So Clark takes the reader and Bobby to the backrooms, so the reader is the one to go down and get attacked by captain Clark and is able to survive but gets scars, hearing her screams Bobby goes down, not carrying what happens to him but he gets lost. Some time passes and after long days of running, the reader reunites with Bobby, but they find the painting that Mary found in the movie and they find Clark, he knocks them out and they get into the dinner scene. The reader is the one to play Clark's wife before she and Bobby call Clark out and then captain Clark appears, Bobby is able to free himself and the reader, they see captain Clark take bite out of Clark's shoulder and run, bassically the rest is like the movie and in the end, they run into the ASYNC and they get them out
hi lovely, i will definitely try and write this soon, i’m a little busy at the moment but hopefully i can get back to writing soon!!
god, i’ve had the most ass writing block ever while trying to write this fic ughh. buttt i am finally getting a good draft going so hopefully i can get it finished quickly!! i am going on holiday very soon but i do plan on doing a little bit of writing while i’m away so again, it should hopefully be getting uploaded soon-ish! x
i’ve been such a liar omg. i am updating it but so slowly.. i’ve been on holiday for the past two weeks but im travelling back home tomorrow so hopefully when i am reunited with my laptop i can update more frequently and pump out this damn fic!!!
also, if anyone would like to be tagged once i’ve finished please feel free to lmk!! x
summary: You only meant to write an article about the fall of King Steve Harrington. Somewhere between the interviews, the experiments, and the late-night drives, you forgot he was supposed to be your story — not the boy you fell for. ⟡ LOOSELY INSPIRED BY "HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS (2003)"
pairing: steve harrington x reader
w/c: 13k (I lost the plot)
a/n: i literally fever dreamed this so im hoping it comes across good because i totally blanked out writing this haha 😭 this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading, and reblogs are appreciated!! enjoy <3
content warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, (one bed trope kind of), observant/highly sensitive reader, mentions of nancy wheeler, miscommunication, interrupted kisses, public confessions, steve harrington being sad and soft (yay!), reader being a stubborn high school journalist, hopeful ending, etc
| ⟡ requests open!
By the time the final bell rang, the newsroom already smelled of hot dust, old paper, and somebody’s disgusting coffee of choice.
It was not really a newsroom, not in the way you truly wanted it to be. It was a converted classroom at the end of the English hall with two long tables shoved together, a crooked bulletin board covered in deadlines, and a mimeograph machine that coughed ink onto everyone’s fingers. The overhead lights hummed with a flat, yellow patience.
Outside the narrow windows, Hawkins High School settled into its usual afternoon disorder; lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and boys yelling too loudly because silence made them feel small. Typical behaviors.
You had spent three nights on your article.
Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore.
It was practically perfect.
You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.
The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.
Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.
“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.
You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.
Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.
Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.
“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”
The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation.
Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.
“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”
Intense.
You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.
That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.
You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.
“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”
Inside was not fine.
At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.
“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”
“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.
“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that. “You need something undeniable.”
“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.
“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”
Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”
You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement.
The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.
They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance, you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.
Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.
He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.
His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.
King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.
Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.
“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”
Leah, unfortunately, looked too.
“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight
“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.
You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”
“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”
Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”
“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”
The words landed before the joke did.
You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.
A whole identity built on being wanted.
The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years.
You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.
Leah's brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”
You rolled your eyes at that.
“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.
There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.
At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.
“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided.
“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”
Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential.
“And Harrington?”
You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.
“Steve is the case study.”
You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.
—
You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.
He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out.
Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.
You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more.
“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.
“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.
“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”
That got him.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.
You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you.
“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being, strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”
You gave a low hum in response. “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”
“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”
The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.
You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”
Now, he seemed a bit confused, his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two.
“With?”
You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.
“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.
His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”
“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.
You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.
“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”
Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”
“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”
You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.
You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.
Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.
You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.
Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”
His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.
“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”
“Seven.”
“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”
You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.
“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”
You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships, but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study.
Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.
You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.
—
On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.
He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.
Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.
"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door.
You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl. “Do you do that for all your dates?”
Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”
You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.
He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.
“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.
He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”
“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.
His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Not really.”
“Why?”
He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I told you. Inquisitive.”
“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”
The words fell between the two of you in a hush.
You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.
“What?”
“You’re shivering.”
Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not fine.”
Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.
“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.
Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”
Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”
“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle.
You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.
The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.
“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control.
You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him. They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words. “That’s not true.”
He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”
You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”
The words had you faltering from the truth it held.
Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”
Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”
He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”
Nancy.
There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.
What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.
You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it.
You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.
“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”
You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”
His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.
What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.
You didn't. You didn't stop him.
You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.
His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.
For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.
Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.
Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side. He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was, and didn't know how to navigate it. “So. Did I help?”
You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't.
“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong, small and breathless. “You did.”
You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated. The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly.
The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.
—
In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that.
Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.
“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”
You shut your locker too hard.
“Can we not do this right now?”
His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.
“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?
“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”
People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.
Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.
Keyword, tried.
His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”
His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”
“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”
You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.
You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”
Steve blinked.
His jaw tensed with movement, your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant.
“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.
And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.
You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.
At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.
He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.
You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.
Even detached on paper didn't feel right.
—
The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.
The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.
It was a rough start to say the least.
When you got there, he came around to open your door.
You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.
The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was.
The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.
For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.
Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.
“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”
Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.
He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him. “Does it look terrible?”
“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve.
His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”
“I mean it.” you did.
He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.
The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.
You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that.
“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”
The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.
You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.
You just remembered things instead.
You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.
You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.
And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.
It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.
You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.
His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.
The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric.
Neither of you moved away.
“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.
You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”
“It’s big.”
Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”
He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”
You understood what he meant.
Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.
You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”
“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”
You didn't like how his eyes dimmed. “And you?”
“I stay.”
The word sat between you.
He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine. “God, that sounded pathetic.”
“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower.
“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked. “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”
Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them.
The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.
“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips.
He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor.
“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”
He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down.
His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you.
You reached for his hand quickly.
He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you, but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.
You shifted closer.
That was all it took.
He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”
His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper.
For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering. The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.
You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.
He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.
“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped.
Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.
But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.
The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.
You kissed him back.
Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story
You wanted to, you truly wanted to..
You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.
When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours
He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.
“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.
“Shut up, Steve.”
His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."
For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.
—
The article sat unfinished for two days.
You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.
So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.
It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean.
No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.
You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.
The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.
You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.
“Working late?”
You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”
His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”
“No.”
“So yes.”
You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”
He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”
“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.
Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.
“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”
“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly.
You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.
If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.
You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.
Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.
It was the worst version, the sharpest version.
The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.
Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.
By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.
A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”
You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.
There it was.
Your article.
Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.
The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king
Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.
The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.
But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him
When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.
Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.
You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't, you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.
You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.
You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.
But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.
He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't.
His eyes were red.
Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.
“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind.
“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live, this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that.
“Was any of it real?”
You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue.
He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly.
“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true. And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”
“No!”
“No?”
“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”
His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.
He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”
“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”
“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”
Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything, wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.
“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”
“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.
Steve flinched back.
The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.
He was the one that came back sharp and strained.
“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it. “you just used me for a headline.”
The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue.
He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.
Then he turned and walked out.
The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.
The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.
You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.
With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven.
—
For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.
You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.
That hurt like a stab to the heart.
Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse. He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.
You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.
By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating.
The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.
You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.
Not disappointment. Not anger.
Nothing.
That truly scared you more than pain did.
You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened.
You sat at the typewriter.
For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.
This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.
By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts.
It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off
Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High
You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.
So, you ran.
The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.
Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.
The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.
At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.
“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield.
Before you even knew it, you started running.
It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.
“Steve!”
He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.
You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.
Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.
The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.
Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.
The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.
“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty.
“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”
You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.
“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”
His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.
You watched his eyes move over the page.
Correcting mistakes:
There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.
The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.
Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.
Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.
The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.
This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.
The boy was never a god.
He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved.
Steve stared at the paper.
His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.
For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours, and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”
“I lost.”
His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.
“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”
Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.
“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”
The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious. The defensive hardness in his face trembled.
You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.
“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.
For a second, nothing happened. That scared you. Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.
Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.
It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.
“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.
Your voice came out soft. “I know.”
“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.
“I know.”
“I could’ve hit you.”
You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”
His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.
The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.
He shoved the car door open.
You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.
“Steve—”
“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.
It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.
Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears.
Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.
His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.
When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now.
Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.
“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.
“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”
Your words came mechanical, as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”
“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.
His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
“Good.”
You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”
“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”
“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth. His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.
“You’re a terrible writer.”
Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”
He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.
“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”
The ache in your chest loosened all at once.
It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy.
But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.
You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”
His grin flashed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
This time, when he kissed you, the whole parking lot blurred into sun and noise and the smell of gasoline warming on asphalt. His hands were still careful. Yours were not. You held onto him with ink-stained fingerspads and a heart that learned how to be true.
