’t even touched him.
You weren’t sure what was worse—the silence or the fact that you weren’t scared.
Five blocks felt longer than it should have, your boots slapping against the pavement, breath curling in the cold.
Your house came into view at the end of the road—small, weathered, but sturdy. The kind of place that had taken a beating from the Atlantic and still stood tall. The kind of place that didn’t usually see gunfights at the harbor.
Bucky slowed first, eyes sweeping the street, the shadows between the buildings. Checking for threats. He didn’t even look winded. Just alert. He wasn’t breathing hard, wasn’t reacting like someone who had just torn through four armed men and a vehicle of more. The only sign that he’d even exerted himself was the faint clench of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
You didn’t stop moving until you hit the porch, fumbling for your keys. You rolled your shoulders, shaking out the adrenaline as best you could, which wasn’t much.
“I hope you know,” you muttered, finally shoving the key into the lock, “you’re paying to fix those bullet holes in my damn boat.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, stepping up onto the porch behind you. “Add it to my tab.”
You scoffed, pushing the door open. “Didn’t know we had a running one.”
“You do now.”
A ghost of a smirk, gone as quick as it came.
You flicked the porch light off behind you, locking the door as soon as he stepped inside. The house was quiet, almost too quiet after the night you just had.
Bucky moved straight toward the windows, pushing back the curtain just enough to glance outside. The street was still empty, the ocean a distant murmur beyond the rows of houses.
The silence stretched for a beat, the tension between you settling into something solid. Bucky finally stepped away from the window, rolling his shoulders slightly, probably testing the fresh stitches along his ribs. His jacket was streaked with salt spray and something darker—blood, probably. He didn’t seem to care.
You should’ve cared. Should’ve been shaken, rattled, anything. But instead, the only thing you felt was exhausted.
Your boat was fucked. Your night was fucked. And you still weren’t entirely convinced this wasn’t going to get worse.
You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “There’s vodka in the cabinet. And a couch.”
Bucky gave you a look—half-amused, half-skeptical. “That an invitation?”
“That’s me choosing not to kick you out on your ass.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Generous.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter. But as soon as you did—the floor tilted.
A sharp, blinding heat spiked through your side.
Your hand flew to your ribs, fingers pressing into your shirt. And when they came away—
Blood.
The room dimmed slightly at the edges, as if your body had only just decided to register the damage.
"Shit," you muttered, voice weaker this time, but it pissed you off more than anything else. You hadn’t even felt the damn bullet. Not really. Adrenaline had carried you too far, too fast.
Bucky was already moving.
His metal hand caught your arm before you could fully stumble, his other pressing just under your ribs—where the warmth was spreading, where the fabric was sticking wet and fast to your skin.
He said something, but you barely heard him. Everything was compressing, tunneling. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You exhaled sharply through your nose, blinking hard, trying to focus.
Bucky muttered something under his breath, something sharp, before gripping the hem of your shirt and hauling it up, no warning, no hesitation. You flinched at the rush of cold air against your skin.
"Hold still."
The bark of command would have pissed you off under normal circumstances, but you were too busy gripping the edge of the counter, trying to ignore the way your ears were ringing.
His fingers pressed against the wound. You hissed, back arching, pain flashing bright behind your eyes.
"Through and through," he muttered, mostly to himself. “Messy, but not enough to hit anything fatal.”
"Oh," you panted. "Fantastic. Love that for me."
Bucky didn’t even look up.
His fingers skimmed over the exit wound along your back, brushing your spine. The warmth of his flesh hand contrasted with the cold press of metal, the latter steadying your side as he assessed the damage.
"You should be on the floor."
You let out something close to a laugh, dry and humorless. "Hate to disappoint."
"You’re losing too much blood."
"I got that part, thanks."
Bucky exhaled sharply, pushing down harder. It wasn’t gentle. You clenched your jaw, gripping the counter tighter.
"You got medical supplies here?"
"Bathroom," you ground out. "Hall closet. Second shelf."
Bucky hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, like he didn’t trust you to stay on your feet.
Which was fair.
"Go," you muttered. "I’ll still be here bleeding when you get back."
His mouth twitched. Not amusement. Something closer to frustration.
And then, just like that, he was moving, boots heavy against the wooden floors as he disappeared down the hall.
You exhaled shakily, letting your head tip forward.
Fuck.
Your ribs ached, your breath shuddering in and out. Bucky was right—you should be on the damn floor. But you weren’t about to pass out in your kitchen like some tragic idiot in a noir film. You forced yourself to straighten, which was a mistake. A fresh wave of dizziness rolled through you, black spots creeping at the edges of your vision.
