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@cloverchapters
Been obsessed with #ThePitt, and Olivia’s new album. So I decided to write one, but this isn’t something romantic.
Idea is. Dr. Robby has a daughter that he wasn’t such an active dad in. And now she is working in his ED. This is post sabbatical. Help me out!! Should I post it?
Already gone | Chapter 3
Word count: 3k
Theme: Angst, Drama, a bit of fluff, mention of cheating. Best friends turned to lovers
> Bucky AU, Steve AU, FMC Elizabeth Miller
Author's note: I made this almost three years ago while listening to ALREADY GONE by Sleeping At Last. I just recently edited it and thought of posting it. Remember that this was written by a 19yr old me. If there are words or sentences that don't make sense please forgive me.
> Already gone by Sleeping At Last
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES.
Feel free to re-blog and like the post! Would love to hear your thoughts on it!
Present Day
the day before the bookstore opening
The street looked the same.
Late afternoon sun spilled over the sidewalks, casting long shadows from porches that hadn’t changed in years. Hydrangeas bloomed along fences. Kids biked up and down the hill. A breeze rustled through the trees like it was still 2005.
Bucky Barnes drove slower than usual.
He passed the house he grew up in, then the Rogers residence just across the street. White porch swing. Wind chimes. A new truck parked right out front. He didn’t need to see the plates to know who it belonged to.
Steve was home. Back the same time Betty was.
That memory from Central Park one he’d buried like a landmine surged back: Steve’s quiet confession. “I love her.” Bucky’s refusal to give permission. The crack that had never healed between them.
He blinked it away. Drove on. Parked in front of the Barnes house and sat there for a beat, gripping the steering wheel. Nothing but cicadas and the creak of his old engine cooling down.
When he stepped inside, the house didn’t greet him with silence like usual.
There was laughter. Familiar voices. Too many of them.
He dropped his keys on the entry table and followed the sound through the kitchen. The second he stepped into the living room, he froze.
Sarah Rogers was perched on the couch, chatting animatedly with Winnie. His mother was beaming like Sunday sunshine.
And across from them, relaxed like he belonged, was Steve Rogers.
The same Steve. Only not.
Taller somehow. Shoulders broader. Beard thicker. The boy-next-door had turned into something quieter. More worn-in. Steve stood when he saw him.
“Oh, here he is!” Winnie called out, waving Bucky over like he was ten again and late for Sunday lunch.
“Hi, Buck,” Steve said, nodding with a smile.
“Steve,” Bucky returned, offering a polite smile back. They shook hands. firm, brief. Civil.
But under the handshake was something else. An old ache. A crack still there, thin as a thread of ice.
Later That Night
Backyard porch, after dinner
The stars were just starting to come out.
Bucky handed Steve a cold beer and dropped onto the opposite chair, the old porch groaning beneath their weight like it remembered better days.
“Did you miss that noise?” Bucky said, motioning toward the house. “Your ma and mine haven’t stopped talking since the roast came out of the oven.”
Steve chuckled softly. “It’s nice. Like nothing’s changed.”
Bucky took a sip of his drink. “Are you here long?”
Steve looked out toward the tree line. “Thinking of staying. For good, actually.”
Bucky raised a brow but kept his gaze on the beer bottle in his hands. “That's so.”
Steve nodded.
“That’s a coincidence,” Bucky murmured. “I think Betty’s back too. She’s opening—”
“A bookstore?” Steve cut in.
Bucky paused. Looked up. “So you know.”
Steve exhaled. “Yeah.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. He stared at the porch floorboards, elbows on his knees, bottle swinging between his fingers.
“You went through with it, huh?” he asked quietly. Steve didn’t answer right away. “It’s been four years, Buck.”
“Yeah.” A nod. Nothing more. The silence stretched.
“You coming tomorrow?” Steve asked finally.
Bucky didn’t respond. Steve turned to look at him fully. “She wants you there, bud”
That made Bucky flinch..barely, but it was there.
A breath. A swallow. Then, he nodded. Once.
The Next Day – Opening Day
The golden August sun filtered through the wide windows of The Book Cellar the bookstore-winery Betty had poured her heart into for the past year. Outside, the town bustled locals, old friends, and family she hadn’t seen in years arriving little by little, the smell of fresh bread and roasted coffee wrapping around the block.
Inside, it was a soft chaos. Warm and lived-in. Cozy.
Downstairs, the café and winery area was nearly done—small wooden tables decorated with fresh-cut daisies, wine bottles lined up behind the bar, books displayed on hand-carved shelves. The clink of dishes and quiet laughter echoed as her mother stirred something on the stove, apron dusted in flour. Her brother arranged the last of the patio chairs. Her father, with a cigar tucked behind his ear, alphabetized the poetry section with an amused shake of his head—“Betty, these are not in the right decade order,” he had muttered earlier.
And upstairs?
That was her sanctuary.
The second floor was quiet, save for the faint creaks of wood under Betty’s feet. The walls were lined with bookshelves that reached toward the ceiling, packed tightly with fiction, memoirs, essays, and all the paperbacks that had shaped her. In the middle were plush couches, oversized bean bags, and round tables that invited people to stay for hours.
She sat cross-legged in the corner, half-hidden by a tall bookcase, flipping through a well-loved copy of The Secret Garden. The bustle downstairs was muffled; this part was hers.
“Hey, stranger.”
She looked up at the familiar voice.
Steve stood a few feet away, one shoulder leaning against the bookcase, a smile tugging at his lips. His hair was a bit messy, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Hey,” she said, smiling gently, closing her book.
He walked over and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in. She didn’t resist—just melted into him like she always did.
“You really made a bookstore just so you could hide away and read, huh?” he teased, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. She chuckled, arms slipping around his neck. “Is that so wrong?”
“Not at all, gorgeous.” She laughed against his chest, then pulled back slightly to look up at him. “How was dinner last night?”
Steve exhaled slowly, thinking of the porch, the beer, the conversation. “Better than I thought,” he said honestly.
She raised a brow. “That’s good. I can’t wait to see them.”
There was a beat of silence. His hand brushed along her hip.
“See him too?” he asked half joking, half not.
She tilted her head, catching the glint of mischief and the quiet fear in his eyes. “Steven Rogers,” she warned playfully.
He grinned, raising both hands. “I’m just messing with you, sweetheart.”
She rolled her eyes fondly, and he leaned in to kiss her. Soft, warm. Familiar.
“Need help with anything up here?” he murmured, glancing around the space.
She nodded. “Actually—”
Meanwhile – Barnes Residence
Bucky sat in his truck in the driveway, keys in the ignition but the engine off. He could hear Winnie and his sister Rebecca still bustling inside something about dessert trays and grabbing the good wine glasses. But he wasn’t listening.
He was staring into the rearview mirror.
He fixed the collar of his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, then looked away. Then looked back.
He hated how nervous he felt. This wasn’t a war. It was a bookstore opening. A small town event. But still
Was this shirt okay? Should he have shaved? Should he even go?
He blew out a breath and leaned back in his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, a thousand what-ifs clawing at his chest. For a second, he thought about backing out. Pretending he forgot. Pretending he didn’t care.
But then the front door creaked open and Winnie’s voice broke the silence.
“James Buchanan Barnes, if you even think about skipping out on this, I swear to God—”
“I’m not!” he called back quickly, plastering on a grin. “I’m just waiting for you two slowpokes!”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and got in the backseat with the tray. Winnie followed with a sigh, climbing into the front. She gave Bucky a once-over.
“You look fine. You always look fine.” He gave her a side glance. “Thanks, Ma.”
She patted his shoulder. “Now drive. You’ve got a girl to see.”
The bell above the door jingled gently as the Barnes family stepped into the store. Bucky entered first, holding the bouquet he had picked up that morning, followed closely by Winnie and Rebecca. The scent of coffee and old pages filled the air, warm and nostalgic.
Immediately, they were greeted by Betty’s parents.
“Winnie!” Mrs. Miller beamed, wiping her hands on her apron as she came around the corner. She gave her old friend a hug before turning to Bucky. “James,” she said more softly, her voice just a little stiff.
“Mrs. Miller,” Bucky greeted with a polite nod, then offered the bouquet. “These are for you.”
“Oh—thank you, James,” she said, accepting the flowers with a small, surprised smile. “That’s very kind.”
“Mr. Miller.” Bucky turned toward the man, offering a hand.
Betty’s father gave a hesitant nod in return, his handshake firm but brief. “Barnes.”
“Place looks beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing around the warm, bustling shop. “You must be proud.”
“Well, you know my daughter,” Mrs. Miller replied, softening a little. “She needed everything just right.”
“She nailed it,” Bucky said with a quiet chuckle, hands going into the pockets of his jacket.
“Well, feel free to make yourselves at home. Food’s over there, wine’s at the bar,” Mrs. Miller gestured toward the corner buffet. “She’s upstairs fixing a few last things. Or if you want to say hi, you could head up.”
Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”
His feet moved before he could second guess himself.
Up the narrow wooden staircase, every step echoed louder in his chest. He ran a hand along the railing, slowing at the top. The smell of old paper, wood polish, and something faintly citrus clung to the air. It felt like walking into a memory he never wanted to admit he missed.
Then he saw her.
She was halfway up a sliding ladder, reaching for a hardcover book on the highest shelf, humming quietly to herself. She hadn’t seen him yet.
Bucky froze, caught in the moment like a moth to light.
Her hair was pulled back loosely, strands falling near her cheeks. She wore a navy blue dress with a light floral print, simple but soft, swaying with her movement. There was a smudge of dust on her forearm, a tell-tale sign she’d been working nonstop. And her smile—God, her smile, even just to herself was the same one that used to undo him back when they were just kids across the street.
It hit him all at once. How much time had passed. How little he’d really moved on. His chest tightened.
She wasn’t the girl next door anymore.
She was a woman. confident, strong, and standing in the bookstore she built from the ground up. And here he was, on the edge of that world, heart in his throat, looking at her like no time had passed at all.
He swallowed hard, hands flexing at his sides.
There were words he wanted to say things he should’ve said a long time ago. But right now? All he could do was watch. Memorize. Let himself feel it, just for a second.
Then she turned, her eyes landing on him at the top of the stairs.
She blinked, surprised, then smiled.
“Hi,” she said, like it hadn’t been four years.
And just like that, he was undone.
Bucky took a slow step forward, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Hey,” he said, voice a little rougher than he wanted. The sight of her here in this place she built knocked the breath out of him. She looked so much like the past, but brighter. Like she had healed.
He watched her descend the ladder gracefully, adjusting the fabric of her dress as she reached the floor.
“You came,” she said gently, like she wasn’t expecting it.
He gave a faint, tired smile. “Would’ve come sooner if I knew I’d still get to see you like this.”
She blinked at that, lips parting slightly, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she gave a small laugh, trying to ease the moment. “Well… I did spend hours up there picking the right book to fix just in case you showed up.”
That made him laugh, breathless and broken all at once.
“This place, Doll… it’s beautiful,” he said, eyes drifting around the shelves, the woodwork, the warm lights, the smell of pages and fresh flowers. “Feels like you.”
“That was the plan,” she said. “A home that didn’t need four walls and a roof to feel like one. I just… wanted peace.”
He looked at her then really looked. “Did you find it?”
She hesitated. “Some days.”
The answer hung between them. Honest. Heavy.
He took another step toward her. “Steve told me last night,” he said quietly. “About you two.”
Her breath caught.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” she said, voice lower now. “You deserved to hear it from me.”
“You didn’t owe me anything, Betts.”
She shook her head. “Maybe not. But I still feel like I did. Like I do.”
He ran his hand down his jaw, biting back whatever feeling rose next. “It’s been four years. I know. But when I see you, it’s like no time passed at all. Like I’m still standing outside your window with a cassette tape and too many stupid things in my heart.”
Her eyes glossed over. “You remember that?”
“I never forgot a second of you,” he said, voice cracking faintly.
She blinked hard, a tear threatening to slip. “I tried justifying us, Bucky. For months, I kept fighting with myself if I should go back home and run to you. And just pretend nothing happened that nothing broke me. But how would that end up for me? I wouldn’t be standing here in my own bookstore. I had to stop thinking about what we were and realizing what we become was not the best for both of us”
“I know,” he whispered. “And I was a coward for letting you.”
Betty reached up to brush her cheek, composing herself. “We lost each other a long time ago. I think we both know that.”
He gave a broken nod, fingers tightening around the bottle he still held. “Yeah. But it doesn’t stop the part of me that still”
“Don’t,” she said softly, kindly. “Please don’t.”
She stepped forward then, and for a second, he thought maybe she was going to reach for him. Maybe pull him into a hug like she used to.
Instead, she placed a hand on his chest right where his heart thudded, wild and aching and looked up at him.
“I will always love the boy who gave me his heart,” she whispered. “But I’m not that girl anymore. And you’re not that boy.” A silence settled between them, heavy like grief.
And then she stepped back.
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I should go check on my sister. She gets cranky when she’s hungry.” That made her laugh, teary-eyed still. “Tell her to try the mushroom tart. Mom made it.”
He turned to go but paused on the top step. “You look happy, Betts,” he said, not looking back. “You deserve it.”
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting a soft amber hue over The book Cellar. Inside the cozy bookstore, the warmth lingered traces of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft conversation still echoing faintly through the air.