So Clark takes the reader and Bobby to the backrooms, so the reader is the one to go down and get attacked by captain Clark and is able to survive but gets scars, hearing her screams Bobby goes down, not carrying what happens to him but he gets lost. Some time passes and after long days of running, the reader reunites with Bobby, but they find the painting that Mary found in the movie and they find Clark, he knocks them out and they get into the dinner scene. The reader is the one to play Clark's wife before she and Bobby call Clark out and then captain Clark appears, Bobby is able to free himself and the reader, they see captain Clark take bite out of Clark's shoulder and run, bassically the rest is like the movie and in the end, they run into the ASYNC and they get them out
hi lovely, i will definitely try and write this soon, i’m a little busy at the moment but hopefully i can get back to writing soon!!
god, i’ve had the most ass writing block ever while trying to write this fic ughh. buttt i am finally getting a good draft going so hopefully i can get it finished quickly!! i am going on holiday very soon but i do plan on doing a little bit of writing while i’m away so again, it should hopefully be getting uploaded soon-ish! x
summary › summer nights in brooklyn. one last night before war changes everything. and two people quietly falling apart over the possibility of goodbye.
pairing › 40s!bucky x female reader
content warnings › fluff city with a stop in angst town, established situationship? going away party, talking about the war, a few tears, kissing, soft bucky as always
word count › 2.2k
authors note › the way i would never survive this if it was me... anyways a little angst ficlet for the teen vogue party!
picnic blanket prompt › 🔕 MISSED CALL | 🔕 “You were supposed to be there.”
Delmar’s is too loud.
Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.
The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.
And Bucky keeps looking at the door.
“Barnes!”
A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.
“Mr. Delmar.”
The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.
“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”
Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.
“Thanks.”
More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.
Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.
But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.
“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.
Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”
“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.
“She’s probably just late.”
The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.
“You told her to come?”
Bucky shrugs too casually.
“Mentioned it.”
“You must really like her.”
“I invited her for the drinks.”
“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.
Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.
Steve notices that too.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Lie.
Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.
The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.
Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.
The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.
“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.
Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.
Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.
The phone rings three times before you answer it.
You almost let it keep going.
Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.
“Hello?”
Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.
“Doll?”
Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.
“What do you want, Bucky?”
There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.
“You were supposed to be there.”
The deployment party.
The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.
“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”
Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.
Then softer than you'd ever heard before.
“Doll…”
“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”
Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.
“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”
The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.
“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”
The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.
“You’ll see me again.”
You laugh weakly under your breath.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”
The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate the uniform.”
“I know.”
“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”
You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.
Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.
“Scary.”
Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.
“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”
The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.
“Can I come see you?”
You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.
“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”
Bucky goes quiet.
“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”
For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.
“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.
Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.
Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.
He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.
“You been cryin’?”
“No.”
“Doll.”
“Don’t start.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.
“There she is.”
You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.
“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.
You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.
“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”
“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”
That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.
“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.
You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.
“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.
Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.
Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.
The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.
It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.
His eyes were still closed.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”
You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.
“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.
You huff softly through your nose.
“You say that like it’s avoidable.”
“For you? Probably not.”
“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”
Your breath catches softly.
“Buck—”
“No, listen to me.”
There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.
“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”
A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.
“The pictures?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”
Bucky grins softly.
“I’m serious.”
His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.
“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”
“The overpriced kind?”
“The very overpriced kind.”
“And?”
“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”
You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.
“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”
Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.
You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.
“You really believe that?” you whisper.
Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.
“I believe in you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.
And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.
Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.
Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.
Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.
“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”
And for one fragile, fleeting moment before the war takes him away, Brooklyn still feels like yours.
summary: you invite bucky as your plus one to your best friends wedding. when you step up on that stage to give the speech of your life, he can’t seem to hide his adoration for you.
pairing: boyfriend!bucky x maid of honour!reader
word count: 4.5k
content contains: fluff, established relationship, set during a wedding, alcohol consumption, bucky and reader are in love.
a/n: ive had this idea 4eeevvvvveerrrrrr but only just now decided to write it because i was peer pressured. peer pressure works. this is more chopped up scenarios than it is an actual fic… i also actually wrote like half of this at a wedding. also hey first gif ive ever put into a moodboard?? do we like or do we hate
the day that you had received the news that your best friend was getting married and that she wanted you to be her maid of honour, bucky had never seen you so happy.
he'd been in the kitchen halfway through making grilled sandwiches for the two of you when the door had slammed open. you'd burst through your apartment door breathless and beaming, your phone is one hand and a box full of tissue paper and embroidered satin in the other.
bucky barely had any time to turn off the stove before you'd thrown yourself at him, the news spilling from your mouth like a secret you simply couldn't keep.
"buck—" you gasped out, voice pitching up in disbelief as you show him the contents of the box. "look!"
bucky watches as shreds of paper and glitter fall to the ground, catching on your shoes and on his socks and on literally every in a two feet radius, but none of that is what catches his attention.
its the small card that sits on top, baby pink and unmistakably handwritten by your friend. the text is written in glittery ink and the paper is wrinkled at the edges like you'd already opened it a million times.
he looks up at you just to see that you're already staring at him with those big gleaming eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"what am i looking at, baby?" he asks softly even though the answer already sits in the forefront of his mind.
you exhale, a small shaky kind of breath that makes your shoulder lift, and then you turn the box around. you nudge it a little closer like the words won't make sense unless he's really looking at it, and then glittery ink finally makes a little more sense.
"she asked me to be her maid of honour!" you chirp.
there it is. the truth, the joy, the reason you look like you might just grow wings and fly off into the sky.
bucky lets your announcement settle for a minute, not because he's surprised— he isn't— but because watching you say it, watching the way your face lights up from the inside and out, feels like something he just shouldn't rush.
he'd seen you happy before— laughing at a movie happy, seeing a cute puppy happy, scoring the last parking space happy— but this? this was different.
"yeah?" he smiles, "sweetheart, that's huge. i'm happy for you."
you nod way too fast, already biting back another grin. "i know! i know, i just— i wanted to tell come home and tell you first."
and something in that small confession settles in his chest; the fact that you ran straight home— straight to him— like it wasn't even a second thought.
"well—" he says, voice dropping into something more fond and a little helpless, "c'mere and let me give you a hug before you explode all over the kitchen."
you laugh— a light and breathless little giggle— and set down the box onto the kitchen island before throwing yourself around bucky. his arms come around you instantly, tight and warm and instinctive like his body was just waiting for an excuse to hold you.
"i'm proud of you." he murmurs as he presses a kiss against the side of your head, "she picked the right person. youre gonna do so well."
you dont say anything and bury your face further into his chest. your heart is pounding against your ribs, still trying to crawl its way out of your chest, but the hug grounds in you the best way possible.
"okay." you pull away from the hug, wiping at your flushed cheeks even though you're smiling too hard to actually cry, "i need to call her back before she thinks i passed out."
bucky grins as he wipes away a stray bit of glitter from your cheek, "you still look like you might."
you roll your eyes and grab the box again, practically levitating down the hall. as bucky watches you disappear into the bedroom, he finds himself smiling at the empty space you leave behind— soft, fond, and completely enamoured.
the wedding day comes before he can even blink.
one moment he's waking up with you clinging to his side, your leg thrown over both of his like you always do when you're asleep, and the next, you're shoving him into a freshly tailored suit and driving halfway across town to a venue that looks like it's been taken straight from a bridal magazine.
as he drives, he finds that your perfectionist energy has infected him. he finds himself looking at himself in the rear view mirror and swiping a hand through his hair and adjusting his tie every so often even though everything about how he looks is fine, because your perfume lingers in the car from the ride there like a ghost in the upholstery and it's messing with his ability to think.
you're not there to help him. your friends has picked you up earlier that morning, laughing to each other and hurried as they stole you away from him under the thin excuse of time. you'd left him with a soft peck on the lips and a wide smile as you adjust his tie, fingers careful and familiar, like you'd trusted him enough to pull himself together while you were gone.
"the reception starts at one, and the ceremony starts at three." you tell him, your hands flat against his chest. you can feel his heart thumbing under your palm, and it makes you smile. "do you remember where you're sitting?"
bucky huffs out a quiet laugh as he nods, "second row, closest to the exit. if i dont know where to sit, just follow the man with the funky tie and sit on his left."
you smooth your hand over his chest once more, this time moee self-indulgent than before. "if you forget, i wrote it on a card and put it in your jacket pocket."
his brow lifts. "you did?"
you nod. "i did."
there's a loud honking that echoes around the street in front of your apartment building, and the two of you turn towards the sound. the driver is grinning at you through the tinted window and the other is poking her head out of the car's sunroof,
"i have time anxiety, so move it!" your friend claps her hands and ducks back into the car, reaching over the steering wheel to bang her fists against the horn. it resonates through the street, and the two of you wince.
you turn back to bucky with a defeated sigh, giving him a tight lipped smile like this is some bittersweet goodbye between lovers who would never see each other for years after.
"that's my cue." you murmur, adjusting his suit just one more time, lingering longer than you probably should. "you look really handsome, bucky."
"and you look beautiful, sweetheart." your boyfriend is quick to compliment, hands reaching up to grab at yours and hold them in his. he leans in for a kiss and you gladly accept it, savouring the warmth and familiarity one more time before you're ripped away by responsibilities.
and when you pull away, your noses touch and bucky's thumbs brush over your knuckles, a silent promise that he'll see you in no time.
much to your dismay, your friend pops her head out of the sunroof again. "if you don't let go of that man and get in the car within the next ten seconds, i'm tellin' the bride that you tried to elope before her wedding!"
you roll your eyes as you finally pull away from him, the two of you prolonging the farewell with lingering physical touch and quiet smiles. "i'll see you in four hours, buck. don't have too much fun without me!"