Bucky returned before you could crumple.
He didn’t say anything—just tossed a first-aid kit onto the counter, cracked open a bottle of vodka, grabbed a clean rag, and hauled you up to sit on the countertop. He twisted the cap off with a little too much force, then poured the vodka directly over the wound before you had a chance to argue.
The burn was instant.
"Fuck—!" You nearly buckled, white-hot pain stealing your breath, barely resisting the urge to kick him.
Instead, you clenched your teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as he worked. His metal fingers were unyielding against your ribs, keeping you steady, grounding you. He packed gauze over the wound, pressing down just hard enough to make you see stars.
"Been shot before?"
You let out a weak, breathless scoff. "Nothing more than a BB pellet."
Bucky didn’t react. He just secured the gauze with tape, movements practiced, almost too practiced. Then he reached for another bottle—this time, painkillers.
"Take three," he said, shaking a few into your palm.
You swallowed the pills dry, sighing as you sagged back against the counter. The pain was still there, but Bucky’s presence made it feel less overwhelming. Less like you were alone in it.
He leaned back slightly, studying you for another long second.
"You’re lucky."
You scoffed, rolling your head against the cabinet. “Feels like my lucky night.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "If it had hit a little lower—"
"It didn’t."
Bucky exhaled sharply, pressing his knuckles against the counter like he needed something to brace against. His gaze flicked down to the gauze, already damp with blood, then back to your face.
“You can’t stay here,” he muttered.
You frowned. “What?”
“The counter,” he clarified, reaching for your arm.
You huffed, but let him pull you forward. The movement sent a fresh stab of pain through your side, sharp and blinding. You sucked in a breath, fingers clenching weakly around his wrist.
The couch wasn’t much—worn down, broken in, a relic of years of use—but right now, it might as well have been a damn hospital bed. You sagged against the cushions, exhaling as the pain eased just enough for you to unclench your jaw.
Bucky crouched in front of you, resting his arms on his knees. His eyes scanned you, sharp, assessing, like he was cataloging every little way your body was reacting, every subtle sign of shock.
“You’re not allowed to close your eyes.”
You blinked, head tilting slightly. “Excuse me?”
Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “You lost more blood than you think.” His voice was even, steady. Not quite gentle, but not harsh either. Just…certain. “I need you awake.”
You let out a slow breath, rolling your head against the back of the couch. The exhaustion was creeping in now, slow and heavy. Your limbs felt distant, like they weren’t quite attached to the rest of you.
But Bucky was still watching. Still waiting.
You dragged your gaze back to his, brows pinching slightly. “You gonna entertain me, then?”
His mouth twitched—just slightly. Not a smile, but close.
“I’ll stitch you up in a few minutes,” he said instead. “Bleeding needs to slow first.”
Your head tipped back again. “Fantastic.”
You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, letting your head loll slightly to the side. The exhaustion was pulling at you, but the sting in your side was still sharp enough to keep you tethered to consciousness. Barely.
Your fingers curled loosely against your stomach, pressing against the gauze. “So,” you muttered, voice hoarse, “who the hell were those guys?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately.
You watched as he exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face before glancing toward the window. The street outside was dark, still and silent save for the occasional drip of off the gutters. No sirens, no running footsteps. Whoever had come after him wasn’t lurking nearby. Not anymore.
Your eyelids grew heavier. You felt your body sinking further into the couch, the ache in your side dulling into something distant, something manageable. Maybe you could just rest for a second. Just a second—
A sharp pat against your cheek. Not hard, but firm enough to pull you back.
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice was closer now, rougher. You forced your eyes open, finding him crouched in front of you again, watching with something just shy of impatience. “You don’t get to pass out yet.”
You tried to glare at him, but the fatigue made it half-hearted at best. “Then stop letting me get bored.”
Something flickered in his eyes—an argument, maybe—but instead, he let out another slow breath, rubbing a hand along the nape of his neck.
“I don’t know their names,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “Doesn’t really matter.”
You frowned, shifting slightly. “Seems like it matters to them.”
He reached over, checking the gauze again with careful fingers. His hands were steady, practiced, but you caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed just a little too firmly before he pulled away.
"They’re part of something I’ve been trying to fix," he admitted, voice low. "Or…was supposed to fix."
You frowned, watching the way his shoulders curled inward, just slightly. Like the weight of whatever this was had settled there, pressing down in a way that no amount of strength could shake off.
A ghost too heavy to carry.
He sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Government wants me to make amends.”
You blinked. “Like—officially? That part of your pardon deal?”
Bucky huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
Your head tipped slightly, scanning his expression. The way his fingers flexed against his knee, his mouth pressed into a thin, exhausted line.