The grand opening had been a success. Everyone came, friends, neighbors, people who hadn’t stepped inside a bookstore in years but were drawn to Betty Miller’s quiet charm and the magic she built. People sipped wine and coffee, browsed shelves, took photos beneath the string lights, and celebrated her dream come true.
And now, the place was quiet again.
Everyone had left except for two people.
Betty tied her hair up messily, barefoot now, heels tossed under the counter. She wiped down a table while Steve carried a box of wine glasses to the back. They worked in companionable silence, the kind only shared by people who knew each other’s rhythms by heart.
“Hey,” Steve called out from the corner, flicking a switch on the vintage radio sitting on a high shelf. Soft static fuzzed, then smoothed into the melody of an old tune, something timeless and slow.
Betty turned her head, eyebrows raised. “Really?”
He grinned. “What? We survived a grand opening. I think we deserve one dance.”
She laughed, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Fine. But only because I’m too tired to argue.”
She stepped into his arms, and he pulled her close. They swayed slowly in the middle of the bookstore, right there between the shelves and the half-finished clean-up. The overhead lights were dimmed, and the fairy lights glowed soft above them like fireflies frozen in time.
Steve rested his cheek against her hair. “You did it, my lilibeth.”
She smiled against his chest. “We did it.”
“No,” he said, pulling back to look at her. “You built this. From scratch. From heartache and old books and dreams that never gave up. You did this.”
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his hands fit perfectly against her waist, the way his love didn’t burn it warmed. And maybe that’s why she finally leaned in and kissed him, soft and grateful.
Outside, just across the street, Bucky Barnes sat in his truck. The headlights were off. The street was quiet now.
Through the large front window, he saw them. Dancing. Holding each other like they were home.
And for the first time in years, it didn’t hurt the same way.
It wasn’t a blade twisting in his chest. It wasn’t heartbreak on fire. It was quieter. Gentler. The ache of knowing the girl he had once loved more than anything was finally happy.
And he could live with that.
He watched for a few more seconds. Just long enough to see her laugh and Steve spin her around in the soft glow of her dream come true.
Then Bucky put the truck in gear, one hand resting on the wheel, the other lowering the window slightly to feel the August breeze. He gave one last glance toward the bookstore.
Toward her.
And then he drove away.
Hiii im too excited for the next chapter of already gone!!!! When will it be up 😋💌
HEY!! I’ll make sure to post as soon as possible, just dealing with academic stuff right now. But thank you for your support ❤️
Already gone | Chapter 2
Word count: 3.7k
Theme: Angst, Drama, a bit of fluff, mention of cheating. Best friends turned to lovers Bucky AU, Steve AU, FMC Elizabeth Miller
Summary: From strangers to friends, Friends into lovers and strangers again. All the things they wanted are now memories that are haunted, they were meant to say goodbye. Even if they fight for it. They were never meant for do or die. Perfect couldn't keep that love alive. How would you react if the love of your life is now in the arms of your best friend?. How can it be that years later after not hearing or seeing each other that his feelings are still alive.
Author's note: I made this almost three years ago while listening to ALREADY GONE by Sleeping At Last. I just recently edited it and thought of posting it. Remember that this was written by a 19yr old me. If there are words or sentences that don't make sense please forgive me.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. Feel free to re-blog and like the post! Would love to hear your thoughts on it!
Four years had passed, and James Barnes still hadn’t learned how to forget her.
Brooklyn changed, sure more cafes popping up, sidewalks busier than ever on Sundays, store windows flashing Sale signs like confetti. But the way his chest tightened every time he saw a navy coat, or smelled the faintest hint of lavender and clean books — that stayed the same.
He hadn’t settled. Couldn’t. Not that he didn’t try.
There were dates, dinner, drinks, sometimes mornings filled with silence and regret. But none of them stayed. He never wanted them to. Because no matter how many bodies he laid beside, his heart only ever beat steady for her.
And maybe some foolish, stubborn part of him still hoped…hoped she’d come home, walk through the door, maybe call him James with that soft tired smile like she used to.
But she never did.
The city buzzed that Sunday as he walked out with a sandwich in hand, the crisp breeze of late September brushing against his jacket. He was in the middle of chewing when he spotted a familiar figure on a ladder, hammering in a wooden sign over a storefront.
"Hey, Sam!" Bucky called out, squinting.
The man looked down and grinned. “Hey, Buck!”
Bucky stopped at the base of the ladder, smirking. “You read now?”
“Funny.” Sam shot back, climbing down. “Not mine.. I’m just putting the sign up for a friend of a friend. The store opens next week.”
Bucky glanced up.
The Book Cellar.
A bookstore, library, cafe and winery? All at once.
His stomach turned, the kind of quiet ache that never really healed.
“Looks nice,” Bucky said, clearing his throat.
“Yeah. Owners are moving in stuff all week. You should swing by when they open.”
Bucky nodded, said his goodbyes, and left though the name haunted him the whole drive home.
The Barnes’ house was the same cozy place it had always been. A two-story brownstone tucked in a quieter street. He’d moved back in after years of living in the city of New York, trying to piece himself back together under the familiar roof of home. His mom, Winnie, had welcomed him like nothing had changed. His sister, Becca, still stole fries off his plate.
He pulled up just as the mail truck left. With his free hand, he gathered the mail and a box sitting by the porch steps.
Heavy.
He stepped into the kitchen and dropped the stack of envelopes and packages on the dinner table. “Ma,” he called, voice lighter. “Smells good.”
“Stirring the sauce. Don’t touch it,” she warned without looking.
“Becca!?” he yelled playfully. “I’m here!” his sister called back, appearing from the hallway. Her eyes went straight to the box on the table. “Can I open it?”
“Not for you, Bec.” He grinned, ruffling her hair. “Ugh,” she rolled her eyes. Their mom turned from the stove. “Who’s it from?”
Becca was already rifling through the stack. “Light bill. Water bill.” She passed those to Bucky, the official bill-payer in the house now.
“Some coupons, Ma!” she said brightly, then her eyes landed on the box. She lifted it slightly with a soft grunt. “Ohh, this one’s heavy.”
She tilted the label toward herself and read aloud.
“Oh! It’s from Betty!” That name was a pin dropping into a still room. Bucky turned to look, brows raised, breath caught somewhere in his chest.
Becca blinked. “Wait, it's for you, Ma. Not Buck.” But Bucky was already reaching.
“Hey! Hypocrite!” Becca teased, grabbing his arm. “You said not to open if it aint yours”
Winnie turned off the stove and looked over her shoulder, brows lifted. “Betty sent us something?”
“Apparently,” Becca said, letting Bucky open it as she leaned over his shoulder, nosy.
The tape peeled. The cardboard flaps opened. Inside, wrapped in brown paper and tissue, were books.
Inside, wrapped in brown paper and soft tissue, weren’t just books, they were cookbooks. Vintage ones, glossy new editions, handwritten recipe collections from authors Winnie loved. Nestled among them were a few novels, too. books Betty must’ve thought Winnie would enjoy. A few even had bookmarks placed inside, already tabbed to favorite chapters.
There was warmth in the box — the kind that wasn’t just about the gifts, but the thought behind them. Becca reached in and held up a sealed envelope. “This one’s addressed to the Barnes residence,” she read.
Bucky and his mother both looked at it. Winnie gently took the letter and sat at the table to open it.
The paper inside was thick, soft cream, handwritten in Betty’s familiar script slightly more elegant now, but still undeniably her.
She read aloud.
Hello, When they asked me who the people I wanted to be there when I finally reached my dream, I thought of your family. Mrs. Barnes, you taught me everything I know not just in the kitchen, but about being a strong woman, one who leads a home with grace and grit. I want to formally invite you, Rebecca, and James to the opening of my first bookstore here in my home of Brooklyn. The event will be held on August 11 at the plaza My bookstore is named The Book Cellar. Please don’t feel obligated to bring anything but yourselves. I hope to see you there. — Elizabeth M.
Silence stretched in the kitchen.
Rebecca smiled softly, holding one of the cookbooks to her chest. “She really did it…” Winnie was misty-eyed, folding the letter with care. “She really did.”
And Bucky? He didn’t say anything. He just looked down at his name on the envelope, then to the bookstore name he’d seen earlier that day. The one Sam had helped set up.
He realized now it hadn’t just been a coincidence.
It had been her. She was back. Not at their doorstep. Not asking for anything. Just inviting them to witness the life she built without him, maybe. Or maybe not.
But at least now… he had a chance to find out. “Becca,” Winnie said gently, still holding the letter, “go put those books in the living room, would you? And start setting the table?”
Becca looked between them, then nodded. “Yeah… sure.” She left with a quiet smile, knowing her mom’s tone meant something was coming.
Once the door swung closed behind her, Winnie turned to her son.
“Are you okay, James?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just gave her a faint, crooked smile, one of those practiced ones that never quite reached his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said.
But Winnie Barnes knew her son better than he thought. She saw the way he gripped the edge of the table, the way his jaw tensed just slightly, the flicker of something vulnerable passing through his eyes before he blinked it away.
“You sure?” she asked again, softer this time.
Bucky exhaled, shaking his head a little not in disagreement, but more like he was grounding himself.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Feels like someone pressed rewind on something I already told myself was done playing.” Winnie placed a hand over his, warm and steady.
“She invited us, James. You. That means something.” He nodded, eyes fixed on the folded letter. Like it might disappear if he looked away.
“I know.” And this time, the smile he gave her wasn’t forced.
Three years ago
Central Park, New York
Running had become a ritual for Bucky Barnes. Every morning, just after sunrise, he’d lace up his shoes and hit the Central Park loop like his life depended on it. And in some ways, it did. A year had passed since he lost her the only woman who had ever made him believe in forever. Now, the city was loud, suffocating, and full of ghosts.
If only he’d known back then that life would drag him back to New York, maybe he wouldn’t have destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He’d heard things, of course. From family.. That she’d moved overseas. That she was interning at some prestigious publishing house. That she was thriving.
That she was gone.
Bucky was rounding a quiet bend in the path when a flash of gold barreled into him, knocking him off pace. “Whoa—hey there, big guy,” he muttered, crouching to pet the panting golden retriever. His hand grazed the tag. “Alfie?”
“Alfie! There you are!” a voice called out. Bucky looked up. His breath caught in his throat. “…Rogers?”
The blonde man paused, eyes widening. “Bucky!?” They both blinked. Then, laughter. An embrace.
“Damn, man it’s been years,” Bucky clapped his back. “Yeah,” Steve said, a bit stunned. “Good to see you.”
They grabbed coffee from a nearby cart and sat on a bench overlooking the lake, Alfie lying between them. The silence was warm until it wasn’t.
“So…” Steve said, stirring his cup, “You in the big apple now, Buck?”
Bucky shrugged. “Work. I landed a job nearby. Figured I’d run while I’m in the city.”
Steve looked like he was working something out in his head. “I was actually on my way to Brooklyn. To see you.”
“Lucky you ran into me, then,” Bucky smiled, but Steve wasn’t smiling.
Steve inhaled sharply. “It’s about Betty.”
Bucky’s heart dropped. His fingers tightened around his cup.
“What about her?” he asked, voice low.
“She’s… okay. Really. She’s doing well.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “How would you know that? Wait have- have you seen her?”
Steve didn’t speak immediately. Then, he nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been in the UK the past year, stationed out there. And she’s there. We ran into each other.”
Bucky straightened. His pulse quickened. “What do you mean ran into?”
Steve’s jaw clenched, and then he said it. “I asked her to be my girlfriend.”
Bucky stood up so fast his coffee spilled on the pavement. “You what?” he barked. “Are you out of your mind?”
Steve stood too, hands up. “Bucky just listen—”
“You want me to listen? You?” Bucky’s voice rose. “You think you can just walk in here, say you’re with her..my girl and what? Expect a handshake? A pat on the back?”
“She’s not your girl anymore, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “You lost that right when you cheated.”
The words sliced like razors.
Bucky’s chest heaved. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Steve. You always wanted her. Don’t pretend this wasn’t convenient for you.”
Steve stepped forward, jaw tense but steady. “It wasn’t like that. I tried to stay away. She’s the one who couldn’t look me in the eye without breaking. You know why? Because she still gives a damn about you.”
“Then why the hell are you doing this?” Bucky snapped.
“Because I love her.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Alfie whimpered by their feet.
Bucky shook his head, rage simmering under his skin. “You can’t date her man.”
Steve’s brows drew together. “I don’t think that’s your choice.”
Bucky laughed bitterly, voice cracking. “She was mine. We had plans. A life—”
“And you threw it away,” Steve said, not backing down. “You’re mad at me for showing up, but you’re the one who broke her, Buck. I picked up the pieces. I was there. When you weren’t.”
Bucky clenched his fists. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
Steve’s voice was firm. “I’m not here to ask for your permission. I came because she didn’t want to go behind your back. Because she still cares. But I care too. And if there’s even a chance she could be happy again, I’m not going to let that slip away.”
Bucky turned his back, swallowing the storm rising in his chest. His throat burned. His fingers trembled.
“Let her go, Bucky,” Steve said gently. “You’ve held on long enough.”
Bucky didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew Steve was right.
Betty’s POV
London, A Few Months Ago
London wasn’t what she imagined. It was slower somehow. Quieter in the right places, chaotic in others, but always moving, like it had its own heartbeat.
Betty slipped into the rhythm.
Her wardrobe had changed she swapped her soft floral blouses for structured coats, neutral knits, and polished boots that clicked on cobblestones. Her hair was lighter now, honeyed highlights catching the rare streaks of sun that snuck through the clouds. She had grown fond of layering, of scarves and oversized tote bags filled with half-read manuscripts and pens that always leaked blue.