"i could never." he replies, thumbs brushing yours before you finally let go and make your way to the car. the door shuts behind you and bucky watches as it turns out of the street, heart already aching at your absense.
but now he was at the wedding venue four hours later, standing at the front as he fixes his cuffs just to make himself a little more presentable for your sake. the cuffs itch and they're uncomfortably stiff, but you'd picked the suit out for him and you were so happy about it— why would he ruin that?
he's welcomed by the venue staff with easy smiles as he steps in, and he's welcomed by the family members of the bride who light up when they recognise him. there's a few warm hellos, a clap on the shoulder, a joking 'when are you proposing to your girlfriend?', and bucky takes it all with polite nods and half-smiles, even though his attention keeps drifting elsewhere.
he's looking for you, and anybody paying even the slightest bit of attention to him would be able to figure that out. his eyes trace every face in the room just to find yours. somebody asks him how work is and he gives a vague answer. somebody asks him where he got his suit from and he simply shrugs with a polite 'my girlfriend got it for me'. everything he does traces back to you.
and then the ceremony starts.
bucky follows the man with the funky tie and finds his spot closest to the exit just as the music swells. the room quiets, and bucky watches as the crowd turns to watch the doors open.
his breath catches in his throat when he catches sight of a bridesmaid, walking through the doors, silk dress brushing against the aisle as she carries herself towards the altar with grace. another follows, and then another, and he recognises them all— your friends, the people who'd practically torn you away from him this morning, the people you'd laughed and cried and leaned on for every milestone.
then, with the next shift of the music, you appear.
you glide in with the elegance of a swan, a pink bouquet of flowers held between your hands. every movement you make is precise and practiced, head held high like you're not just carrying the flowers and walking down the aisle, but like you're ecstatic to be the one chosen to stay by the bride, to hold a piece of her joy for yourself.
bucky freezes for a moment. the muscles in his face loosen and his jaw almost goes slack, caught between awe and something warmer that could deep within his chest.
you look just as beautiful as the day he met you.
with every sway of your dress, every firm press of your heel into the floor, and every grin you shine to a guest, theres a quiet tug that cant— and doesnt want to— resist.
and when the bride enters and the crowd erupts into aws and whispers, bucky can't help that his eyes follow you instead. your shoulders are straight and your steps are measured, and despite the stiffness you try to instil in your movements, there's a softness in the way your eyes sweep the crowd— curious and warm and searching— until they land on him.
for a brief moment, it's only you two. the music, the audience, the flurry of movement around you fades into the background. you smile at him— a small, private smile, one that makes bucky's chest tighten and his thoughts scatter— and something cracks open inside of his chest.
it's subtle, but it seeps through his body like warm hands on cold skin, or sunlight beaming through closed eyelids— slow, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.
bucky doesn't want anybody else. he never has. he's known it since the day he met you, but something in this moment cements it.
it's you when he wakes up, and it's you when he comes home. it's you when his days are both invigorating and exhausting. it's you standing there in soft silk and the warm light, grinning at him like your smile is something that loves inside of you rather than something you put on for show, like the world hasnt just rearranged itself around the fact that he doesn't want nor does he need anybody else.
every passing thought of anyone else has always faded the second you walked into the room. seeing you like this— radiant and proud and impossibly beautiful— its doesn't make him want more; it makes him want you.
bucky exhales through his nose, something like a laugh caught in his throat, his eyes never leaving you throughout the entire ceremony— not when the bride steps forwards and the groom gets his first look, not when the vows are exchanged, and not when the newlyweds walk down the aisle. he's enraptured by you up until you and the bridal party disappear back through the doors, swallowed by flowers and fabric and congratulations.
the reception begins with the swell of piano music and the horde of guests spill into the dining room.
the lights of the dining room are dimmed, string lights hanging from the ceiling like constellations. the tables are covered with cream cloth and the chairs are lined with glittery ribbon that catches the light just right. suit jackets are shrugged off and heels are kicked loose under the table, the forced stiffness of the ceremony melting into something more carefree.
bucky finds his assigned seat at a table full of familiar faces, mostly the significant others of your friends, the bridesmaids. they welcome him with open arms and pats on the back with easy smiles and casual greetings like he belongs there.
the conversation drags into easier topics— jokes about the ceremony, complaining about how long the speeches are going to be, speculation about what the food will be like, mentioning the open bar like it's a gift from the heavens— until the screech of feedback from a microphone slices through the room.
"sorry—" the groom's brother apologises as the crowd quiets down, "didn't mean to do that. uh, thank you everybody for coming today. really, it's surreal looking at all of you and seeing so many people who love them both in one place. i know it means a lot to the newlyweds, and for me as well, because my brother is paying me to mc and dj tonight."
a ripple of laughter moves through the room.
"so, before we get into the speeches and— what i know you're all waiting for— the food," he clears his throat, tucking his palm cards into his pocket, "let's welcome... the bridal party!"
there's a wave of cheering and applause, chairs scraping and heads whipping around as people turn to watch the grand entrance. bucky straightens without meaning to, his neck craning to look over the mass of hair-sprayed heads.
the first couple walks in to loud whoops and whistles, laughing as they're ushered towards their table. then another, and another, each introduction met with more cheers, more clapping, and more playful shouting from the crowds.
and then you waltz in with your assigned groomsmen, the two of you bouncing around each other with the same bright energy, and the room eats it up. you bow dramatically for the crowd before being tugged upwards again, and you catch bucky's eyes with a wave. bucky grins into his glass like a love-struck idiot as you find your spot beside the bride.
the groom's brother lifts his microphone again. "alright... we're gonna start with speeches now, and i think it only makes sense to begin with the person who organised about ninety percent of this wedding. the woman who kept everyone on track, kept the newlyweds from losing their minds, and somehow looked incredible doing it— the maid of honour!"
there's an immediate ripple of excitement as the crowd begins to start clapping. people turn towards you. someone cheers your name. someone else whistles. it's a smorgasbord of noise and attention that rushes towards you all at once.
you blink— flustered— before laughing softly and pushing your chair back. you smooth your hands over the front of your dress and then reach for the microphone as it's passed to you. the room quiets again, and you take a breath.
"hi, uh." you lift your hand in a small half-wave like you're not quite sure what to do with all of the attention. your cheeks are pink and your smile is wide and almost disbelieving, but you continue.
"as you probably know by now, i'm the maid of honour. i've known the bride since... god, since forever. long enough that i remember her bad bangs phase and her obsession clear jelly shoes, so if anyone wants those photos later, i do take bribes."
the memory and the joke sends a ripple of laughter throughout the room, and bucky can't help but smile.
"but seriously," you say your voice softening. "i love her. i love her in a way that feels like family— in a way that feels like home. she's the person i lean on when i need help and the first person i call when something amazing happens. she's seen me at my best and my worst and still decided to keep me by her side anyways."
you glance towards the bride, you eyes shining.
"and when she met him... i could see it happen almost instantly. something in her just clicked, and when i wouldnt stop hearing about him after their first date, i knew that i was witnessing the start of two people finding themselves in each other.
over the years, i've watched them grown into each other. i've watched them choose each other again and again and again, even when things were hard or messy, and that's the type of love that lasts— the kind that you build a life on."
you swallow, eyes flicking back to your cards, but you find that nothing written in ink could possibly say what you really think. so you let them lower just a little, the paper flush against the table.
your eyes flick— not even intentionally— towards bucky, who's staring at you like you put the stars and the moon in the sky, like you're the only thing that's emitting light in the darkest night, and maybe that's why your voice softens when you speak.
"and i think what you two have taught me is that love isn't always about the big gestures or huge displays of affection." your eyes return to the bride, "it's knowing how you like your coffee... knowing whether you need quiet or distraction after a long day... being the place you feel the safest landing."
your smile is barely there now, warm tears flooding your eyes. you try not to blink just incase a tear ruins your makeup, but you can't help it when one runs down your cheek.