“Lemme guess,” you murmured. “It’s not going great.”
His jaw flexed.
“You ever try to apologize to a ghost?” he muttered. “Try to make things right when the damage is already done?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.
“No,” you muttered, voice dry. “But I guess I can cross ‘getting shot over some guy I just met’ off my bucket list.”
Bucky’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers curled slightly against his knee.
“You should’ve left me on that dock.”
You scoffed, cracking an eye open to glare at him. “Yeah? And then what? Let you steal my boat?”
His brow twitched slightly, but he didn’t argue.
You sighed, shifting slightly, wincing as the movement tugged at your wound. “Besides,” you muttered, “maybe you were right.”
Bucky frowned slightly. “About what?”
You exhaled through your nose, staring at the ceiling. “My instincts.”
He was quiet. Too quiet.
You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze again. Still sharp. Still unreadable. But there was something else now—something flickering at the edges of his expression, something that looked almost…guilty.
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face. His fingers lingered at his jaw for a second, pressing into the muscle like he was trying to hold something back. Like he was trying to smother whatever guilt was creeping up the back of his throat.
He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be in your house, shouldn’t have dragged you into this.
Shouldn’t be sitting here, watching you bleed because of him.
His hands curled into fists before he forced them to relax, palms pressing against the tops of his knees.
“You trust too easy,” he muttered.
You huffed out a weak laugh, your eyes flicking toward him, heavy-lidded but still sharp. Still watching him in a way that made something inside him twist.
Your stomach twisted. “Don’t do that.”
His brows twitched. “Do what?”
“That.” You exhaled sharply, head rolling back against the couch. “That thing where you look at me like I’m already dead.”
Bucky’s jaw locked tight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, gaze flicking to the wound at your side before finding yours again.
"You’re not," he muttered.
"Yeah?" You arched a brow. "Then stop acting like you already have to atone for it."
He didn’t respond. Didn’t deny it.
The silence stretched long and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the old clock in the kitchen. The smell of whiskey still clung to your skin, to the air between you, but it felt distant now.
Your eyelids were heavier than they should’ve been, the exhaustion creeping in slow, inevitable.
Before you could drift, Bucky’s voice pulled you back.
“You still awake?”
His voice was low, measured. But there was something underneath it, something sharp and edged.
You sighed, blinking blearily at the ceiling. “Unfortunately.”
His gaze swept over you again, another quick assessment, before he nodded to himself. Then—he reached for the kit.
“You’re gonna hate me for this,” he muttered, pulling out a clean needle, the thread, the bottle of antiseptic.
Your stomach dipped. “Is it a bad time to mention my fear of needles?”
The morning air was thick with salt and brine, the scent of seaweed clinging to the wind as the tide pulled in slow. The docks were alive in a way they hadn’t been the night you first saw him—Bucky Barnes, standing just outside the reach of the lantern light, looking like something lost.
Now, the world was awake.
Boats swayed in their slips, men hauling ropes and loading coolers onto deck. The occasional bark of laughter, the clang of a metal latch swinging closed, the hum of a radio spilling some old tune into the air. You nodded to a few familiar faces—Earl, hauling a crate of bait toward his skiff, Old Tommy, already griping about how the ocean had taken more from him than it ever gave back.
None of them mentioned the way you moved slower than usual, favoring your left side, a dull pull where the stitches still held tight.
You adjusted your jacket, rolling your shoulders against the stiffness. The wound wasn’t bad—not compared to what it could’ve been—but it had kept you off the water the past week. You hated that. The ocean was your rhythm, your constant, and being stuck on land too long made your skin itch.
Which made the sight at the end of the dock all the more bearable.
There, standing on the deck of your bullet-riddled boat, was Bucky Barnes.
His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, exposing both metal and flesh, his vibranium arm catching the late-morning light in dull glints of gold. His dark henley clung to him, damp with sweat, the fabric stretched slightly over his shoulders as he leaned down to secure a section of the patched hull, not before staring it down. His jeans—worn, dark—were dusted with sawdust and flecks of dried paint.
And beside him—Sam Wilson.
You slowed your steps, watching as The Falcon —a man you’d only seen through a screen, or the occasional news article—gestured toward the boat’s hull with the kind of exasperation that had to be directed at Bucky.
“I’m just saying,” Sam was muttering, adjusting his grip on the power sander, “you could maybe pretend to be more helpful instead of just standing there looking pissed off.”
Bucky shot him a flat look. “I am being helpful.”
Sam arched a brow. “Oh? My bad—I didn’t realize glaring at the boat was part of the restoration process.”