She had also grown into herself.
At twenty-four, Betty Miller was now a junior editor at one of the London branches of a renowned publishing house. Not bad for a girl who once cried on the floor of her family’s bookstore because someone returned a cookbook with a coffee stain on it.
Her small apartment in Notting Hill overlooked a quiet garden, and her desk sat by the window. That’s where she was, typing away on her laptop, when her phone buzzed beside her. Ma.
She answered immediately, placing the phone on speaker.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Hello, sweetheart,” her mom said, her voice warm and familiar. “How’s my girl doing today?”
Betty stretched her neck, cracking it lightly before leaning back in her chair. “Tired. But good. I’m working on a pitch for a debut author. It’s this cozy romance-slash-family drama with a neurotic cat named Pickles. It’s adorable. You’d like it.”
Her mom laughed gently. “You’re so far from home, and still surrounded by books.”
Betty smiled, her gaze drifting to the rainy window. “Yeah. I like it here, though. Time moves… slower. People say ‘sorry’ when they mean ‘excuse me,’ and I’ve officially learned to eat beans on toast. Voluntarily.”
“I raised a monster,” her mom teased.
They talked for a few more minutes about the weather, a neighbor back home who finally painted their fence, and an upcoming wedding Betty wasn’t flying back for.
Then her mom casually added, “Oh, by the way I had a chat with Mrs. Rogers the other day.”
Betty arched her brow. “Yeah?”
“She said Steve’s in the UK too.”
Betty froze mid-sip of her tea.
Her mother continued, unaware. “Stationed out there for something military-related. Maybe you two could catch up, you know? Easier when you have a familiar face in a new place.”
Betty forced a laugh. “Ma, this country is massive. I doubt we’d just bump into each other.”
“Well, still. Stranger things have happened,” her mother said with a hum.
Betty didn’t reply. Her fingers grazed the edge of her keyboard, mind drifting not to Steve—but to Bucky. She shook the thought away.
A Few Weeks Later
The rain had let up just enough to let the London light filter through the windows of a small, tucked-away bookshop near Portobello Road. It was one of her favorite spots, a quiet haven where no one knew her, and the owners let her read in peace with a cup of lukewarm coffee.
She wandered the narrow aisles, cup in hand, fingertips brushing over spines: poetry, cookbooks, memoirs, romances.
She was halfway through reading the back cover of a new release when she turned to step into the next aisle and collided with something solid.
Not a shelf. Not a pillar. A wall?
“Sorry!” she gasped, stepping back instinctively.
But it wasn’t a wall. It was a man.
A broad, blonde, blue-eyed man. Dressed in a simple black coat and navy sweater, brows raised, holding a paperback in one hand and… smiling. “Oh my God,” Betty whispered.
Steve Rogers blinked, equally stunned. “Elizabeth?” Her heart did a thing. A stupid, fluttery, inconvenient thing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.
Steve chuckled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I was gonna say fate, but sure, we can call it coincidence.”
She looked down, then back at him. “You’re actually here?”
“In the flesh,” he nodded. “A friend of mine said I should check out this place. Didn’t think I’d find you.”
Betty stared at him. For a moment, she just took him in. Older, maybe. Softer around the eyes, still devastatingly kind in the way he held himself.
“So, what now?” she asked lightly, crossing her arms.
Steve offered a smile. Not smug, not apologetic—just… warm.
“I'll buy you another coffee,” he said, tilting his head toward the small counter. “And maybe we talk?”
Betty bit back a smile. She could say no. She should say no.
But she didn’t.
A few months had passed since Betty Miller and Steve Rogers had first bumped into each other at that small bookstore in London. What started as a surprise reunion quickly turned into regular lunches, occasional walks around the city, and endless conversations about everything and nothing. Somewhere in between those moments, a name slipped out one Steve hadn’t used in years.
"Lilibeth," Steve said one afternoon as they sat outside a cozy café nestled between two old brick buildings.
Betty almost choked on her tea, laughing. "Oh my God, you remembered that?"
Steve smirked, sipping his coffee. "How could I forget? You used to threaten to punch anyone who called you that. Except me."
"That’s because you always said it like it was a compliment," she teased, nudging his shoulder.
Their lunches became a routine safe, warm pocket of time where Betty didn’t have to think about deadlines or heartache, and Steve didn’t have to wear the weight of his rank. They talked about the past, reminiscing over summer afternoons as kids in Brooklyn, how Betty would steal Steve’s baseball cap and run around the block until Bucky made her give it back.
One chilly evening, she invited him over to her flat.
"you hungry?" she asked as they climbed the stairs.
"Always."
"I was thinking of making that meal we used to love back home. You know, the one your mom made on Sundays."
Steve raised a brow. "The baked mac with the burnt cheese top?"
"That’s the one." They laughed and cooked together, wine glasses on the counter, music playing low in the background. It felt like home—not the place, but the feeling.
After dinner, Steve leaned back on the couch, sipping the last of his drink. "So," he said gently, "are you ever gonna tell me what really happened with you and Buck?"
Betty's smile faltered. She looked down at her hands, turning the glass slowly.
"You already know we broke up."
Steve nodded. "My mom told me. But she didn’t know why. Said it wasn’t her story to tell." Betty exhaled deeply, eyes fixed on the floor. "We were already lost before everything broke down. Then he cheated."
The air thickened.
"It was just once," she said quickly, as if defending him, or herself. "But once was enough. We were arguing a lot back then. I felt... unseen. Like I was trying to hold us together while he was somewhere else entirely."
Steve stayed quiet, letting her speak.
"I found out through someone else. And he didn’t deny it. Said he made a mistake. That he regretted it. But I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t be with someone who broke me like that."
Steve reached out and gently took her hand.
"I’m sorry, Lilibeth. You didn’t deserve that."
She gave him a small, grateful smile. "No. But I think... I needed to lose him to find me."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken finally released into the quiet.
"You’re stronger than you know," Steve said softly.
"So are you," she replied, and for the first time in a long while, she meant it for both of them.
It had been months since Betty had opened up to Steve about the real reason her relationship with Bucky ended. Since that night in her flat when she told him everything. Steve had looked at her differently. Not with pity, but with quiet admiration, with a kind of reverence that had always been there, buried deep since the moment their families became neighbors back in Brooklyn.
That night, he realized something he could no longer ignore: He was not Bucky. And he would never hurt her the way Bucky did.
Betty…Lilibeth wasn’t just someone from his past. She was the girl he’d loved since they were kids, playing tag on the front lawn, trading Halloween candy, and laughing at nothing until their stomachs hurt. And now she was here, with him, miles away from everything they left behind.
They had just come back from dinner, walking side by side in comfortable silence. She was telling him a story about a ridiculous manuscript she had to edit, and he was only half-listening—his heart thudding in his chest, louder than her voice.
They reached her front step. She turned to unlock the door, but Steve stopped her gently.
“Elizabeth,” he said, voice low and unsure. She turned around, raising a brow. “Yeah?”
He stepped up one stair, then another, closing the gap between them. He towered over her, but somehow he felt small boyish even, standing in front of the girl he’d loved in silence for years.
“I have—I need—” he stuttered.
She chuckled softly, her brows knitting in amusement. “You okay, Steven?”
He shook his head. “No... I think I’m in love with you.”
It slipped out raw, honest, and heavy.
She blinked, lips parting in surprise. But before she could say anything, he was already leaning in. So was she. And when their lips met, it was soft and slow, like a question neither of them had the courage to ask out loud.
But just as it deepened, she pulled away, her breath catching.
“Steve...” she whispered.
He kept his eyes on her, waiting, heart still in freefall.
“We can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Bucky’s your best friend. We can’t do this to him.”
His jaw tightened. “Do you still love him?”
She hesitated then shook her head.
“I’ll always love Bucky. But not the kind that holds your hand at night. Not the kind you build a life with anymore. He’s also my best friend, Steve... I don’t feel right doing this behind his back.”
Steve stepped closer, his voice firmer now. “Betty, we both have our own lives to live. And yeah, Bucky’s my best friend. But I spent half my life watching him get the girl I wanted.”
Her eyes softened.
“I’m not going to let him do it again.” A long pause stretched between them. One breath. Then another. Her eyes dropped to the ground, conflicted.
He reached out, gently cupping her hand. “I would never hurt you, Lilibeth. You know that.”
“I know,” she whispered. And in that moment, they stood there not quite something, not quite nothing but undeniably more than before.
Already gone | Chapter 1
Word count: 4.1k
Angst, Drama, a bit of fluff, mention of cheating. Dialogue from the series FRIENDS iykyk
Bucky AU, Steve AU, FMC Elizabeth Miller
Summary: From strangers to friends, Friends into lovers and strangers again. All the things they wanted are now memories that are haunted, they were meant to say goodbye. Even if they fight for it. They were never meant for do or die. Perfect couldn't keep that love alive. How would you react if the love of your life is now in the arms of your best friend?. How can it be that years later after not hearing or seeing each other that his feelings are still alive.
Author's note: I made this almost three years ago while listening to ALREADY GONE by Sleeping At Last. I just recently edited it and thought of posting it. Remember that this was written by a 19yr old me. If there are words or sentences that don't make sense please forgive me.
> Already gone by Sleeping At Last
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. Feel free to re-blog and like the post! Would love to hear your thoughts on it!
“I want to have my own bookstore,” Betty declared, leaning back on her hands as she gazed at the ceiling like she could already see shelves lined with novels, poetry collections, and worn-out spines telling stories of a hundred lives.
“I want a cat,” Bucky replied lazily, his voice roughened by the hours. He was sprawled beside her on the hardwood floor of their new Brooklyn apartment barely furnished, the only light coming from a crooked floor lamp and the glow of the streetlights slipping through their curtainless window.
“Really?” She turned her head, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “I want a dog though…”
He grinned. “Let’s compromise I want a white cat.”
Betty narrowed her eyes, pretending to consider it. “Uhm… I want a golden retriever. The fluffiest one.”
“I’ll name mine Alpine.”
“Of course you would,” she snorted. “Oh! And I want those plants you only water once a month. The ones that don’t die on you just ‘cause you forgot.”
Bucky laughed softly, his voice mellowed by the warmth of takeout and the safety of their little bubble. “I want kids.”
Betty's head whipped toward him so fast she nearly dropped her chopsticks. Her noodles hung forgotten in midair. “Buck–” she nearly choked, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard him right. “Are… are you serious?”
She put her plate down carefully, heart thudding, and shifted to face him fully. Her knees bumped his thigh. The air had changed gentler, more fragile.
Bucky’s blue eyes were steady. He reached up to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek like he was grounding himself. “Always have,” he murmured. “And I want it with you.”
He leaned forward, brushing a kiss against her lips slow, certain. She melted into it, a smile curling against his mouth before they even pulled apart.
They had been through every season together since lockers and prom corsages, scraped knees and awkward firsts. The high school sweethearts that everyone had predicted wouldn’t last past graduation. But they did. Through college, first jobs, missed trains, and quiet heartbreaks. Through growth and chaos. They held on.
And now here they were: sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of their almost-home, surrounded by unpacked boxes, takeout containers, and dreams tossed into the open like constellations.
The memory bloomed quietly like dust catching in sunlight right there in the silence after Bucky’s kiss.
Betty closed her eyes, heart drumming, and let herself slip backward in time. It started the day she arrived on the block.
The sun was relentless that afternoon, heat rising in waves from the pavement. Bucky and Steve were racing their bikes up and down the sidewalk in front of the Rogers house, the kind of summer afternoon that smelled like grass, rubber, and popsicles.
Screeching tires caught their attention first a car, then a moving truck, stopping across the street.
From the porch, Steve’s mother, Sarah Rogers, called out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh! Here’s the new family,” she smiled, shielding her eyes from the sun.
Bucky coasted to a stop, his sneaker dragging against the concrete, and Steve followed suit. They watched as a man and woman stepped out of the front doors of the elegant, composed. Foreign. There was something different about them, their accents, the way they moved.
Then the back door opened.
Out came a boy, her older brother and girl about their age, hair neatly pinned back, a stuffed penguin tucked tight under one arm. Her eyes were wide, curious. She looked at the house, then at the neighborhood, then finally at the two boys staring at her.
Bucky was the first to move. He tossed his bike down on the lawn with reckless confidence.
“We should say hi,” he said to Steve, nudging him with an elbow.
Steve hesitated. “You go.”
But Bucky was already halfway across the street, dragging Steve along.
“Hi!” he called out, raising a hand. “I’m James but you can call me Bucky. I live a few houses down.” He held out his hand like a proper gentleman, despite the grass stain on his shirt and the bandaid on his elbow.
The girl looked at him, then at his hand. She took it shyly. “Elizabeth. But my parents call me Betty.”
Bucky grinned. “Nice to meet you, Betty.”
He turned slightly. “And this is Steven. Or Steve.”
Steve gave a small wave. “I live right there.” He pointed at the white house just across from hers.
Betty’s lips curved into a soft smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
And that was it. That was the beginning.
Years Later – July 4th
The fireworks hadn’t started yet, but the air was already crackling with excitement. Betty pushed open the Rogers’ front door, the familiar scent of grilled food and fresh lemonade hitting her like a memory.
“Hey Stevie!!” she squealed, spotting him in the hallway.