"and i hope that when it's my turn one day— when i'm the one wearing a dress i picked out months in advance and trying not to cry into the microphone— i hope i get something like this, and i hope that i get to look at my person and know, without a single doubt, that this is my person." you sniffle, "thank you for reminding me what love looks like."
something in bucky's chest twists, warm and tight, like a cord snapping taut.
it all makes sense now— those nights where you'd shut yourself in your room a with a notepad and a pen, the days where you randomly ask him how you take your coffee, or those odd moments where you'd drift off towards a corner, whispering ideas into the air like the walls were listening— you'd been writing a speech. a speech that, whether you realised it or not, was meant to show everyone— and maybe especially him— how you see love.
you raise your glass, and everyone in the room follows. "here's to love that feels like home and safety, to partnership, to choosing each other everyday, and to two people who did exactly that. i love you guys."
and as the room clinks glasses and cheers, bucky's eyes lock onto yours. his chest is full and aching in the best way possible, because he knows, without a doubt, that when the time comes, he wants that with you.
the speeches fade into laughter and applause, glasses clinking as everyone settles back into their seats for dinner. soon enough, the piano gives away to a livelier song, something upbeat and familiar, chairs scraping against the floor as feet shuffle towards the dance floor.
bucky watches from his seat for a moment, glass of champagne swirling around in his hand, before standing and letting himself be carried by the storm of people running towards the floor.
its a crowd of organised chaos and delight, the spotlights dimmed. couples are spinning each other around and little kids are dropping it low to the music, laughter bouncing off of the walls and the string lights ahead showering everything in a soft, golden glow.
the air is warm with perfume, sticky champagne, and the faint scent of sweet vanilla cake, and somewhere in the middle of it all, bucky finds you.
you're in the centre of the dance floor, laughing at something one of your friends just said. whatever little light there is catches on the curves of your face, your dress moving on its own as you sway to the music. and then, almost like you're tugged by some invisible string, your attention is pulled towards bucky. you send him a soft 'come over here' gesture and his chest tightens.
he cuts through the crowd without hesitation and almost before he even realises he's moving, weaving through dancing people and people chatting in circles until he's standing right in front of you.
your hands find his almost instantly, fingers curling around his like they've always known wgere to go, your warmth seeping into his skin and spreading through his body in a way that makes him feel a little lightheaded.
"hey, sweetheart." bucky is the first to speak, a soft smile stuck onto his face as he traces your features like he's seeing you properly for the first time.
"hi, babe. how are you? did you eat? how do i look? do i look okay?" you rush out in a single breath, brows almost knitted together as you stumble over your words.
but the answer comes easy to bucky, the words certain and firm, carrying the wright of everything he's been feeling tonight— "you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen."
your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before a slow smile spreads across your face. you look away, your cheeks warming. "buck, stop—"
"i'm serious, sweetheart. you look perfect." his voice comes out lower than he intends. he steps forwards, hands reaching for your waist, and he brings you close enough that he can see the flecks of glitter dusted upon your eyelids. "you are perfect."
for a heartbeat, the crowd and the music melts away. the laughter, the people, the twinkling lights— none of it really matters. its just the two of you, the brush of your hands, the heat of your presence, and the look in both of your eyes as you share your moment of joy.
"thanks, darling." your lips twitch— a tiny private grin that you try to hide. "you clean up pretty good yourself."
bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between yours like he can gauge every unspoken feeling that runs through your mind. "yeah, well... i needed to be worthy of the maid of honour."
"worthy, huh? you've still got a long way to go, soldier." you tease, though you feel your chest tighten when his arm wraps around your lower back.
bucky grins, eyes glinting with mischief. "oh, i plan on spending a lifetime getting there."
you roll your eyes but your small smile gives you away. bucky pulls you in until your lips are pressed against his, your lipstick certainly staining his skin. the warmth of him, the press of his skin on yours, the brush of his hands on your hips, it’s enough to make everything melt away, but you almost don’t render him pulling away.
almost.
you suck in a breath when you notice the creases forming on bucky’s forehead, the lines soft and worried like the thought had been sitting in his mind for too long.
something catches in his throat, the question falling out before he can stop it. "did you mean what you said?"
you cock your head to the side just slightly, a teasing tone in your voice as you stare up at bucky with soft eyes. "what did i say?"
"that one day you want to be the one standing up there… with your person. that you want that kind of love.” he says quietly, uncertainty lacing each word. “that you want to get married.”
your heart thuds against your chest with a warmth that’s almost overwhelming. the look on bucky’s face rivals even the cutest of things— soft and unsure, like a puppy behind scratched glass waiting to see if its wanted.
you reach up without thinking, a hand resting along his jawline. his jaw clenches as you rub your thumb along the stubbled skin, his eyes flicking between yours as he awaits your answer.
"of course, i meant it. i’d love nothing more for that day to come.” you say gently. and then, with a tiny huff of a laugh and your other hand pressed against bucky’s chest, you grin. “and maybe the day would come quicker if a certain somebody stopped walking on eggshells and just popped the million dollar question already."
a soft laugh escapes bucky, and almost like all of the stress leaves his body, you can feel him melt into your touch.
"what kind of idiot keeps a woman like you waiting?" he murmurs with jokingly narrowed eyes, forehead tipping towards yours. “guy’s a real coward, isn’t he?”
"the biggest." you easily agree with a sneaky smile, but then more sincere, you say; "but he should also know that there's no rush, and that i'm not going anywhere anytime soon. i quite like having my very own barista in the mornings."
you lean up and press a soft kiss to the hollow of his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment as if to say ‘i love you’ before you pull away with a cheeky grin.
“now, you wanna stop standing there all love-struck and take the maid of honour for a spin? she’s been waiting all night for a dance with a man as handsome as you.”
bucky raises his brows, a smirk settling into his face as you tug him towards yours. “wouldnt want to keep a pretty lady like you hanging.”
his hand slips into yours as you pull him into a steady rhythm, his body following yours as you sway to the song. you pull him into the movement and the music and the lights, a breathy laugh escaping you when bucky spins you once, and then twice. it’s clumsy and uncoordinated, your dress flaring as you come back into his arms.
as he laughs, something in that moment— warm and spinning and so close to you— it hits him with a quiet certainty; maybe that five thousand dollar diamond wedding ring in his underwear drawer might find its way into his hands earlier than he'd thought.
summary: bucky helps look after you while you’re sick (and you just can't get enough of neighbourhood gossip).
warnings: fluff, sickfic (sickdrabble?), kissing while sick (forehead, but still), gossip, mentions of shitty relationship (not yours and bucks!!), two made up characters named and mentioned, no beta . . .
word count: 1.2k
a/n: im kinda sick rn, my migraine meds have giving me a TIME, and i've had this lingering sore throat that feels like the start but its been two goddamn weeks....... anywho i've been in a real 40s!bucky mood recently, and with my declining motivation to finish up my fics (that poll kinda helped tho!!), heres a short drabble i wrote in 3 hours. i'm gonna go sit in the corner and cry lol
i apologise for any and all mistakes !!!
masterlist || navigation
Winter was a beast of persistence and grit, howling through the weathered edges of the window frame, making the radiator sob a death-rattle like groan. Within the creaky floorboards and crumbling walls of your apartment, the air smelled of menthol rub and the faint, smoky scent of the wood-stove.
You laid motionless, buried under a mountain of heavy quilts and cotton blankets, feeling like your joints were glued together, and your brain clogged with wet wool. Every time you closed your eyes, the fever pulled at your neck, harassing your temples into a restless, dizzying fog of a headache.
Then came the sound of the bedroom door creaking open.
Bucky didn’t even take off his coat before he was at your side. Looking worried, a hint of urgency in his step and demeanour that lit his eyes up and pulled his eyebrows, but they softened the second they landed on you. With a boyish grin, he reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out two items; a small tin of aspirin and a single orange, placing them down on the bedside table with a small, reverent smile.
"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, shrugging out of his damp jacket. "Ma always gave us oranges when we got sick. Said it hydrates or somethin’ other, and no way in hell was I gonna let you suffer without a little help."
The springs dipped and squeaked under his weight as he sat himself on the edge of the mattress. He cracked open the tin first, and with easy care, coaxed you with a soft 'open' to take two with a sip of lukewarm water.
Then, he turned his attention to the orange. He peeled slowly, attentively willing himself to be delicate with the soft flesh. Zest filled the room, sharp and sweet, cutting through the stuffiness of your sinuses. But Bucky couldn’t just hand it to you, not when you’re huddled under throws, pillows twisted and misshapen to your liking; he broke off individual segments, meticulously removing the whites before holding the slices to your lips.
"Eat up," he whispered. "Don't fade away on me now."
You complied, chewing as well as you could with your stiff joints.
As you nibbled from his hand, the fog in your brain began to lift, replaced by the steady, grounding presence of your man. Bucky always hated when got were sick, said you 'go quiet', makes him feel like you're miles away, too stuck in your own head, deep enough where he can't reach you.
To keep you tethered to the room, he reached for the discarded newspaper at the end of your bed and flipped to the back pages.
"Let’s see what the rest of the world is fussin' about while you're playing hooky," he joked, voice a low, rhythmic rumble, and your lips twitch as you could hear the smirk on his face. He started reading out the headlines, thumb absently stroking your ankle through the blankets.
Suddenly, he stilled. Eyebrows shooting up, and a sharp, disbelieving huff barked out of him.
"Shit, hey... d’you remember Bonnie?"
You let out a wet, miserable sniffle, squinting through the dim light. "I knew three Bonnie's, Buck. You gotta be more specific."
"The brunette with the real high-pitched laugh, uh… Bonnie Hollis?"
Shifting yourself with a groan, elbows holding you up, the gossip acted like a shot of adrenaline to your weary system. "The one who dated Tommy Whitman? The guy who'd pick on Steve?"
Licking his lips through a grin, shaking his head a mumbling under his breath, "yeah, that's the bastard." He continued, leaning closer. "Guess what? They’re gettin’ married."
Your eyes, previously heavy and dull, snapped wide open. Jaw slack with a scoff, brows furrowing in disbelief, darting to the newspaper as if you could read it through the back of the page.
"Shut the fuck up, no they’re not!" Your palms shoot over your mouth before you could catch the curse, lowing your voice a fraction. "Tommy told everyone at the New Year's dance that he was moving to Jersey to be a bachelor."