You huffed out a laugh before you could stop yourself.
Two pairs of eyes flicked toward you at once.
Sam’s face split into an easy grin, like he already knew who you were. “Ah—the woman of the hour.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face like he was already done with this interaction. “Oh, great.”
You stepped closer, taking in the damage that hadn’t been there before—the patched holes along the hull, the wood still sanded raw in places, the faint scent of paint lingering in the air. They’d been at this for a while.
You tilted your head, eyeing the work. “Hate to break it to you, Barnes, but I don’t think carpentry’s your calling.”
Sam let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn. She’s fun.”
Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Oh, no,” Sam grinned. “I love this.”
You smirked, bracing a hand against the dock railing. “And who do I have to thank for putting my boat back together?”
“That’d be me,” Sam said, shooting Bucky a pointed look. “Since I actually know how to fix a boat.”
Bucky sighed through his nose. “I was helping.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah. You held things.”
You shook your head, letting them bicker as you ran a hand along the patched wood. It wasn’t pretty yet, but it would hold.
“So,” you said, glancing back at Sam, “you always spend your free time fixing up boats for people you don’t know?”
Sam smirked. “You always let ex-assassins borrow your boat?”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again, considering. “Touché.”
Sam chuckled, brushing sawdust from his sleeves. “Figured if this guy was gonna be moping around your dock, I might as well make myself useful.”
Bucky didn’t argue.
Didn’t even deny it.
Just kept his arms crossed, gaze flicking toward you for a fraction of a second before shifting away again.
The silence stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Something unspoken settled between you and Bucky, the weight of everything that had happened still fresh.
Sam, apparently, picked up on it.
He exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. Well. As much as I’d love to stand here and watch this little staring contest, I’ve got places to be.”
He tossed the power sander onto the deck, grabbing his jacket from where it had been draped over the railing.
Sam paused beside you, lowering his voice just enough. “He’s not as mean as he looks.”
You smirked, shooting Bucky a glance. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Sam chuckled, clapping a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You’ll be alright.” Then, louder: “Don’t forget to actually help, Barnes.”
Bucky grumbled something unintelligible under his breath as Sam walked away.
The wind shifted. The dock creaked beneath your feet, the tide lapping lazily against the pylons.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you.
Bucky didn’t say anything. Just stood there, staring at the boat like it might offer him an escape.
You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re fixing my boat.”
Bucky grunted.
“Are you gonna try and say that’s making amends, too?”
He was quiet for a second—then:
“Nah.” He shrugged, gaze flicking to yours. Something tired. Something honest. “Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
You leaned against the dock railing, arms folded loosely over your chest. Bucky was still looking at the boat, but not really looking at it. Like it was easier to stare at than whatever was running through his head.
You tilted your head. “So, what? You gonna hang around town now? Make a life fixing boats, grunting at people, drinking whiskey in alleyways?”
Bucky exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, but damn close. His mouth twitched, and he shot you a sidelong glance. “Sounds peaceful.”
You huffed. “You don’t strike me as the peaceful type.”
His jaw ticked slightly. Neither did he.
“I’m not,” he admitted, shifting his weight. “But… I wouldn’t mind trying.”
That settled between you—heavy, but not uncomfortable.
You let your gaze drift out toward the water. The tide was shifting again, the sun catching in the ripples like scattered gold.
“Lot of people come here trying to disappear,” you murmured.
Bucky was quiet. Then—“That what you did?”
You glanced at him. “What makes you think I’m running from something?”
He didn’t blink. “Because people don’t just end up in places like this.” His voice was even, careful. “They come here because they don’t wanna be anywhere else.”
You considered that for a moment, rolling the thought over in your mind like a stone in your palm. Then, finally—you shrugged.
“Guess that makes two of us.”
Something in his expression flickered, just for a second. A shift in the weight he carried.
“You still planning to leave?” you asked.
Bucky’s fingers curled loosely around the railing, his knuckles faintly scarred where the flesh met metal. “That depends.”
“On what?”
He looked at you then—really looked at you. Not with that guarded edge he’d carried since the moment you met, not with the sharp, assessing stare he used to measure threats. Just… looked.
“I don’t know yet.”
Your stomach turned in a way you didn’t quite know what to do with.
You exhaled slowly, nodding toward the boat. “Well, if you’re gonna stick around, you might as well finish the job.”
Bucky huffed out something that might’ve been amusement. “I will.”
“Damn right you will,” you smirked, nudging his arm lightly. “You owe me, Barnes.”
His gaze flicked to yours, and this time, you swore something softened.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”
The weight in his voice hit you somewhere deep. It didn’t sound like an obligation.
It sounded like a promise.