Steve barely had time to react before she threw her arms around his neck, and he caught her mid-laugh, spinning her around once.
“Happy Birthday, Steven!” she grinned, breathless as she handed him a neatly wrapped gift.
Steve’s smile stretched ear to ear. “Thanks, sweetie.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, completely unaware of the quiet storm happening just a few feet away.
From the kitchen doorway, Bucky stood with a soda in hand, watching the two of them. He said nothing. Just leaned his shoulder against the frame, gaze fixed, jaw tight. There was a flicker in his eyes, something unreadable.
Later that night, while everyone else was gathered in the backyard for the annual barbecue, Bucky noticed someone missing.
He scanned the yard, the string lights swaying above them, the sounds of laughter and sparklers buzzing. Then he saw Betty ducked behind the bushes near the edge of the Rogers' yard, head tilted to the sky.
He crept behind her quietly, stepping on twigs deliberately.
“Boo!”
She gasped, flinching. “Wha– Barnes!!” She smacked his chest. “Don’t do that!”
He laughed. “What are you doing here? The party’s over there.”
“This is the best spot for the fireworks,” she replied, eyes still on the darkening sky. “The sky’s so pretty tonight.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her really looked. The way the light kissed the curve of her cheek, the way her smile softened when she thought no one was watching. Somewhere along the way, she had grown up.
“So,” she said suddenly, not breaking her gaze from the stars, “two years, then we graduate high school. Off to college.”
“Yeah. And?”
“I still haven’t had a boyfriend.” She pouted, exaggerating it for effect.
“Why is that important to you?”
“Yeah,” she said, scoffing. “Easy for you to say—every girl drools over you. Except me, of course.” Bucky smirked, but her next words caught him. “Nobody likes me.” He blinked. “Why do you say that?”
“Because if someone did like me… he’d be right here. Right now.”
“I am,” he said, quietly. She turned to him, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I am here,” he repeated, louder now. “I like you.”
“Yeah, Buck, but you're my best friend. of course you like me, cause if not”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not in a best friend way, Betty.”
She stared at him. “You’re just… you’re always with someone else. I didn’t know…”
“I was waiting for you to notice,” he muttered. “But your attention’s always on Steve.”
“Well…‘cause–” she faltered. “Because you always had a girl on your side. I didn’t know…”
Her voice softened. “I…I like you too.”
The words hung in the air between them, trembling with all the weight of teenage hearts. Now facing each other, his voice dropped low. “Can I kiss you?”
She glanced down at her watch, lips twitching into a grin. “Wait…it has to be perfect.”
She stared at the seconds ticking down. 3… 2… 1.
“You can kiss m—”
He didn’t wait. His lips caught her mid-sentence, and the world quieted. The sky exploded behind them in bursts of red and gold, but all Bucky felt was her.
It was slow. It was soft. It was fireworks in their own right.
And just like that..History changed.
Graduating college changed everything.
The late nights filled with laughter and dreams were replaced with long shifts, unpaid internships, and bills piling up on the counter. The cozy takeout dinners on the floor turned into microwave meals eaten in silence. And the annual traditions, the bookstore dates, the shared Sundays, the 4th of July with Steve faded into forgotten calendar events neither of them brought up anymore.
Living together for two years had chipped at the edges of what once felt unbreakable. Stupid arguments turned into sharp words. Petty disagreements became screaming matches. They fought about everything..the dishes, the laundry, the budget, the goddamn light left on in the hallway.
But it was never really about any of that.
They were losing each other, and they both knew it.
They tried, God, they tried holding on like the love they had was a lifeline, hoping it would be enough. But even perfect love couldn’t survive when the people inside it started to drown.
“Doll, please—let’s talk about this,” Bucky begged, trailing after her from the small café they always used to go to their spot. The one with the cracked leather booth and mismatched mugs. Now it just felt like a stranger’s place.
She stormed ahead, keys rattling as she shoved the door open to their apartment.
“Ugh—I can’t even look at you right now!” Betty’s voice cracked mid-sentence, her body shaking. She jerked away when he tried to reach for her. She couldn’t bear to feel his skin. Not after what he’d done. “Just get away from me!”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, voice hoarse, “It was a mistake. I made a mistake, okay?”
She turned slowly, eyes rimmed red, disbelief carved deep into every line of her face.
“A mistake?” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “What were you trying to put in her purse?”
The night before, their fight had spiraled out of control ugly and heated. He accused her of not caring anymore, of prioritizing everything but him. She told him he’d rather sit in silence than support her. They both said things they didn’t mean.
She’d packed an overnight bag and went to crash at Natasha’s.
Bucky went out. To drink. To forget. And instead of forgetting, he did something unforgivable.
He brought someone home.
Her name was Leah.
She was the bartender.
“You had sex with another woman,” Betty said, each word hitting like a hammer, “while I was at Natasha’s trying to cool off from a fight you started.”
He looked broken. Lost. “I feel so fucking stupid—I know I fucked up, please—” he begged, but her eyes wouldn’t meet his. She kept her gaze locked on the ground because looking at him might shatter her completely.
And then she remembered how it started.
“I got a promotion!” she had said one night over dinner, lighting up like she used to.
“Congratulations, doll!” Bucky had stood from his chair, pulled her into his arms, pressed a kiss to her forehead like he always did. For a moment, it felt like everything was good again.
“Yeah—my boss said I did well. He’s sending me to DC for fieldwork,” she added, still smiling.
That smile faded the second he sat back down.
“Washington? You’re leaving me here?”
“No, it’s just for a few months. I’ll come back—”
“So you decided this on your own? Didn’t even think I’d have anything to say?”
“Buck, this is a huge opportunity for me. A publishing house in D.C. wants me. I thought you’d be happy.”
He slammed his hand against the table, rattling the plates. “What about me?!”
Back in the present, her words came out sharp, fast, cutting him in every way she could.
“The fact that I had to find out from the fucking bartender that you went with her—”
“I was drunk—”
“Get out.” She pointed to the door.
“No. This isn’t just my fault—”
“So it’s my fault you slept with someone else?” she scoffed, slamming the door shut. Her voice was shaking, but her fury kept her upright.
“We haven’t had sex in weeks, Betty. We’ve barely even spoken without fighting. And then this D.C. thing happened and”
She collapsed on the couch, her strength finally giving out. “And that’s your reason? For fucking someone else? You think I didn’t need you too, Buck? You think I wasn’t struggling to keep us together?”
He crouched down, desperate. “We can fix this. We can talk it through”
She stood up slowly, eyes blazing, it was silent for a few seconds before she opened her mouth. “So… how was she?”
“What?”
“You said you wanted to talk about it, let's talk about it. How was she?
“Betty—”
“She must’ve been amazing, right? Because you threw everything away for one night.”
He swallowed hard. “She was… different.”
“Good-different?” she asked, mouth trembling.
“No,” he shook his head. “Nobody likes change.”
She snapped.
Her hands collided with his chest in a fury of heartbreak and rage. “I hate you for what you did.” Her voice cracked. “I hate that you made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I was disgusted with myself. The second I woke up, I knew. I tried to get her out of the apartment before you came back—”
She froze. “Wait. wait- she was here? She- you- you laid her down in my bed!?”
Bucky said nothing.
“Oh my God.” She clutched her chest, the realization sinking deep. “She was here? In our home?” Her voice broke. “In our bed!?”
The way she sank to the floor was like watching a structure collapse. She didn’t cry at first, just sat there, silent, until the tears came in waves, wracking her body with grief.
He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Until she finally looked up at him, eyes swollen, lips trembling.
“Go,” she whispered. “Please… just go.”
He walked the streets of Brooklyn for over an hour. Cried harder than he ever had. Not even when his dad died. Not even when his arm got busted in high school. This was a different kind of pain the kind that doesn’t heal with time. The kind you carry with you.
Eventually, he turned back.
He thought maybe she would have cooled down. Maybe they could try again. He’d beg, he’d kneel if he had to. He just needed her to hear him.
He unlocked the door.
The scent of her still lingered in the air—lavender and vanilla, faint but still there. He stepped inside. The pillows were fluffed. The floors swept. She always cleaned when she was upset.
“Doll?” he called out gently.
No answer.
He walked to the bedroom they used to share and stopped in the doorway. The bed was stripped bare. No covers. No pillows. Because the moment she saw that bed, she knew she couldn’t sleep in it ever again.
Not after what he did.
He had a bad feeling the moment he stepped into the apartment.
The air felt… still. Too quiet. The faint hum of the fridge was the only sound, and it never felt so loud before. Something was off.
“Elizabeth?” he called softly, already knowing she wouldn't answer.
He checked the bathroom first.
Empty.
Then he turned to the closet.
The sliding door was slightly ajar. With trembling fingers, he pulled it open the rest of the way.
Half of her side was gone. No sweaters. No shoes. The suitcase she owned, an old forest green one with a scuffed corner and a red ribbon tied to the handle, wasn't there. Bucky’s chest tightened. Panic settled like a brick in his stomach.
He rushed to the landline, dialing every number he could think of.
Natasha hadn’t seen her.
Wanda hadn’t either.
He debated calling Steve, but he was stationed overseas with the military. That left only one other option, one that made Bucky’s throat dry.
Her parents’ house.
His fingers hesitated over the dial before pressing the number he still remembered by heart.
“Hello—” came a gruff voice on the other end.
“Hi, Mr. Miller. I’m looking for Elizabeth—is she—?”
“To your surprise, yeah. My daughter’s here.”
Bucky felt a flicker of hope… until the man’s voice hardened.
“And you better stop calling her.”
His blood ran cold.
“Me and her brother’ll come pick up the rest of her things.”
Click.
The line went dead.
No goodbye. No room for begging. Just silence. And sure enough, a few weeks later, they came.
Mr. Miller. Her older brother. And her mother trailing behind them, her lips pressed tight, eyes unreadable.
The tension was thick enough to choke on. Her brother didn't even look at Bucky when he entered, just stomped toward her old room and started packing boxes like he’d been waiting years to do it. Her father, tall and sharp in every movement, made sure Bucky never stood within arm’s reach.
It was her mother who lingered. She stopped just before leaving, her voice steady, calm—but no less dangerous.
“Go on. Wait for me in the car,” she told the two men. They hesitated, but obeyed. Not before sending Bucky a look that promised they'd gladly do worse than glare if given the chance.
Bucky stood awkwardly, guilt weighing his shoulders down like armor he couldn’t shed.
“James,” Mrs. Miller said, her voice low.
He straightened instinctively at the sound of it.
“What you did to my daughter wasn’t right.”
“I know, ma’am,” he said quietly, shame pouring out of him. “Please—if I could just talk to her, even just for a minute”
“Barnes, I’m still talking.” Her tone cut clean through him.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze sharp. “She needs space. She’s finally doing something for herself, and you” she stopped, voice catching. “You don’t get to chase her now. Respect her choices. I know Winnie raised you better than this.”
His chest clenched at the mention of his mother—her memory still too raw, too sacred.
Mrs. Miller gave him one final look full of disappointment, and something else. Pity, maybe. Or the quiet understanding of a mother watching another boy ruin her daughter.
Then she turned and left.
The door clicked behind her.
And Bucky stood there, in the middle of the apartment that once held laughter, love, and two toothbrushes by the sink.
Now it was bare. Half the closet. Half the bed. Half the man.
AFTER A FEW DAYS
Betty stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen, the draft email she'd opened hours ago still empty. Her boss had offered her a better position, with her talents she was given the opportunity to move to London. The soft hum of the fan above her did little to quiet the storm in her chest. Around her, the apartment was nearly packed, boxes taped, books wrapped, pictures turned face down. The framed photo of them at Coney Island sat on the kitchen counter. She hadn’t had the heart to pack it yet.
The game they used to play their “ten-year plan” looped endlessly in her mind. Bookstores, a cat named Alpine, a golden retriever, low-maintenance plants. Kids.
That last one had stopped her in her tracks. Not because she didn’t want it, but because he did. So casually, like it had always been a given. And back then, maybe it was.
She closed her eyes and exhaled. It wasn't like she didn't love him. That was the cruelest part how deeply, fiercely she still did.
But love hadn’t been enough to stop the quiet breaking. The way resentment snuck in between the kisses. How they stopped talking and started surviving each other.
She clicked Send.
It was done. And for the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again.
Drunk, reckless, and sleepless for weeks.
That’s what he’d become.
Everyone around Bucky Barnes noticed the shift: the hollow stare, the unkempt hair, the short temper. Something inside him had cracked open and rotted, leaving him raw and barely human. Now he sat alone in what used to be their apartment no, his apartment in Brooklyn. A single dim lamp flickered on in the corner, the only light in the room.
On one hand, he nursed a beer. In the other, the lease papers. The new ones. The ones that no longer bore both their names.
Just his.
No Elizabeth Miller. No shared future.
He was in nothing but his boxers, slouched on the couch they used to fall asleep on during movie nights. Takeout boxes surrounded him like some kind of shrine to denial. The apartment was a mess: dishes piled up, clothes scattered, plants withering. He hadn’t been to work in days.
Then came a knock at the door.
He didn’t move at first. Usually, it was the neighbors complaining about the noise of his yelling, the late-night sobbing. Or the delivery guy. Or the landlord who’d handed him the papers that now lived permanently on his coffee table.
Another knock.
“Hold on, Jesus—!” he barked hoarsely, dragging himself up and throwing on the nearest wrinkled shirt. He wiped his face, trying to at least look human. Barely managing.
When he opened the door, his breath caught.