"Ha, guess Jersey didn't want him," he snorted, turning the paper so you could see the fine print in the society column. "See? Says right here. Ceremony at St. Jude’s next Sunday, reception to follow at her mother's place."
You croaked, "God, that poor girl," a genuine spark of life returning to your face. "Bet you half my years earnings she’s gonna be miserable within a month. He's such an ass!"
But Bucky wasn't listening, not really anyway, he was too busy staring at your face — your red, tissue-chapped nose, bed messed hair, and those bright, indignant eyes that were finally focused on the present moment instead of the fever. So animated and alive.
A look of pure, unadulterated devotion crossed his face, and before he could think of the repercussions (as if he could care anyway), he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your heated forehead.
"There’s my girl," he murmured against your skin. "I knew a little drama would bring you back to me."
Bucky didn’t pull away immediately, letting his lips rest against your temple for a second longer, his breath warm and steady. The sharp, clean scent of the orange still lingered on his fingertips as he reached out to thumb a smudge of juice from the corner of your mouth.
"You’re a real terror when you’ve got a scoop, y'know that?" He teased, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating right through the pillow.
You let out a congested little hum, leaning into his touch despite yourself. "Someone’s got to keep track of the neighbourhood's morals, Buck. Since you’re too busy working and being all pretty."
"'Being all pretty', huh?" Grinning that lopsided, effortless smirk that made your heart do somersaults. He tossed the paper back to the edge of the mattress and stood up just long enough to shuck off his boots, then slide onto the mattress. Not wanting to chill you by getting under the covers, so he turned into a weighted blanket, slinking into your side and securing you into a warm embrace.
"Go on," he murmured, pulling your back to his chest. "Keep talkin', sweet girl. I got nowhere else I wanna be but right here."
As you spoke, rambling about Tommy's very evident track record and Bonnie's being too sweet for her own good, your voice cracked at every other sentence.
Bucky didn't interrupt once. Something in his chest pulled while he listened to your voice waver and crackle. Not with nervousness or sorrow, this was something warmer and more careful. Loving. He just reached down, found your cold hand under the layers of blankets, and laced your fingers together, squeezing.
By the time you reached the part about a scandal in the boys locker room back in high school, your words began to slow. Eyelids grew heavy, and the frantic energy finally dissipated to a soft, jaded exhaustion.
Stroking his thumb against your knuckles, Bucky waited until your breathing turned deep and even before he reached over to turn down the lamp. Letting the room fall into a cosy, amber twilight.
"Sleep tight, doll," he whispered into the crown of your head. "I'll buy you another orange tomorrow. Even if I gotta walk all the way to Manhattan for it."
He didn't move an inch. Gladly staying perfectly still and by your side, stroking your damp forehead, shushing and humming gentle made-up tunes into your hair, making sure that if you woke up in the dark, his voice would be the first thing you heard.
pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-catws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 12.8k words
summary | in the 40s, the two of you were meant to be forever—wild, in love, and untouched by anything but each other. but time tore you two apart, and when fate brought you back together decades later, love still lived between you and bucky... just no longer in the same lifetime
tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, p in v sex, time skip, angst, heavy angst/no comfort (we die like men), canon divergence (post-tfatws), unresolved feelings, mention of war and ptsd, bittersweet / painful romantic resolution, reader cries (a lot), bucky crying (internally), mitski energy, BABY TONY, leo fitz cameo
a/n | chat, we all crying in the club with this one. based on this request
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
Brooklyn, July 1942
The summer air in Brooklyn was thick and golden, the kind that made your skin feel kissed and alive.
You were barefoot on the edge of the rooftop, the sun setting behind you like fire rolling across the skyline, and Bucky Barnes was watching you like you were the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen—and he’d already gotten into three bar fights this month.
“You're gonna fall,” he warned, arms crossed, but with a smile pulling at his lips.
You turned your head, a grin already blooming. “Then catch me.”
“Don’t joke,” he said, stepping closer. “You know I would.”
You turned fully, facing him, the wind pulling your dress tight around your legs. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You always would.“
He paused, eyes on you now—less amused, more... full. You felt it in your chest.
You walked toward him slowly, deliberately, barefoot and brave. “What would you do if I jumped off something one day and you weren’t fast enough?”
He caught your wrist when you reached him. “Then I’d follow you down.“
You stared at him. The laughter on your tongue dissolved.
That was always the thing with Bucky. He said stuff like that, and he meant it. Fully. Without fear. Like loving you was easy.
“You make it too easy to love you,” you whispered, eyes soft now.
“And you make it hard to survive,” he shot back, teasing, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Running around barefoot on rooftops like a little menace.”
“I just don’t want to waste time being careful,” you murmured, resting your forehead to his. “We’ve got now, don’t we?”
He kissed you like a promise.
Slow. Long. With one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip. You sank into it, into him. Into the kind of kiss that made the city disappear.
When he pulled back, he said it—finally said it.
“I’m in love with you.”
You blinked.
You smiled.
And then, without missing a beat: “Took you long enough.”
────────────────────────
Later That Night – Bucky’s Apartment
The fan turned slowly overhead, humming quietly as the heat clung to the air, thick and lazy. You were stretched across Bucky’s bed, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand trailing down the slope of his chest while the other held a cigarette loosely between your fingers.
Bucky watched you like he always did: completely, unapologetically.
"You’re staring,” you murmured.
“You’re naked in my bed,” he said. “I’d be stupid not to.”
You grinned, putting the cigarette out in the tray on the nightstand before crawling over to straddle his hips. “Stupid, huh?”
He ran his hands up your thighs, gripping them like he was grounding himself. “The second I saw you in that bar a year ago, I knew I was in trouble.”
You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Good. Trouble keeps you young.”
Your lips met—soft at first, sweet—but it didn’t stay that way.
Bucky's hands slid up your back, palms warm and sure, dragging you against him as your hips began to roll. His cock hardened beneath you, thick and hot where it pressed between your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that made his grip on your ass tighten.
“You're gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice ragged.
“Not yet,” you whispered, reaching between you to line him up.
You sank down onto him with a gasp, your walls stretching around him, the burn sweet and perfect. Bucky’s hands flew to your hips, holding you steady as you took all of him, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked.
You didn’t move at first. Just leaned forward, forehead to his, feeling the way he throbbed inside you, the way his breath stuttered against your lips.
Then you rolled your hips—slow and deep—and his whole body tensed.
“You're so fuckin' tight,” he panted, bucking up into you instinctively. “Like you were made for me.“
You bit your lip, rocked again. “Maybe I was.”
And that was all it took.
He gripped your hips and fucked up into you, his rhythm desperate, rough, but never careless. You met him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his chest, breath hot against his throat.
The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking the wall, bodies slick and needy. You were panting now, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning shamelessly as your orgasm built like fire curling in your belly.
“Come on, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice gone. “Come for me. Show me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”
Your body clenched—tight, hot, overwhelming—and then you were coming, crying out his name, hips jerking as he held you down and fucked you through it.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the rubber, hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.
You collapsed onto him, both of you sticky and breathless, hearts thudding in unison.
“I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like he knew what was coming.
You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
“Then don’t ever leave me.”
He didn’t answer.
He just held you tighter.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn, September 1943
Three weeks before Bucky ships out
The letter sat on the kitchen table, opened, unfolded, and lined up too neatly for it to be an accident. You froze in the doorway, fingers still smudged with newspaper ink from the classifieds you hadn’t really been reading.
Bucky stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asked, voice low but razor-sharp.
You exhaled slowly. “I was. I was waiting for the right—”
“There’s no right time to tell me you’ve signed up to follow me into a war zone.”
“I didn’t sign up for you,” you said, stepping forward, calm but firm. “I signed up for the people who need help. And for the ones who don’t get to come home.”
He laughed—bitter and low. “Right. And that just happens to be the same front line I’m getting sent to?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because yes. Yes, it did happen to be the same region. Same Allied deployment. You’d pulled every string possible, leaned on every nurse you trained beside, begged to be assigned where you knew he was going.
“I’m not gonna sit at home and wonder every day if you’re still alive,” you said. “I won’t do it.”
“You’re not supposed to be there,” he snapped. “Do you know what it’s like out there? You think the enemy’s gonna care you’ve got a Red Cross on your arm? You think they won’t shoot through a nurse like anyone else?”
“I know the risks.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cup beside your letter. “You’ve never seen a man bleed out on the ground with half his leg gone. You’ve never had shrapnel spray through a tent while you’re catching your breath.”
His voice cracked.
You stepped closer.
“This isn’t about you thinking I’m naïve,” you said quietly. “It’s about you being scared.”
He looked at you then—really looked.
And God, he was scared. Eyes red, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.
“I am scared,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m terrified.”
You reached for him, fingers brushing his forearm. “Then let me be where I can help. Let me do what I can. Don’t ask me to stay behind and feel helpless.”
He swallowed, shaking his head.
You stepped closer. “You’d do the same for me.”
“That’s not the point.*”
“It is,” you said. “It is, James. Because I don’t want to lose you and wonder if I could’ve saved someone else just like you.”
He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.
You stood there, pressed to his chest, both of you silent.
You weren’t changing your mind.
And neither was he.
His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold something.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.
You kissed him. Slow. Steady. Real.
“You won't.”
2 Years Later
Occupied France, 1944
A dusty bar just past midnight
The bar was a converted farmhouse—dusty, dimly lit, and barely holding itself together. Bottles clinked, laughter spilled like smoke, and music hummed from a battered radio in the corner.
Somewhere in the background, Dugan was arm-wrestling two locals at once, while Morita laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. There were glasses clinking, boots scuffing the floor, and one of the Commandos yelling about needing more whiskey like they hadn’t just cleared out half the stock already.
And Bucky was holding you like he couldn’t believe it.
You were tucked into his lap in a shadowed booth near the back, your arms draped around his neck, one hand gently threading through his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers pressed to the curve of your spine like he was scared you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.
Outside, the war still existed. But not here.
Not in this small, golden sliver of now.
You leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You know they’re watching.”
He smiled, eyes half-lidded and heavy with whiskey and relief. “Let ‘em. If I can’t kiss my girl after dropping a Hydra base, what the hell are we even fighting for?”
You laughed, low and quiet. It rumbled in his chest.
“I missed your laugh,” he said, voice rough. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than ten minutes where we weren’t being shot at or yelled at.”
You tightened your arms around him. “You keep surviving and I’ll keep laughing.”
He went still for a moment, just holding you, his nose brushing the side of your neck.
You leaned into his touch, fingertips tracing along the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”
He paused.
Then he smiled—small, quiet, soft.
“I see it now.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
“The future,” he murmured. “Us. After all this. I didn’t used to let myself picture it. Thought it was bad luck or something. But tonight? I see it clear as day.”
You swallowed, throat suddenly tight.
You opened your mouth to answer, but he cut you off—his voice gentler now, steadier. Certain.
“When this is over, I’m gonna marry you.”
Your breath caught.
Not because it surprised you. Not because it was sudden.
But because he meant it.
His hand slid up your spine, warm and steady.
“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We’ll get a better place in Brooklyn. You’ll still complain about the noise. I’ll pretend I like fixing things. You’ll still be wild. And I'll still follow you anywhere.”
“Bucky…” you breathed.
He leaned in, kissed you like it was a vow.
“When it’s done,” he said again. “You and me.”
You buried your face in his shoulder, smiling as you fought the sting in your eyes.
There, in the middle of a war. Blood on his knuckles. Dust on your shoes. You both knew the odds were shit. But still—he saw it. You.
You pressed your forehead to his.
“I’ll hold you to it, Barnes.”
“You better,” he whispered.
Then he kissed you again—slow and deep and full of everything he’d never said, everything he was too afraid to hope for.
You didn’t say anything either.
Because you saw it too.
And it was beautiful.
And it would never happen.
────────────────────────
Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945
The flaps of the medical tent opened with a violent rustle as Bucky stormed in, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp body.
“I need a medic!” he shouted, voice hoarse, desperate. “Somebody—she needs help, now!”
Your head lolled against his shoulder, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your uniform was scorched along one side, and your skin—hot to the touch, glowing faintly blue—made his breath choke in his throat.
Steve was right behind him, bloodied and breathless from the mission, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat. “Bucky—there—over there.”
Bucky stumbled toward the nearest cot, easing you down with shaking hands. “She’s not—she’s not waking up—why isn’t she waking up?!”
“Move,” a voice snapped. One of the medics pushed past him, and behind them, Howard Stark rushed in, eyes scanning the tent before landing on your still body.
“What happened?” the doctor asked quickly, already peeling back your uniform sleeves to check your vitals. “Where was she hit?”
“She—shit, she—she was trying to get to the evac point and that Hydra weapon—the blue thing, it exploded—she was right there, it hit her—dead on.” Bucky’s words were a mess, stumbling out one over the other as he paced, eyes wide and wild. “There was this light—this blast—and she just—she dropped.”
Howard’s head snapped toward him, face going white. “The Tesseract?”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “What?”
“That wasn’t just energy,” Howard said, approaching the cot fast. “That was Tesseract radiation. If she was that close to a direct hit—she should be—”
“Don’t say it,” Bucky growled, eyes blazing. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”
He dropped to his knees beside the cot, grabbing your hand, pressing it to his lips. “C’mon, doll. You’re tough. You always get up. You’re gonna get up now.”
The medic pulled out a flashlight, gently prying one of your eyes open. “Pupils responsive but sluggish. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. Pulse is unstable.”
Howard moved in beside them, watching your vitals with a furrowed brow. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s no visible trauma except the cut. If she took a full dose of that energy—”
“Why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky’s voice cracked, and suddenly he was whispering. “She’s always so loud, y’know? Never sits still. Never—she wouldn’t just go quiet like this. She wouldn’t.”
Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Buck. We’re gonna figure this out.”
Bucky shook his head, holding your hand tighter. “She promised me a future, Steve. She promised.”
And you weren’t waking up.
Not yet.
────────────────────────
Two Days Later
You hadn’t moved.
Not once.
Not even a twitch.
Bucky sat beside your cot, slouched in a metal folding chair, his fingers still wrapped around your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform was wrinkled. His face unshaved. Eyes red and ringed with exhaustion, like sleep hadn’t dared touch him in forty-eight hours.
Outside, the camp buzzed with movement—boots, trucks, whispered plans. Another Hydra facility marked. Another opportunity to get ahead.
But inside the tent, it was silent. Except for the monitor’s slow, steady beep. The only sign you were still in there somewhere.
He watched your face like it might change. Like your eyelids might flutter. Like you’d sigh and mutter something sarcastic just to mess with him.
But nothing. Stillness.
Until the tent flap rustled, and Steve stepped inside.
Bucky didn’t look at him.
Steve waited a beat, then approached quietly. “Zola’s train. We’ve got confirmation. If we intercept it, we can get him—and maybe trace it back to the Tesseract.”
Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened.
“Buck…”
“I can’t leave her,” Bucky muttered, voice low, ragged. “She could wake up. She’s gonna be scared, disoriented. I have to be here.”
Steve crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees.
“She’s strong,” he said gently. “She’ll hold on. She always does.”
Bucky shook his head slowly, like if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. “She followed me here, Steve. Through hell. And now she’s like this ‘cause she was near me. I can’t—I won’t walk away from her.”
Steve was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, soft and steady, “One last mission.”
Bucky didn’t speak.
“We get Zola. We find out what Hydra’s planning. What they hit her with. Maybe it'll help Howard figure out how to wake her.“
Bucky’s jaw flexed.
Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come back to her. You always do.”
The silence stretched. Bucky looked at your face, memorizing it all over again.
Then—reluctantly, slowly—he stood.
He leaned down, brushed his lips over your knuckles. “Don’t you dare wake up without me.”
And then he walked out.
Into the mission that would steal him away.
────────────────────────
London Outskirts — Allied Medical Facility, April 1945
There was a buzzing under your skin.
Not like electricity. Not pain, exactly. Just… noise. Dull and heavy, like someone had wrapped you in cotton and dropped you underwater.
You blinked, slow and uneven, as the world filtered back in pieces.
White ceiling. IV drip. The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers.
You didn’t know where you were. Or when. Or how long it had been since anything had felt real.
Your throat was dry. A soft, broken sound rasped from your lips, not quite a word, not quite a cry.
Movement.
A figure stirred beside you, and your head turned weakly toward it. There she was—Peggy Carter—neat, composed, hair swept into a familiar roll, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.
You tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Your tongue felt thick. Your thoughts slow. Your chest ached—not sharp, but deep, like it had been cracked open and stitched back wrong.
Your lips parted. It took effort to find your voice.
“…Peg?”
She looked up instantly, eyes wide with something too deep to name. Relief. Sorrow. Something between the two.
“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for your hand. Her grip was warm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”
You blinked again. Your eyelids felt like stone.
“Where’s… Bucky?”
Peggy hesitated. And you knew.
Not because of what she said.
Because of how long it took her to say it.
You blinked again, trying to force the fog out of your head. “Where is he?” you repeated, a little clearer. A little louder.
Peggy’s eyes were steady. Too steady.
“There was a mission,” she said gently. “A train in the Alps. HYDRA. Bucky was… he fell.”
You stared at her, the words not quite landing.
“He fell,” you repeated.
She nodded once, eyes glistening. “Off the side. Into the ravine. We searched for him. We tried—”
“No.” It was out before you meant to say it.
Peggy looked down.
You opened your mouth to keep talking, but your chest locked up. Something thick and painful wedged under your ribs. You tried again.
The buzzing returned. It roared now. Every breath hurt.
“No…” you said again, barely above a whisper.
Peggy reached for your hand.
You flinched.
“No—no, no,” you repeated, squeezing your eyes shut like it would erase her words. “You’re wrong. He—he said—we had plans. He promised—he—”
Peggy squeezed your hand, her voice like broken glass. “I’m so sorry.”
Your chest heaved. Tears slid down your cheeks in silence—slow, unstoppable.
You didn’t sob. Not yet. You just cried. Soft and disbelieving.
The kind of crying that felt like your bones were cracking open from the inside out. Like your body couldn’t process the grief fast enough.
He was gone.
Your entire world, gone.