Her.
“James,” Betty whispered, like it hurt to say.
He blinked, stunned, heart hammering. She looked real. Too real. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His hand reached halfway toward her, trembling, unsure if it was a hallucination.
“James?” she repeated, voice soft but steady.
He shook himself out of his daze, fingers threading through his hair. “Doll...Betty,” he said quietly.
There was a flicker of a smile, but her eyes God, her eyes were heavy with something he didn’t want to name.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Yeah. Yes. Of course,” he stammered, stepping aside.
The silence as they walked in was deafening. They ended up at the dining table, the same table where they used to share Sunday pancakes and spontaneous kisses. The same one they’d made love on after one too many glasses of wine. Now it stood between them like a ghost.
She looked around the apartment, her brows twitching ever so slightly at the mess. He noticed. Of course he did.
“I - I didn’t know you were coming. If I had, I would’ve cleaned or”
“It’s okay, James.”
James. Not Bucky. Not babe. Not love. Just… James.
His throat closed.
“I came here to do this properly,” she said, unable to meet his eyes.
“No,” he shook his head, voice barely a whisper. “No, please. Take your time.”
She took a breath. “I love you.”
He stood immediately, moving to her side like a man drowning. He sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his head into her lap. His voice cracked.
“I love you. I’m so sorry. I regret everything all I want is you. My life has been hell without you.”
Her fingers found his hair, combing gently, lovingly, and for the first time in weeks, he felt calm.
“James,” she whispered, “look at me.”
He lifted his head. Her hands cradled his face now, her thumbs wiping at his damp cheeks.
“I love you. But that’s not enough for me anymore.”
He froze, confusion bleeding into panic. “What..what do you mean?”
She reached for his hand, holding it like it still mattered. “I came here to end this. To say goodbye.”
“No,” he breathed. “Betty, no please”
“I’m leaving, James. I got the confirmation from my boss this morning. I’m moving to London.”
“London?!” He jerked back, eyes wide. “I thought you were just going to D.C. now you’re moving an ocean away from me?!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, cupping his face again. “But I think… our story is done.” Tears burned in his eyes.
“If I stayed, if I kept trying I’d lose myself again. I didn’t come here to hurt you. God, if I could just pick you, I would. But I can’t burn out for you, James.”
He didn’t speak. He just shook his head, trembling.
“I want you to know… you could’ve loved me better. I know you loved me, I really do. And I love you enough to let you go.”
The conversation faded into muffled sobs and shaky breathing. They held each other like it was the last time because it was. One final kiss. One final memory. And then she was gone.
He closed the door, slid down against it, and cried like a man who'd lost the only thing that ever made sense. When he finally stood up and walked back to the table, there it was.
The ring. The promise. The future they had planned. She left it there, silent and deliberate. He picked it up with trembling hands and looped it onto his dog tags, pressing it to his chest like a prayer. The only piece of her he had left.
Sticky notes | The white note | Bucky x Reader
Word count | 1.6k > Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting > Silent yearning Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible. > Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know.
Author | Final chapter. Just whipped up something short for a sweet end.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
It had been two days since the mission.
Two days since the explosion. Since concrete and smoke swallowed her whole.
Y/N had been unconscious through most of it—her world locked in a fog of pain and strange, flickering dreams. But still, voices came and went. A squeeze to her hand. The scent of antiseptic. The warmth of someone brushing her hair back from her face.
Everyone had stopped by.
Yelena, first. She'd left a ridiculous amount of snacks on the table beside her IV stand. Ava followed, dragging Bob in by the wrist with a bouquet of sunflowers that were definitely stolen from the courtyard. Even Alexei grumbled his way in with a fistful of chocolates he claimed were "for recovery purposes."
And Sam?
Sam had been there for the most of her “down time”. When her eyes finally fluttered open, it was his voice she heard first.
“Well, look who finally decided to wake up.”
The room was dim, the soft whirr of machines steady around her. Her whole body ached, head pounding, ribs tight but her fingers twitched at the sheets, and her eyes focused slowly on the figure beside her.
Sam Wilson. Sitting cross-legged on a chair, reading through the very mission file that had landed her in this bed.
“Told you not to be late for our Saturday meeting,” he said without looking up. Her voice was a broken rasp. “Sam?”
“Mm-hm,” he replied, finally setting the folder down and leaning closer, checking her over with those annoyingly observant eyes. “Looking like you got hit by a truck. Or, you know, a Hydra-rigged blast panel.” She winced as she shifted slightly, pain tightening her jaw. Sam was already up, moving with ease as he helped her sit up slowly, adjusting her pillows with the care of someone who’d done this before.
“Easy now. You took one hell of a hit.”
She let out a weak, breathless laugh. “I remember the room. The drives. I didn’t realize—”
“Stop that,” he said firmly, cutting her off before the apology could land.
She blinked.
Sam handed her a cup of water and settled beside her again.
“I mean it. No apologies. You did what had to be done. You trusted your instincts and tried to finish the job. I’m proud of you, even if it went sideways.” Her eyes dropped to her lap, throat tight with emotion, but she nodded.
He gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Wanna know what else happened while you were sleeping like a Disney princess?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
He smirked. “Yelena almost punched a nurse who tried to move your IV. Ava cried. Bob wrote a poem. Alexei tried to read it out loud and cried harder. The usual circus.”
Despite everything, she smiled.
Sam leaned back. “Oh, and Bucky? I haven't slept.”
Her smile faded slightly.
“What?”
Sam gave her a look. “He hasn’t left your side for more than an hour since we got back. Sat right there where I am now, holding your hand like it was the last lifeline on Earth. I had to physically drag him to bed before he collapsed.”
Y/N stared at him, confused. “But… I thought I mean, he’s never…”
“Don’t act stupid, Y/N,” Sam said flatly, but kindly. “We both know you’re smarter than that.”
He reached into the folder beside him and pulled out a small slip of paper.
A sticky note.
Purple.
He handed it to her without a word.
She looked down. Her name was on the front. She opened it with trembling fingers.
“You scare the hell out of me, you know that?
Don’t do that again.
—B.”
Her breath caught. It was him.
The notes. The coffee. The hoodie. The flowers. All of it.
Bucky. Every suspicion she had every flicker of hope she tried to bury—rose to the surface like fire rushing to meet air. Her eyes misted, but she laughed softly through it.
“Of course it was him,” she whispered.
Sam stood and stretched with a knowing smile. “Took you long enough to catch up.” She stared down at the note again, heart thudding.
Bucky Barnes. Quiet, broody, steel-eyed. Always nearby. Always watching. Always showing up without a word, but with a thousand actions.
Bucky was in the gym.
His fists collided with the sandbag over and over precise, brutal, mechanical. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn’t notice. He wasn’t here, not really. His body was, sure, tearing apart something that couldn’t bleed, but his mind was still in that med room. Still stuck on the moment he saw her crumple in the snow.
“You’re gonna owe the team another sandbag.”
He froze.
Her voice.
Bucky turned sharply, chest heaving. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms crossed. A faint bruise still bloomed along her cheekbone, and a bandage curved around her temple but she was upright. Awake. Whole.
“You should be resting,” he muttered, wiping his face with the towel slung over his shoulder.
“I was resting,” she said, stepping inside. “Long enough to figure out you’re terrible at being subtle.”
“Subtle?” he repeated.
She held up a purple note between two fingers, smirking. “You could’ve just said something, you know.”
He looked away, the fight draining from his shoulders.
“You were never supposed to know,” he admitted. “I just… I wanted you to feel seen.”
Y/N’s expression softened. “You really think I didn’t already?”
He glanced at her… really looked at her like he was afraid to believe it. But she was steady. Open. “You’ve been leaving all these little pieces of your heart,” she said. “Guess it’s only fair I leave a few of mine.”
And with that, she stepped closer, pressing a folded white note into his palm. Then she walked away.
Bucky opened it slowly, heart in his throat.
“You really think I’d let anyone else get in line? P.S. I like flowers. But I love the hands that pick them more.”
His hands trembled slightly. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes smiled like someone who just got caught hoping.
Later that night, the compound had settled. The hum of conversation and laughter had dulled to distant echoes, everyone off to rest or decompress. Y/N was curled beneath soft blankets, pain manageable, exhaustion still heavy in her bones. On the nightstand, blue and purple flowers sat quietly in a mason jar wild, imperfect, beautiful.
When the soft knock came at her door, she didn’t expect it. Opening it, she froze. Bucky stood there holding a box of warm brownies and a bouquet that looked like he’d picked it with clumsy care, wildflowers and weeds bundled with twine.
Her smile bloomed slowly. “You picked these?”
He gave a sheepish shrug. “May have fought a bee for one of ‘em.” She laughed. “Come in.”
He handed her the gifts, watching her with that quiet intensity she was finally learning to understand. She motioned toward the couch, then the bed. “Dealer’s choice.”
Bucky sat on the edge of her bed stiff, uncertain while she placed the brownies and flowers on her desk. When she turned around, he was watching her with something raw in his eyes. “So,” she began softly, “finally gonna tell me it’s been you this whole time?”
He nodded once, slow. “Yeah.” The confession came easy then. Not all at once but piece by piece. He told her how it started with a laugh in the kitchen. A shared coffee in silence. How he watched her light up over small things. how he wrote them down. Because remembering her joy felt like a way to keep himself grounded.
“You scare me,” he admitted. “Because you make me feel like peace is real. And I haven’t let myself believe that in a long time.”
She didn’t speak. Just stepped away for a moment and opened her dresser drawer. From inside, she pulled a well-worn journal. Black leather, the edges frayed. She handed it to him. Bucky looked confused as he took it and opened the cover. Inside were sketches.
Of him.
Pages of him.. small moments frozen in graphite and ink. One of him beside Steve during training. Another of him is sitting quietly in the library, half-asleep in a chair. One where he was reaching for a cup of coffee in the kitchen, her own mug drawn beside it like she had imagined it there on purpose.
And beneath some drawings were tiny descriptions. Fragments.
“He always checks the exits.”
“He doesn’t like loud movies, but he watches them anyway.”
“He lets Sam win sometimes.”
Then at the back pressed neatly in a pocket were the sticky notes she had saved. Green, pink, blue, yellow. All of them.
Y/N’s voice was quiet when she spoke.
“Well,” she said, “that makes two of us.”
Bucky stared at the pages in disbelief, thumb brushing lightly over a sketch of himself with his hair tied back, a rare soft look in his eyes captured by her hand. He looked up at her slowly, something unspoken blooming between them fragile, but real.
He swallowed thickly. “You saved them?” She nodded. “Of course I did.”
There was a long silence. One of those good silences. The kind that didn’t beg to be filled. And then Bucky said, almost whispering, “Can I kiss you?” Y/N smiled, crossing the short space between them.
“You’re gonna have to,” she murmured. He chuckled softly and kissed her like she was the calm in every storm he’d ever survived. And in the quiet hum of the night, with brownie crumbs, flowers, and unsaid things all around them peace didn’t feel so far away anymore.
Sticky notes | Masterlist
Post it notes - Masterlist
Pairing- Bucky x Yn | Bucky x Reader Summary: What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
Authors note: This is the official Masterlist of the Sticky notes series. from my old acc. MyOwnCase.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
The yellow note
The Blue note
The Green note
The Pink note
The Purple note
The White note
Sticky notes | The purple note | Bucky x reader
Word count | 1.4k >Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting >Silent yearning Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
> Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know. >Author | Bear with me I know I'm not a good writer. I asked the internet to check my spellings and grammar. Hihi enjoy.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
Chapter Five: “The Purple Note”
A vase of flowers in the common room addressed to her.
“Okay but listen,” Yelena hissed over her mug of coffee, crouched behind the armrest like it was a spy op. “It’s definitely Bucky. Who else leaves handwritten notes and brownies?”
Bob rolled his eyes as he folded a slice of pizza in half. “You’re missing the obvious answer. John. I mean, he has tried asking her out a couple times now.”
“He also has the emotional depth of a spoon,” Ava chimed in. Alexei was halfway through snorting his drink when Bucky. quiet in the corner, flipping through recon photos—heard it.
“Alright, alright,” Ava said, spinning around and zeroing in on him without shame. “Let’s just settle this right now.” All heads turned. Yelena, Bob, even Alexei mid-bite.
“Bucky,” Ava said, blunt as a hammer, “are you the one giving Y/N flowers? 'Cause if not, other people would like to get in line.”
Bucky nearly choked on air, looking up with wide eyes. His mouth opened, no sound. His grip tightened around the folder in his hands. But then the door slammed open.
“Everyone to the meeting room. Now.” Y/N’s voice was sharp, commanding. She didn’t look flustered, just focused. And none of them dared delay when she was in that mode.
In the Meeting Room
A screen lit up in front of them, a Hydra symbol flashing red on the side.
“We’ve got chatter from an old sector,” Y/N said, eyes locked on the data feed. “They’re trying something similar to the Siberia program cloning the serum into AI-capable host tech. This mission is a sweep and seize. Stealth, extraction, tech recon.”
“Do we expect resistance?” John asked.
“Always,” she replied. “We leave in two hours. Suit up.”
In the Hangar – Pre-Mission
Y/N moved through the jet like a storm, checking fuel lines, syncing the comms, and double-counting field kits. Her voice echoed in short commands and system checks, calm but firm.
Bucky was the first to board.
He spotted her in the cockpit, crouched beside the interface with wires coiled at her feet, fingers moving in practiced precision. The flicker of concern on her face was faint, but it was there.