You turned your face away from Peggy, trembling as the tears kept falling.
You didn’t scream. Didn’t speak.
You just wept quietly into the pillow, mourning a future that died a thousand miles away—on a mountainside, in the snow—where no one could bring it back.
Five Years Later – Brooklyn, 1950
You didn’t notice it at first.
You never noticed anything, really.
The world had kept moving without you, chugging forward like a train on a track you’d never boarded. You went through the motions—woke up, went to work, cooked meals you rarely ate. Laughed sometimes, though you never meant it. Time passed. The war ended. Cities rebuilt.
But inside?
You were still there. Still in that bed. Still in that room.
Still clinging to a lifeless hand that never gripped back.
Grief had folded itself into your bones like marrow. You carried it like your own shadow—quiet, constant, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look.
You’d heard the comments, of course.
At first, they’d sounded like kindness.
“You’ve held up so well.”
“Still got that youthful glow, huh?”
“God, I wish my skin looked like that.”
But you never paid them any mind. Compliments slid off you like water off wax paper. You never saw what they saw. When you looked in the mirror, all you ever saw were dead eyes. Eyes that stopped shining the day Bucky didn’t come back to you.
Until one day… you looked.
Really looked.
You were standing in front of the mirror, brushing your wet hair absently, staring at yourself like usual—not *at* yourself, just through—when something pulled you up short.
Your hand stilled.
You blinked.
And this time, you really saw it.
Your cheeks—still full. No hollows. No lines from laughter or frowning, even though you'd done plenty of the latter and none of the former.
Your skin—glassy. Smooth. Not youthful, not radiant. Just… untouched.
No crow’s feet. No crease between your brows where you’d furrowed them every morning for five years straight.
Your fingers tightened around the brush.
You leaned closer.
No greys in your hair. Not one. You combed through the strands slowly with your fingers, heart beginning to thrum like distant thunder.
Your hands—steady, soft. No sag to the skin. No dark spots. No thinning at the knuckles.
You didn’t look thirty. You didn’t even look twenty-five. You looked exactly the same. And in 1950, that wasn’t beautiful.
It was unnatural.
It hit you in the gut like ice.
You stepped back from the mirror, shaking your head like that might fix it. Like your reflection might catch up to the pain you’d earned.
But it didn’t.
Because you hadn’t aged a day.
And something was very, very wrong.
That's how you ended up in front of Howard Stark again.
Hair wind-tossed, coat clutched tight around your body, eyes hollow as you stood in the lobby of a new office in Washington D.C.—clean lines, too many acronyms, glass walls that looked out onto a world you didn’t recognize anymore.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you said.
Howard blinked when he saw you. He hadn’t changed much—bags deeper under his eyes, tie looser than it used to be, but his mind still whirring like a machine. He didn’t ask questions. Just brought you inside.
That’s how you found out about S.H.I.E.L.D.
Some quiet initiative he and Peggy had started—first as a resistance concept, now evolving into something more. Protection. Prevention. Oversight.
And now? Medical diagnostics. They ran tests. Endless ones. Blood. DNA mapping. Tissue scans. Vital readings.
They cross-referenced data from other soldiers exposed to Hydra weapons, to radiation, to anything remotely alien. They even examined your service uniform—residues from the blast, particles trapped in the fabric’s weave.
And the answer came slowly. Then all at once.
“You’re not aging,” Howard said, voice flat with disbelief, eyes scanning the readouts. “Not at all.”
Peggy sat in the corner of the room, hands clasped, eyes dim.
Your heart thudded in your chest.
Howard looked at the scans again. “Your cellular regeneration rate is exponentially higher than the baseline. Mitochondrial aging markers are… nonexistent. The tissue sample we took yesterday? It’s already reversed degradation overnight.”
You stared at him like he was speaking a language you didn’t want to learn.
“What does that mean?” you whispered.
He hesitated. “It means your body is repairing itself faster than it can age. And at this rate… it likely won’t ever stop.”
Your breath hitched.
Peggy stood. “We think it was the Tesseract,” she said gently. “The radiation wasn’t like anything we’ve encountered. It was… beyond us. Beyond Earth. It changed you.”
And for the first time in your life, you saw fear in his eyes.
“We’re trying.”
You laughed—short, bitter. “Try harder. I don’t want to be some—some relic. Some myth people study as I live forever. I don’t even want to live right now.”
Peggy reached for you. You pulled away.
And then the days blurred. Months passed in white walls and test tubes. Howard kept trying. Peggy kept reassuring. You kept waking up to the same face in the mirror, the same unwrinkled skin, the same 24-year-old trapped in a body that wouldn’t let go.
And before you knew it… it was 1960.
You were supposed to be forty. But the woman in the mirror? Still looked like the girl who had just lost everything.
New York, 1970
Stark Residence – Late Autumn
“He’s beautiful,” you said softly.
The baby blinked up at you, barely able to focus, cheeks round and pink, one tiny fist curled in your sweater. His eyelids fluttered, mouth opening in a sleepy pout.
“Can’t believe you named a baby Anthony, Howard,” you added dryly, glancing up at Howard. “What is he—fifty already?”
Maria laughed from her seat on the couch. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”
Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s a strong name. Classic.”
“It’s a grandfather’s name,” you teased, rocking gently as the baby blinked again. “He’s gonna come out of the bassinet asking about tax reform.”
Maria smiled, rubbing her side gently. “How was Italy?”
You exhaled through a faint smile. “Beautiful. Quiet. Just the break I needed.”
Maria nodded knowingly. You didn’t have to say more. Everyone needed to escape sometimes. You, more than most.
“Though,” you added, “I did have some issues at the airport. Apparently, people get suspicious when your passport says you were born in 1920.”
Howard gave you a look from across the room, but you ignored him.
“And you?” you asked Maria, gently bouncing the baby as he started to fidget. “How are you doing? Six months in and you’re still glowing.”
Maria smiled, eyes warm. “Recovering. Slowly. He’s worth it, though.”
You nodded and glanced down at little Anthony. He yawned, the movement so pure and small it made your chest ache.
Then Howard spoke.
“You missed your last screening.”
The air shifted. The bounce of the baby in your arms slowed.
“It’s just one test,” you said without looking up. “None of them work anyway.”
Howard straightened from his chair. “That’s not the point. Science is evolving every day—we’re closer now than we were six months ago. You can’t just keep skipping—”
“You’ve been saying that to me for the last twenty-five years, Howard.”
Silence.
The baby cooed, soft and unaware of the sharpness that had entered the room.
Maria cleared her throat gently, trying to soften it again. “He’s right, you know. One day something will work.”
You rocked Anthony again, gaze drifting down to his little hand curling in your shirt.
Maria’s voice was softer now. “You ever think about doing this for yourself? Finding someone? Starting a family?”
You stared at the baby. Long enough that the quiet turned into something heavy.
Then you whispered, “So I can outlive them, too?”
No one spoke. Maria reached for her tea. Howard looked away.
Anthony blinked up at you, peaceful and unaware of the fact that your heart had just folded in half again—quietly, invisibly, like it had learned to over the decades.
Washington, D.C. – 2011
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, The Triskelion
Level 4 Medical Wing
The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air—sterile, humming, too bright. You’d memorized every corner of it. Every buzzing fluorescent tube. Every faint scratch on the polished floor from wheeled machines that came and went like clockwork.
You sat on the exam table, sleeve rolled up, arm extended. Your gaze was blank, unfocused, fixed on a point past the wall while the needle pierced your vein.
The young man adjusting the monitor beside you was rambling. Scottish. Awkward. Unapologetically enthusiastic.
“…so basically, your cellular repair rate’s increased by point-zero-four percent in the last decade, which—honestly? Shouldn’t even be possible. We’ve all sort of—well—not to be weird—but we’ve sort of been passing your case files around the medical research division like they’re…” He cleared his throat. “Like they’re legend.”
You blinked slowly.
He winced at himself. “Right. Sorry. That was probably weird to say out loud.”
You said nothing.
He smiled awkwardly and gently removed the IV. “Honestly, I can’t believe they’ve got me doing your panel this cycle. It’s usually Doctor Winslow, or sometimes Simmons when she’s not in the field—uh, that’s my colleague, she’s brilliant—but I drew the assignment this time and I—well, you’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than the agency has even existed, which is wild, right?”
You tilted your head slightly, like you were watching a small animal knock its head against a glass door.
He fumbled with a tablet, clearly trying to keep the energy going. “Anyway, it’s fascinating. You’re…you’re basically a walking contradiction. Functionally immortal, ageless, regenerative to a degree we can’t replicate even with alien tech—God, I hope that wasn’t offensive, calling you that—immortal, I mean.”
You raised one brow.
He paled slightly. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”
You didn’t smile. But you also didn’t tell him to shut up, so he took it as a kind of social win.
When he finally finished up with the last scan, he gave you a sheepish glance.
“Um… would it be weird to ask for a photo?”
You slowly turned your head, looking at him fully for the first time.
The silence that followed was so sharp, it could’ve been used to sterilize the room.
His face blanched. “Right. Yes. Terrible idea. That was—that was inappropriate. Of course. Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and, uh—upload these. You’re done for today! Thanks!”
You slid off the table wordlessly, tugging your sleeve back down.