He stepped forward.
“You okay?” he asked, one hand resting on the back of her chair. She looked up at him, caught mid-fix. A tired smile pulled at her lips, trying to be lighter than the weight in her eyes. “Of course,” she said with a dry chuckle. “I was made for chaos, remember?”
Still, she looked back down too quickly. “Be careful in the field” he murmured, voice low. That was the last thing he said before the mission began.
South Wing – Operation Unfolding
The team moved through the facility, clearing rooms with military efficiency.
Until her voice cut through the intercom: “South wing broke the locks on the door. Room with drives—”
A loud bang.
Then silence.
“Y/N, report,” Ava said, immediately alert.
Nothing. “Y/N, do you copy?” Yelena barked, already turning heel toward the south wing. Bucky’s heart dropped. He switched his comms manually, locking to her channel only.
“Doll? You need to answer me. Are you there?” he asked, moving faster now, boots hitting concrete hard.
Nothing.
Then:
“I found her!” Alexei’s voice came through all channels.
They all converged at the corridor, hearts in throats. There she was.
Laid out on the floor of the room. The drives were dummies traps. The explosion had torn through the wall and thrown her against the concrete. Debris clung to her hair, blood at her temple, limbs limp. They converged fast. What should’ve been a lab with secure data was a trap. The servers were hollow. Booby-trapped. A blast rigged to go off when the drives were touched.
Y/N lay crumpled against the far wall, smoke curling upward from scorched paneling. The explosion had thrown her hard. Blood painted a thin trail from her temple, and one of her legs was twisted awkwardly beneath her. The room reeked of burnt wiring and metal.
“Y/N” Bucky dropped to his knees beside her, his face pale, jaw clenched. Her chest rose but barely.
He brushed debris from her cheek with shaking fingers. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “You gotta stay with me, sweetheart.” Yelena and John swept the corners with weapons raised while Ava kept eyes on the corridor.
“She's breathing,” Bucky said, voice rough. “She’s alive.” Without waiting, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like she weighed nothing.
Back on the Jet – En Route to the Compound
She was pale. IV hooked to her arm. Monitors beeping quietly beside the bench. Yelena hadn’t left her side. Ava handled vitals. Bob secured the gear with a solemn look. John piloted with the kind of sharp intensity that said: if anyone tries to stop us, they’ll die trying.
Bucky sat cross-legged near her head, eyes never leaving her face. His hand barely brushed her wrist, just enough to feel her pulse. Just enough to keep count.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, it seemed, until they landed.
The med team patched her up. Mild concussion. Bruised ribs. They said she was lucky. That if she hadn’t turned when she did, the blast would’ve hit her spine.
Bucky waited until the others had stepped out. He lingered for a long moment in the doorway. Then he slipped in. The room was silent now. Only the soft beep of monitors filled the space, blinking steady green. Moonlight pooled through the blinds in quiet slats, striping the white sheets where she lay.
Bucky pulled a chair to her bedside and sat, hands clenched.
Her hand pale, dotted with IVs rested nearby. He hesitated, then reached for it, cradling it gently between his own. Calloused fingers brushing over the tape securing the line. Like if he held on tight enough, she’d come back faster.
He lowered his head, forehead nearly resting against her arm. His shoulders shook slightly as he exhaled. Then, in a whisper like he feared waking ghosts, he spoke.
“Don’t do this to me, doll.”
Silence.
He swallowed hard.
“I know you probably can’t hear me… but I’ve been carrying this too long.”
He sat up slightly, still holding her hand.
“I started writing it all down,” he admitted. “The little things you said. The weird things you liked. Like how you hate cold coffee but always forget your mug. Or how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s around.”
A breath, shaky but soft.
“Every time you get excited over something small like a new pen or a weird cloud shape I swear my damn heart doesn’t know what to do. And your laugh…” He gave a weak chuckle, his voice rough. “That laugh of yours… it’s the closest thing I’ve ever heard to music.” He paused, thumb brushing along the back of her hand.
“I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen the trap. Protect you. I didn’t, and I hate myself for that.” A pause. Longer now. He glanced at her face peaceful, still too pale.
“This will be the last time,” he said, voice steady now. A vow. “You won’t get hurt like this again. I won’t allow it. Not while I’m breathing.” His chair scraped softly as he stood, never once letting go of her hand.
He leaned forward, brushing a few strands of hair away from her cheek. Fingers lingering in her hair. Gentle. “I haven’t told you it was me all along,” he whispered. “The notes. The brownies. The folded hoodie.” He bent slightly, lips near her ear now.
“I need to tell you that, doll. Give me a chance to stop hiding. Let me show you what it’s like when someone loves you like you deserve. Let me love you… out loud.” He pressed the softest kiss to her forehead.
Then stood still, watching her breathe.
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes let hope settle somewhere deep in his chest. Even if just for tonight. Before he left, which was the next morning, he made sure to leave something behind. Something that has his name. A purple sticky note.
Neat handwriting. Slight tilt to the left. A bit smudged at the corner where he’d hesitated holding it.
It read:
“You scare the hell out of me, you know that? Don’t do that again. —B.”
Sticky notes | The pink note | Bucky x reader
Word count | 1.3k > Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting > Silent yearning Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
> Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know. >Author | Bear with me I know I'm not a good writer. I asked the internet to check my spellings and grammar. Hihi enjoy. > Short chapter
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
Chapter Four: “The Pink Note”
The next morning at the compound, the kitchen was unusually peaceful. Light poured through the wide windows, catching dust in the air and bathing everything in gold. The smell of eggs, toast, and freshly brewed coffee wrapped around the room like a blanket.
Y/N entered, wrapped in that gray hoodie.
She looked half-asleep, cradling a notebook against her chest, heading straight for the coffee machine. She hadn’t even noticed Bob and Yelena already seated at the long table—until the clinking of a spoon against ceramic broke her daze.
“Ohhh. So you’re wearing it now?” Yelena called out, a knowing grin spreading across her face.
Y/N blinked. “Wearing what?”
“That hoodie,” Bob chimed in with a teasing tone. “The one that magically reappeared on your bed like a little laundry miracle.” Y/N side-eyed them as she poured her coffee. “I just found it.”
“Neatly folded,” Yelena added. “With another sticky note. Color-coded affection, I swear.” Y/N took a slow sip, hiding her growing smile behind the rim of her mug. “You two are insufferable.”
Bob leaned across the table. “We’re just saying... brownies? Hoodies? Anonymous notes? It’s giving mystery admirer.”
“And we’re betting it’s someone broody,” Yelena said, eyes flicking toward the far end of the room. Across the kitchen, Bucky sat quietly with a mission report and a protein bar, looking like he couldn’t care less. But his grip on the paper had stilled completely.
Y/N followed Yelena’s gaze and felt her ears warm. “No way.”
“No proof,” Yelena corrected, already grinning wider. Just then, Bob reached toward the kitchen island, plucking something from beside the fruit bowl. “Speaking of,” he said, holding it up between two fingers, “new one.”
A sticky note.
Pink.
Bob cleared his throat dramatically and read aloud:
“You looked tired yesterday. Don’t forget to rest too. —P.S. Coffee’s already brewed.”
Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, and she stepped closer. The note was addressed to her. Same writing. Same subtle care. She glanced at the fresh pot of coffee already waiting.
“…Okay, that’s actually a little creepy. But also… really sweet?” she muttered, her expression softening despite herself.
Bob handed it to her like it was made of glass. Yelena leaned over to whisper, “So when’s the wedding?” Y/N smacked her lightly with a dish towel.
Across the room, Bucky turned another page in his file, pretending not to listen—though a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.
Later That Morning – Training Room
The sound of fists hitting punching bags echoed through the compound’s gym. Y/N, dressed in training gear and that same gray hoodie tied around her waist, was running through drills on the mat with Yelena. Fast hands, sharp movements, hair pulled back and damp with sweat.
Across the room, Bucky was spotting Bob at the weights, but his eyes kept drifting—again and again—to the mat.
He wasn’t the only one watching.
“Need a sparring partner?” John asked, stepping beside the mat with that familiar overconfident smile. Y/N blinked. “Depends. You planning to take it seriously this time?”
John laughed. “Come on, don’t act like you didn’t miss having me as your partner.”
Before Yelena could protest, John stepped onto the mat and dropped into a loose stance. Y/N glanced at her friend, who gave a reluctant shrug and stepped back. “He’s gonna cry when you flip him.”
They circled each other slowly, tension in the air, but playful. John lunged first, aiming wide—telegraphed, almost on purpose. She dodged easily, flipping him onto his back with a solid sweep.
“Still got it,” she teased, offering a hand to help him up.
John laughed again, pulling himself upright. “Damn. You have been training.”
Bucky had been silent this whole time. Still standing by the weights, jaw tense. His grip on Bob’s bar tightened, eyes locked on the mat as John leaned in too close while brushing imaginary dust off Y/N’s shoulder.
Then John said, “You know, I always said you were dangerous. In the best way.” wrapping an arm around her waist like its natural.
Y/N chuckled awkwardly and looked down, rubbing the back of her neck. “Right…”
That’s when Bucky finally moved.
“Hey,” he called out, voice calm but cool.
Both Y/N and John turned to look. Bucky was now walking over, towel draped on his shoulders, expression unreadable.
“You done?” he asked, eyes flicking to John.
John shrugged. “Just catching up.”
“Cool,” Bucky said. “She said she wanted a real sparring partner, though.”
Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “I did not—”
But before she could finish, John raised his hands in surrender and backed off. “Damn, alright, Tin Man. She’s all yours.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t say—ugh, fine.”
Moments Later – On the Mat
They faced each other in stance. There was a long pause. Heavy silence.
Y/N raised a brow. “You jealous, soldier?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Instead, he lunged controlled, but fast. She barely blocked his hit before countering with a low sweep, which he dodged easily. “You’re not denying it,” she said, breathless from the pace. “You said you wanted to spar,” he replied, eyes locked on hers. She grinned. “You’re acting like I flirted back.”
“You didn’t stop him.”
“Oh, wow. The Winter Soldier’s sulking?”
That did it.
He surged forward, catching her in a hold that spun her around, but she twisted out of it last-second, landing behind him. Her breath caught. They were close. Too close.
Her back hit the wall.
His hand braced beside her head.
Their faces only inches apart.
“I don’t like him touching you,” he said lowly.
Her heart stuttered. “And if I did?” she whispered, tone teasing but uncertain.
His jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t let it happen twice.”
Silence. Tension thick enough to snap.
But just when it seemed like something might actually happen—Yelena’s voice called out from the other end of the gym:
“Are you two flirting or fighting?”
They both stepped back instantly.
“Fighting!” Y/N yelled back too quickly.
“Flirting!” Bob yelled at the same time.
Bucky cleared his throat, backing away fully now. “Good match.” Y/N gave a short nod, cheeks burning. “Yeah. Sure. You’re not bad.”
He turned to leave, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
That Night – Y/N’s Room
After a long shower and way too much pacing, Y/N finally sank into bed. Her limbs were sore, her mind still spinning from the earlier sparring session.
Bucky Barnes does not get flirty.
At least… not with her.
Usually.
She sighed, flopping sideways with a dramatic groan and burying her face in the hoodie she’d finally been reunited with. It still smelled faintly like lavender detergent and gunpowder. Very her. She smiled into the fabric. But when she sat up, something caught her eye—again.
A flash of color on her desk.
Her heart skipped.
Another note.
Pink this time. Perfect square. Folded slightly at the corner, like it had been carried nervously in a pocket for too long. She approached slowly, pulse steady but fast.
She picked it up. Her name was written on the front in the same familiar handwriting. Inside, it read:
“You looked strong today. You always do.
Even when you’re holding back.”
No signature. No clue.
Just the quiet echo of his voice in her head.
She ran her fingers along the paper, then tucked it into the same drawer where the green one now lived next to a little box of things she swore she wasn’t collecting.
With a soft, secret smile, she crawled under the covers.
Down the Hall
Bucky sat on his bed, legs stretched, fingers running through his damp hair. He looked at his desk where the pink sticky notes sat—one now missing.
He didn’t regret it.
She looked damn near radiant on that mat earlier. But it was more than that. She looked like herself. And he liked seeing her like that. He didn’t know if he’d ever say the words out loud. But for now, the notes felt safer. Easier. Like he could still say what mattered, without risking everything else.
His last thought before sleep hit was of her smile. And the way she didn't look away.
Sticky notes | The green note | Bucky x reader
Word count | 2.6k > Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting > Silent yearning Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible. > Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know. >Author | Bear with me I know I'm not a good writer. I asked the internet to check my spellings and grammar. Hihi enjoy.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
Chapter Three: “The Green Note”
The soft buzz of her tablet echoed in the quiet room. Y/N blinked at the incoming call. Sam Wilson. She smiled and answered. “Captain.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sam greeted, voice warm and easy. “Just checkin’ in. How’s it goin’ over there? New team treating you alright?”
“Honestly?” she leaned back into the couch, legs tucked under her. “It’s been good. Great, actually. Everyone’s… different. Weird, but it’s working.”
“And Bucky?” he asked, too casually.
She hesitated. “I think he’s good. I mean… he’s kinda like the leader here, right? So, busy. He doesn’t really talk to me that much so—”
Sam snickered.
“What?” she asked, brow furrowing.
“What do you mean he doesn’t talk to you?” Sam drawled. “He talks about you constantly. It’s borderline annoying now.”
Y/N blinked, a laugh escaping. “Shut up, he does not.”
“I swear on Redwing’s grave, yes he does. I get a weekly update on your training stats. Like I’m your sponsor or something.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not! Ask Torres, he sits right beside me when it happens. The man is down catastrophic, Y/N.”
She opened her mouth to argue—but then the door creaked open.
She looked up—and there he was. Bucky Barnes. Looking like sin, fresh from a mission and casual in just a black tee and tactical pants, fingers still tugging off his gloves.
Her breath caught.
“I gotta go,” she said quickly, standing. “I’ll see you Saturday, yeah?”
“Yup. Don’t be late. I’m gonna need extra help with this one.” She hung up and turned just in time to catch Bucky looking at her—not directly, but enough that she knew he’d overheard something.
“You going out Saturday?” he asked casually, tossing his gloves into a locker and fiddling with his wrist wraps.
“Uh, yeah,” she scratched the back of her neck. “Sam invited me to eat out and talk about something he needs help with.”
His jaw twitched. “Eat out,” he repeated flatly.
Wow. He only heard that part, I guess.
“Yeah,” she explained, “it’s something for Torres, apparently. I guess Joaquin was too shy to ask for help directly.”
He didn’t respond. Just nodded once, eyes still fixed on the straps in his hands.
So she poked the bear. “Maybe Torres is the one leaving me notes,” she mused aloud, voice teasing.
That got his attention. He turned his head, sharp.
“I mean,” she shrugged, “I don’t know how he’d get into my room at night, but I did message him asking if I left my hoodie at Sam’s.”
He said nothing.
But he was fuming. Jaw tight. Shoulder tense. His hands stilled on the strap.
No way a kid like Torres gets my girl, he thought, fists clenching.
That Night – Sam’s Apartment
A knock.
Then another, more insistent this time. Sam opened the door to find Bucky standing there, scowling like the world owed him an apology.
“Hey… why are you here?” Sam asked, confused. Bucky stepped in without waiting, stopping dead center in the living room, hands on his hips like he was investigating a crime scene.
“What do you need from Y/N?”
Sam blinked. “That’s none of your business.”
Bucky tilted his head, just slightly. That silent don’t fck with me, Wilson* look.
Sam sighed. “You know she’s my friend too.”
“Why are you going out with her this Saturday?”
Realization dawned across Sam’s face. Slowly. Gleefully. “Ohhh,” he said, dragging the word out as he rounded the kitchen counter to grab a drink. “That’s why you went full terminator at my door.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said too fast.
“She’s on your new team. You don’t want her distracted. You’re worried about her schedule. Sure. Totally legitimate concern,” Sam mocked, sipping his drink.
Bucky stared, jaw twitching. “She said yes,” Sam said simply, baiting him.
“Okay, okay—” Sam added, holding up a hand. “I was planning to set her up with Joaquin.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He stepped forward. “No. No way. You’re not serious.”
“I fucking knew it,” Sam said, grinning like a kid with a secret. “I knew you liked her. I’ve been telling you this for months. Even Steve noticed, and he backed off for you, man!”
Bucky stared at the floor like it offended him, jaw tense. Shaking his head.
Sam leaned against the counter, sipping his drink with raised brows. “So, you don’t like her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn't say no either.”
Bucky stayed quiet. Sam smirked. “Alright then. Cool. I’ll go ahead and set her up with Joaquin.”
Bucky’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Sam tilted his head, feigning innocence. “She’s single. Torres is sweet. And I know he finds her attractive. The kid has her face as his screensaver” Sam added— I'm going to rip that kid's arms off, that way he can’t use a phone. Maybe remove his eyes too so he can't look at her that way. Bucky’s internal monologue to himself. Plotting
Bucky took a slow step forward, voice low and sharp. “Don’t.”
Sam stared at him for a beat, eyes gleaming with victory. “So you do like her.”
Bucky exhaled, frustrated. “Yes. Okay? Yes I like her. A lot.”
“Shocking,” Sam deadpanned.
Bucky kept going, like he couldn’t stop now that the dam cracked. “She walks into the room, and it’s like my mind forgets every mission, every nightmare. She talks to me like I’m not broken. She teases me like I’m normal.” He paused, chest rising and falling.
“I’ve liked her since the first time she called me ‘James’ and didn’t flinch. Since the first time she handed me coffee and didn’t ask why I was pacing at 2 a.m.”
Sam raised a brow. “Since the first note?”
Bucky looked away. “Even before that.” A small silence settled. Sam walked over, clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“You’re screwed, man.” Bucky let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
Sam grinned. “So. Gonna tell her?”
“I already write her notes. That’s my emotional capacity, Wilson.”
Sam laughed, then wagged a finger. “Just remember: if you don’t make a move soon… I will set her up.” Bucky shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t.”
Sam shrugged. “Try me.” Bucky muttered, turning for the door. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re in love, old man.”
Bucky paused at the door.
“…Yeah. I am.”
Then he walked out—heart pounding, hands clenched, mind racing with only one thought:
I need to tell her.
Back at the new avengers tower
Bucky sat alone in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, chewing on a lukewarm slice of pizza as his eyes scanned the mission briefs scattered in front of him. A red pen marked the corners. He’d gone over the files twice already, but routine kept him steady.
Then, soft footsteps padded in from the hallway.
Y/N.
She looked like she’d just stepped out of her lab—ponytail askew, sleeves smudged with graphite or oil. In her hand was a Tupperware container, and under her arm was a thick sketchbook held closed by a pen tucked in the spirals.
She froze halfway into the kitchen when she saw him, caught mid-step, like a deer spotting another in the field. Her eyes flicked to the pizza in his hand, then up to his face.
They locked eyes.
He didn’t move. Just stared, wide-eyed and caught with a bite halfway to his mouth.
She gave him a soft, apologetic smile and a nod. “Sorry,” she murmured gently, starting to turn back toward the hallway. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Y/N,” he said, catching her before she disappeared. She turned back.
“You don’t have to leave if you need something,” he said, hoping she would stay. setting the pizza down. “I won’t mind.”
Her eyes softened, and she nodded before stepping further inside, walking to the counter. She placed her notes down with a quiet thud. “Sorry. Just didn’t want to disturb you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mind, doll.”
That word again. Doll.
He said it so casually now, like it belonged to her. Like her name came with it.
“You having pizza for dinner?” she asked as she unpacked her container.
He nodded, swallowing the last bite. “Too lazy to cook.”
“Fair,” she smiled, then turned to the microwave. “I made pasta last night. It tastes better heated up anyway.” She didn’t ask—she just moved, instinctively splitting the food onto two plates. One in front of him, one across the counter where she slid into the barstool, her notes now flipped open beside her.
He blinked down at the plate. The smell hit him first….garlicky, a little creamy, just enough spice. Then the realization. No one had made him dinner in… years. Decades, even. “Thanks,” he said, looking at her like she’d handed him something sacred.
She glanced up from her notebook and gave him a smile that made something in his chest twitch. “You’re welcome.” The silence between them was comfortable—filled only with scribbles of her pen, the clink of forks, and Bucky slowly chewing the best pasta he’s ever tasted.
“What are you writing about?” he asked eventually, eyes flicking to her notebook.
She tilted it toward him. Pages of sketches, diagrams of circuits, blueprints of a sleek bracelet design that looked very Stark-level genius. Only hers had a handwritten label: tactile armor converter stealth compatible.
“Just a re-creation of one of Tony’s old models,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m tweaking it a bit. His version was… louder.”
He chuckled quietly. “That tracks.”
“I’m trying to make it discreet. Something field-useful but still sleek. Like, one second you’re wearing a bracelet, next second you’re suited up.”
Bucky raised a brow, visibly impressed. “That’s smart.” She gave him a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. At least to him. She cooked, she designed, she listened, she saw people without needing them to explain themselves. No wonder the rest of the team gravitated to her.
And now he was doing the same.
When their plates were empty, she stood up and stretched. “Want dessert?”
He looked up quickly, hopeful. “You have dessert?”
“Mm-hmm.” She opened the cabinet above the fridge and pulled out a small, foil-covered tray. “I had to hide this from John. He keeps stealing pieces when he thinks no one’s looking.”
Noted.
She peeled back the foil and cut a piece of the brownie before setting it gently on a napkin in front of him.
He stared at it like it was treasure.
They both took a bite at the same time. The same rich chocolate crunch on the edge, soft in the middle. Exactly like she’d described.
“You know,” she started, her tone light and teasing, “someone left a plate of these the other day. Address to me.”
His jaw froze for a split second.
She glanced sideways at him. “No name. Just a note. Blue sticky.” He kept chewing. Nodded slowly.
“Yelena thinks it was you,” she added casually, eyes back on her notebook, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
He wiped his mouth and stood, suddenly too warm.
“Wasn’t me,” he said—quiet, firm, and with a look she couldn’t read. “But thanks… for the food.” She tilted her head slightly, amused. “Of course. Night, Bucky.”
“Night, doll.”
As he walked down the hallway, footsteps barely making a sound against the floor, the weight in his chest didn’t ease.
“Wasn’t me,” he’d said.
Lie.
He clenched his jaw, eyes trained on the floor ahead like it would change the past three minutes. The way she looked at him half-knowing, half-hoping. The little smirk. That damn smirk she gave when she already knew the answer but asked anyway.
I could’ve said yes.
He could’ve told her: Yeah, it’s me. I leave the notes. I bake the brownies. I wrote that dumb sticky about your laugh being the only thing that gets me through the day.
But he didn’t.
Coward.
What would she even say? He thought bitterly. What if she laughs? What if she doesn’t see me the same? What if I ruin whatever the hell this is?
So instead, he gave her the same line he always did—quiet affection masked in denials, closeness kept at arm’s length.
She deserved more than a man who couldn’t even claim his own kindness.
He stopped in the hallway outside his door, fingers twitching at his side. The green sticky notes were still in the drawer. Half-filled, some just scribbles. Some full paragraphs he never dared to give her.
Maybe one day, he told himself.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he’d settle for hearing her voice say “Bucky,” watching her smile across the kitchen table, and pretending that was enough.
Even if every part of him screamed:
Please. Just tell her.
Yes, it was me.
It’s always been me.
Back in her room, Y/N kicked off her shoes with a groan and dropped her notebook onto the bedside table. The lights were low, casting her walls in soft amber shadows. She stretched once, arms above her head, and finally felt the weight of the day melt from her shoulders.
Then she noticed it. Sitting at the foot of her bed, neatly folded, was her hoodie.
Her favorite hoodie.
The one she thought she lost weeks ago—the gray one, just oversized enough to swallow her whole, with faint burn marks on the sleeve from a field mission and a faded Stark Tech logo stitched into the hem. She’d searched for it more than once, even assuming someone accidentally took it during laundry duty.
But there it was. Clean. Folded with care. And on top of it, pressed down lightly by its own weight, was a small green sticky note.
“I know this is really important to you. Sleep well, Y/N.”
Her breath caught just slightly. She didn’t touch it right away—just stood there for a second, heart doing something strange in her chest. Like it was curling into itself.
She picked up the note gently, thumb brushing over the handwriting. That same clean, blocky script. She sat on the bed slowly, pulling the hoodie into her lap, hugging it like it had been gone for years.
He noticed. He remembered.
She laid back, clutching it to her chest. The softest smile played at the corner of her lips. Somewhere down the hall, in the dark of his room, Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers.
He could still feel the hoodie in his hands—the way it smelled faintly like her even after all this time. He’d found it two nights ago, tucked behind the stacked towels in the communal laundry room, nearly forgotten.
He didn’t know why he held onto it. Maybe part of him liked the excuse to keep a piece of her close, even if only for a moment.
But tonight… tonight he knew she needed to feel seen. And damn it, he wanted her to know he saw her.
Still, he didn’t sign the note. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. His fingers had hovered over the pen, aching to write —B, but he chickened out at the last second. Coward.
Again.
He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye, jaw tightening. She probably doesn’t even suspect it’s me, he thought.
But if she did… God help him. He didn’t know if he was more afraid of her knowing the truth—or not knowing at all. Down the hallway, her light blinked off.
He heard the soft creak of her mattress, the rustle of fabric. Then it was quiet.
And he let himself picture her for just a minute curled up in that hoodie, warm and safe, wrapped in something he returned to her. That’s enough, he told himself. That has to be enough.
But in the silence, as he lay back and stared at the ceiling, the thought still clung to him like smoke: One day, she’ll know. And he only hoped when that day came… she’d still want him.
Sticky notes | The blue note | Bucky x reader
> Word count | 1.6k > Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting > Silent yearning > Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
> Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know. >Author | Bear with me I know I'm not a good writer. I asked the internet to check my spellings and grammar. Hihi enjoy.
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED, RE-UPLOADED ON OTHER WEBSITES. But you can share and like!! Let others have their own delulu moment. We all need a break from the real world.
Chapter Two: “The Blue Note”
It was early enough in the day that the compound kitchen still smelled like leftover coffee and someone’s forgotten toast in the toaster. Y/N wandered in with Yelena and Bob in tow, all three of them mid-conversation about absolutely nothing—something about how Alexei claimed to invent the squat.
Then they saw it.
Right there on the counter, where usually only disappointment and stale cereal lived, was a plate of freshly baked brownies. Not boxed. Not cafeteria-made. Real brownies. Still warm, wrapped in parchment paper. Sitting just in front was a square of blue sticky note with neatly written block letters
“Heard you love brownies.”
No name. No dramatic flourish. Just that. Bob let out a low whistle. “Someone’s either trying to poison us or they have a crush.” Yelena leaned in, eyes scanning the counter like it was evidence in a murder case. “You think it’s one of the kitchen staff? Or is this another one of those locker note admirers of yours?” Y/N blinked, her mouth tugging into a grin despite herself. “I mean… who could’ve even heard me say that?”
Bob smirked. “You’ve got a lot of admirers. Maybe it’s a fan.”
She shook her head slowly, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the note before picking up a brownie. “No. It’s not random. I mentioned brownies last night…”
⸻
Flashback – Movie Night at the Compound
Everyone was crammed into the common room like poorly-behaved siblings on a couch too small for six people. The projector cast flickering light over the crowd—John stretched out in the middle like he owned the place, Alexei hogging the blanket, and Ava curled up with her usual sarcastic commentary.
Down the hall, near the kitchen, Bucky was spotted trying to make a clean escape.
“Come on, Barnes!” John called out, jogging over. “Movie night! Don’t be lame.”
“I’m tired,” Bucky muttered, already turning away. His voice was low, almost dismissive. John rolled his eyes. “You’re always tired. Old man syndrome.”
Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint, but John just clapped him on the shoulder like a buddy from college. That’s when Y/N appeared, passing through with a bowl of popcorn in her hands and a hopeful smile. “Hey—soldiers coming to movie night?”
Bucky’s eyes flicked up to her and then away just as fast. His jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even blink long enough to give her a real look. Just a low, gruff sound escaped him. Barely a growl.
Y/N faltered, her smile faltering slightly. “Oh. Okay, well… have a good night, Bucky.”
John swooped in. “Let me help you with that,” he said, taking the popcorn bowl from her hands with exaggerated flair. As they walked away, Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The sound of their footsteps. Her laugh echoed softly. And the way John looked just a little too pleased with himself.
He watched them disappear into the common room.
Didn’t move for a while.
Eventually, as the movie started playing, the team didn’t notice the figure lingering in the shadow of the doorway—just out of view.
Watching.
Listening.
They were halfway through some poorly-paced action scene when John groaned aloud, tossing a kernel in the air and catching it. “I don’t know about you guys,” he said. “But I never liked brownies. Overrated.”
“Because you eat like a child,” Ava said, deadpan. “I like brownies,” she continued. “But if it’s too soft, that’s just cake.”
“I love brownies,” Y/N chimed in, eyes on the screen, voice soft but certain. “Me and Nat used to make them all the time. I love when they’re dewy in the middle, but the edges are crunchy.” That made Bucky look up. She wasn’t even facing him but her voice, her laugh, the fond way she spoke about Natasha it all landed like a warm knock against his chest.
“You need to make me one of those, malyshka,” Alexei called from across the couch, nudging her playfully.
Bucky exhaled. Then turned and walked away.
⸻
Back to Present – The Kitchen
Y/N chewed thoughtfully, eyes still on the note as she swallowed the first bite of brownie.
Yelena nudged her. “Well?”
“It’s good,” Y/N said around her smile. “Really good.”
Bob took a bite of his and grinned. “Okay mystery baker… whoever you are, you nailed it.” Yelena was watching her, though—not the brownies, not the note. “You think it’s him?”
Y/N tilted her head. “Who?”
“You know who,” she said, leaning in slightly. “The one with the staring problem.” Y/N looked away, cheeks warming. “Bucky doesn’t even talk to me.”
“Exactly,” Yelena said with a smug little smirk. “That’s why I’m suspicious.” Y/N looked down at the note again, thumb brushing the bottom corner.
Heard you love brownies. She tucked it into her pocket with a strange flutter in her chest.
A Few Days Later – The Great Hoodie Hunt
It started small.
Y/N noticed it during laundry day, tugging out a sweatshirt she didn’t like and realizing her favorite wasn’t there. Maybe it was just buried under a towel. Or caught up in someone else’s pile. Maybe Yelena took it by accident. But after a full day of searching her room, the laundry room, the gym, the weapons storage, under the couch cushions in the common room she came to a frustrating conclusion.
It was gone. Not just any hoodie, either.
The hoodie.
The gray, oversized Stark Industries prototype hoodie she stole from Tony. She told everyone it was “gifted,” but in reality, she’d snuck it from a pile of rejected Stark-branded merch he left lying around.
It was massive—swallowed her whole—and stupidly cozy. Burn marks stained one sleeve from a particular Mac and Cheese incident at 2 am. The faded Stark Tech logo was still stitched into the hem, like a tiny smug signature of guilt. It had been through hell, but it was hers.
She needed it back. So she went searching.
Interrogation 1 – Alexei
She found him in the backyard doing pull-ups on a steel beam he definitely wasn’t supposed to be hanging from.
“Hey, have you seen a gray hoodie anywhere? Big, kind of singed, Stark Tech logo on it?”
Alexei dropped down with a grunt. “Ah! Yes, yes. The armor of leisure.” He squinted at her like she’d just asked for a weapon. “Why do you humans get so emotional about fabric?”
“Because it’s my favorite,” she muttered. He shrugged. “If I find it, I’ll return it. But if someone else took it, I’ll break their knees for you.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Thanks. That’s weirdly comforting.”
Interrogation 2 – Ava
Ava didn’t even look up from her tablet.
“Hoodie? No. If it wasn’t made of sarcasm and judgment, I don’t have it.”
“Noted.”
Interrogation 3 – John
John, unfortunately, was delighted to be included. He leaned on the wall, sipping something obnoxiously green. “You know, you really need to stop hiding that body under shapeless gray cotton.” Y/N blinked once, unimpressed.
Then—
Thunk.
A slipper smacked him square in the side of the head.
“Pig,” Yelena muttered from across the hallway. “Yelena!” he shouted. “That could’ve taken out my eye!” She was already walking away. “Worth it.” Y/N smirked. “So… is that a no?” John rubbed the side of his head. “It’s a no. But if I find it, you owe me a date.”
She just rolls her eyes and walks away while shaking her head. “Not a chance in hell.” whispers to herself
Interrogation 4 – Bob
Bob offered her half a granola bar while she talked.
“Nah, I haven’t seen it,” he said with a sympathetic frown. “But I can put up missing hoodie posters in the gym?”
“Please do. It’s a crisis.”
Interrogation 5 – Yelena
“I would never take your ugly hoodie,” Yelena said, arms crossed. “I have taste. And shoulders that don’t need drowning in three feet of cotton.”
“It’s not ugly,” Y/N huffed.
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You miss it like it’s a lost dog.”
“It feels like a lost dog!”
Interrogation 6 – Bucky
This one took time.
She avoided him at first. Mostly because every time she was around him, he either looked away like she burned too bright or left the room entirely like she was some ghost he wasn’t ready to face. He barely spoke. Barely looked her in the eye. But the thought gnawed at her.
She had to ask.
So, later that afternoon, heart hammering stupidly, she found him in the hallway by the training room, towel around his neck, sweat on his brow, silent as always. She stepped closer. “Hey… uhm, Bucky?” His head lifted slowly. “Hey, doll.” He cursed himself the second it came out. Doll. Why? Why couldn’t he stop calling her that?
Y/N blinked but didn’t call him out for it. Her voice stayed soft. “I just… wanted to ask if you’ve seen my hoodie?” He already knew what she was talking about.
She kept going. “Kind of huge, Stark Tech logo-”
“The grey one?” he interrupted. Her eyes lit up. “Yes! That one! Have you?”
“No,” he said too quickly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen it.” Her shoulders sank a little, just enough to make something in his chest pull tight.
“Oh. Okay,” she murmured. “Well… thanks anyway.” He didn’t say anything else.
Just nodded once, then turned and walked away.
But what Y/N didn’t know—what no one knew—was that he didn’t go far. The moment she disappeared down the hall, he turned the opposite direction, checking every laundry bin, storage room, and empty rec room he could access. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was that hoodie mattered to her. So it mattered to him too.
Sticky notes | The yellow note | Bucky x reader
> Word count | 929 > Bucky x yn | Thunderbolts setting > Silent yearning > Summary | What could he do? She laughs, and his day suddenly matters. Her presence alone could stop time for him. He’s not great with words — hell, he growls more than he speaks. So what does he do? He leaves sticky notes, Quiet gestures. Small things he hopes she notices. Because for someone like him…loving her out loud feels like too much. But not loving her at all? Impossible.
> Y/n was an old member of the “first” Avengers and was recruited to the “New” Avengers. So do what you may, some mentions of demised members..ouch I know. >Author | Bear with me I know I'm not a good writer. I asked the internet to check my spellings and grammar. Hihi enjoy.
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There weren’t any explosions today. No alarms blaring in the compound.
No mission briefings. No shouting match between John and Alexei. No stitched-up wounds or field dust on their skin. Just silence, and the low hum of fluorescent lights flickering lazily above the gym.
Y/N tugged her hair into a quick braid as she stepped onto the matted floor, grinning when Yelena tossed her a set of sparring gloves. “Five bucks says I pin you in under two minutes,” Yelena said, smug as ever. Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’ve been watching too much WWE again.”
From across the gym, Alexei grunted from where he was doing exaggerated deadlifts, shirtless, as if someone had asked for the performance. Bob sat nearby on a bench, quietly munching on a protein bar, unimpressed.
“Don’t break each other’s ribs this time,” Bob called without looking up. “Can’t promise anything,” Yelena chirped back.
They warmed up with playful jabs and laughter, the kind that made the empty spaces in Y/N’s chest feel a little less hollow. It was strange how quickly this odd team had become a strange kind of home.
Even Bucky, who rarely said more than five words to anyone, had started to feel like… not quite family, but maybe the silent neighbor who occasionally left something thoughtful at your door. He passed through the gym briefly that morning. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once to Y/N as she laughed mid-spar with Yelena, then slipped out before anyone else noticed.
She didn’t think anything of it—until she opened her locker later that afternoon.
Tucked neatly between her towel and an old granola bar wrapper was a sticky note.
Bright yellow. Clean handwriting. Block letters.
“You did great last mission. Keep it up.”
No name. No initials. Nothing flashy. Y/N blinked at it. Her fingers brushed over the paper once, twice. Then she read it again. The handwriting was… neat. Not Yelena’s. Not Ava’s—hers was always in a rush. Bob never used notes. And John’s handwriting looked like he’d lost a fight with a crayon.
She turned toward the door, as if someone might still be lingering.But the hallway was empty. Yelena peeked around the corner a moment later. “Hey, come on. I’m hungry. You buying lunch or am I stealing your leftovers again?”
Y/N tucked the note into the front pocket of her bag. “Yeah—just a sec.”
She didn’t throw it away.
Didn’t crumple it.
Didn’t forget. Just in case.
The compound cafeteria smelled like over-seasoned soup and day-old bread, but the sunlight streaming through the high windows made it feel almost like a real lunch break.
Y/N and Yelena slid into their usual booth at the far corner, a tray between them filled with two steaming bowls, a small mountain of fries, and suspiciously wobbly Jell-O cups. Yelena poked hers with a fork. “I swear this thing’s alive.”
“Don’t eat it then,” Y/N said, reaching across the tray. “I’ll take the risk.” They both grinned, bumping shoulders as they dug in.
“You know,” Yelena said through a mouthful of fries, “this reminds me of when we used to steal food in Prague.” Y/N looked up with a smirk. “You mean when you stole it, and I played lookout?”
“Same thing,” she shrugged. “Except I always picked the expensive stuff.”
“Because you had the taste of a Russian heiress with none of the budget.”
“Caviar and dignity,” Yelena declared proudly, popping another fry into her mouth. “That was our brand.” They laughed, easy and unforced.
Yelena leaned back, a fond glint in her eye. “Remember how Nat used to braid our hair like she was preparing us for battle?”
“She always did mine tighter just to mess with you.”
“She said mine was too slippery! What does that even mean?”
“It means she liked me better.” Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Rude.”
Before Y/N could respond, someone cleared their throat nearby. They turned to find Bob, holding a tray with a sandwich, a protein shake, and a yogurt cup with an Avengers-themed spoon.
“Hey,” he said, a little hesitant. “Is this seat taken, or are you two gossiping about ex-boyfriends again?”
“We were slandering cafeteria Jell-O,” Y/N said with a grin, scooting over. “Sit down, you’re safe. For now.”
Bob smiled, easing into the booth across from them. “Cool. Thanks. Ava’s still in the lab, and John and Alexei were arguing about who’s more ‘traditionally masculine’. I had to escape before someone started doing push-ups in protest.”
Yelena snorted. “Let me guess. Alexei ripped his shirt off again?”
“Third time this week,” Bob said solemnly. The three of them chuckled, shoulders relaxing in the kind of quiet you only get with people who’ve seen both your best and worst days.
Bob opened his yogurt and looked at the spoon. “Ava gave me this, you know. It’s from a kid’s set. Said I ate too fast and needed a ‘tiny utensil to slow me down.’”
Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”
“Nope.” Bob grinned. “But you guys are better company anyway. No offense to the protein shake.” Y/N nudged Yelena under the table—see? We’re doing okay.
And for a moment, they were. Not operatives or ghosts from past programs. Just three people eating lunch, laughing about nonsense, trying their best. Across the cafeteria, the iced tea sat forgotten on the drop-off counter exactly the one Y/N liked. Still cold. She didn’t notice it yet. And Bucky, who had left it there, had already disappeared down the hall.