And as you walked out, you heard him whisper to himself, “Cool. No, totally cool. Great job, Fitz. Legendary immortal war nurse just stared into your soul.”
The door hissed shut behind you, and you exhaled—long, steady, trying to shake off the sterile weight of fluorescent lights and Fitz’s over-enthusiastic commentary still clinging to your thoughts like static.
You turned down the hall—
And there he was.
Leaning against the wall just outside the medical wing like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That signature half-smile that never reached his eyes until you made it.
Agent Cole Turner.
“You missed your window,” you said, not even slowing your pace. “I escaped the lab untouched.”
He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you effortlessly.
“They always let you go. I just come here for the view.”
You raised a brow. “You’re shameless.”
“And yet you don’t seem to mind,” he said, glancing sideways at you, voice low, rich, smooth enough to run a finger through. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you time your exit to run into me.”
“I could have you reassigned.”
“I’d come back.”
You cast him a glance—flat, unimpressed, too good at hiding the flutter under your ribs.
But he saw it.
He always saw it.
Turner let the silence hang a second too long. Then, like he couldn’t help himself:
“You look different today.”
You stiffened slightly. “Do I?”
“It’s your eyes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re a little softer. Sadder.”
You didn’t answer. He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you realized and turned slowly back to him.
“Something happen?”
“It’s just been a day,” you said.
He studied you for a long beat, something sharper edging into his expression. “You’re not like the rest of them.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“I say it like it’s true.” He took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s a strategy. But you still come back. Still take the tests. Still give just enough. Why?”
You blinked slowly. “Maybe I’m a creature of habit.”
“You’re not a creature of anything. You’re a woman who’s been running from something so long, she doesn’t know what it feels like to stay.”
That hit a little too close. You looked away.
Turner’s voice dropped again, lower, more deliberate. “I could take you out. Just coffee. Just air.”
You stared at him.
“You don’t even know what today is,” you said softly.
He tilted his head. “Then tell me.”
You didn’t. Because it was your birthday. You were now ninety-one.
And you still looked like you were twenty-four, standing in front of a man you might’ve let yourself love in a different life.
You gave a short breath of a smile instead. “You’re really bad at backing off.”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s what they keep telling me.”
You turned away before he could see you almost smile again.
He fell into step beside you once more, casually.
“Tell me one thing, and I’ll go.”
You paused. “What?”
“Do you look at me like that on purpose?”
You didn’t look at him this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But you did. And so did he.
He let out a soft breath, low and amused. “Then I’ll see you around.”
You didn’t watch him walk away. But you wanted to. More than you’d admit.
But you continued, stepping out into the cool D.C. air, the late afternoon light washing over the concrete courtyard in golden warmth.
And for the first time that day—a real smile touched your lips.
Because there he was.
Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was a runway, sunglasses perched on his nose, suit pressed like he hadn’t ever known a wrinkle in his life.
Tony Stark.
He pushed off the car when he saw you, arms opening like he was about to go full dramatic hug.
You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”
He removed his sunglasses with a flourish. “What, you think I’d miss my godmother’s birthday? The woman who once grounded me for hot-wiring my own father’s car?”
“You were eleven,” you said.
“I was innovating,” he countered, pointing a finger. “Visionary. Ahead of my time.”
“You were stealing a ride to go get candy.”
Tony grinned. “And you were the only one who had the guts to chase me down in heels and throw me into a bush.”
You shrugged. “And I’d do it again.”
“I know. That’s why I love you.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in, old lady. I’m taking you out.”
You raised a brow. “Where?”
“That crappy restaurant in Brooklyn you always go on about,” he said, circling around to his side. “You know the one. Peeling wallpaper. Weird lasagna. Waiter with a God complex.”
“Vincent’s,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You hate that place.”
He started the car. “I do. But you don’t. And I’m feeling particularly generous today.”
You slid in beside him, smirking. “Did Pepper put you up to this?”
He turned to you with mock offense. “Wow. You think I can’t do a nice thing out of my own volition?”
“You called me an ‘ancient vampire’ last year when I wouldn’t let you have champagne before noon.”
“And I was right,” he said. “But you’re my ancient vampire. Which means I’m buying you overpriced garlic bread and pretending I don’t gag at marinara.”
You laughed, for real this time, the sound warm and effortless.
He glanced at you sideways, smirk softening. “You deserve something good today.”
You looked out the window for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just pulled onto the road and turned the radio down.
Then, casually: “You know, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and punch anyone who ever made you feel alone on your birthday.”
You looked at him again—really looked.
And your chest ached in the best way.
“Careful,” you said. “If you get any more sentimental, I might think you’re going soft.”
He smirked. “I’m Tony Stark. I can be whatever I want.”
You smiled again. “Then today? Be my annoying godson who buys me garlic bread.”
“Done.”
────────────────────────
The cabin of Tony’s jet was warm and plush, stocked with things you’d never dream of asking for but he always insisted on having. The faint hum of altitude mixed with his voice as he made some dramatic comment about how you were a “terrible birthday date” for refusing to pick a champagne.
You rolled your eyes, lounging with a drink in hand, just starting to let yourself relax.
And then your phone rang.
You frowned.
Tony looked up too. “You actually have your ringer on? What are you, eighty?”
“Actually I'm ninety-one,” you murmured, glancing at the screen.
Unknown.
You picked up.
“…Hello?”
“Don’t speak,” came Fury’s voice, sharp and direct. “Just listen. We’ve got a situation. You need to come to our Manhattan facility. Immediately.”
You straightened in your seat. “What? Why? What’s going on?”
“We recovered something. Someone.”
You were already on edge. “Fury—”
“It’s Rogers,” he said flatly. “Captain America. We found his body in the Arctic. He’s… he’s awake.”
Silence.
It ripped through you like a bullet.
“What?”
“We thawed him two days ago. He’s stable. Fully conscious. Still adjusting.”
Your breath left your lungs like a punch. “You what? And you’re just telling me now? I should’ve been told the moment you found him—how long have you known?!”
There was a beat of static. Then the line went dead. You pulled the phone back, stared at the screen: Call ended.
“Motherf—” You cut yourself off, nearly launching the device across the cabin.
Tony raised both brows, slowly closing his tablet. “Well. That sounded like a vibe killer.”
You were already standing, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I—I need to raincheck. I’m sorry.”
He blinked. “Raincheck? On your birthday dinner?”
You looked at him, pained. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”
He studied you for a second, expression unreadable.
Then: “Fine. But if this turns out to be you ghosting me to avoid carbs, I will send you gluten-laced muffins in retaliation.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful and soft.
“Next time,” you promised.
He nodded, but as you rushed toward the cabin door, he called after you.
“Tell the Captain he owes me a drink. I’ve got questions about the hair.”
You didn’t answer.
You were already gone.
────────────────────────
S.H.I.E.L.D. Manhattan Facility – Sub-Level 3
The elevator opened with a cold metallic hiss, and there he was—Nick Fury, standing at the threshold with his arms folded, eye already tracking your every movement like he expected a detonation.
You didn’t greet him.
You didn’t slow down.
You stormed past him with the force of a tidal wave.
“You should’ve told me immediately,” you snapped, heels echoing down the corridor as he turned to follow you.
He didn’t flinch. “You weren’t cleared.”
You stopped.
Pivoted sharply.
Face to face with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your expression carved from stone.
“Bullshit.”
Fury’s jaw flexed. “Might I remind you that you are not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nevertheless having the clearance—”
“He is Captain goddamn America,” you bit out, voice low and lethal. “And you thought it wasn’t logical to contact the only living person he knows? The one who knew him before the shield, before the serum, before the goddamn war?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped closer, finger pointed square at his chest.
“Don’t play smart with me, boy.”
That stopped him. For a second, the Director of the world’s most covert agency looked like he’d been slapped.
“I was born before your parents even met,” you said coldly. “I was holding soldiers hand while they bled out on a field you’ve only ever read about. I sat in a room and cried over Steve Rogers before your daddy learned how to spell his own name.”
Your voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury barely leashed. “I watched everyone I ever loved disappear. And now he’s back, and you didn’t tell me.”
Fury’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.
“You think S.H.I.E.L.D. built me?” you hissed. “I’ve outlived organizations. I’ve outlived time. You don’t keep something like this from me.”
There was a beat of silence. The hallway was cold and empty, save for your words hanging heavy in the air.
Finally, Fury spoke, quieter.
“…He’s just through here.”
You stared at the door.
Your hand trembled, just slightly. The door slid open with a soft hiss.
The room beyond was quiet, dimly lit. Stark white walls. No windows. Just the low hum of surveillance tech and a single man sitting at the edge of a hospital-style cot.
Steve Rogers.
His elbows rested on his knees, broad shoulders hunched, head in his hands like the weight of the century he missed was finally bearing down.
You stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a final click.
He didn’t hear it. Not at first. But then—his head lifted. His eyes—tired, shell-shocked, too blue—locked on yours.
And for a moment… everything stilled.
He stared at you like you were a ghost. Like you might disappear if he blinked too hard.
“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his chest. “No… that can’t be…”
You didn’t move yet. Just looked at him, eyes burning. “It’s me, Steve.”
He was on his feet in seconds—crossing the room in three long, desperate strides, his hand reaching before he could stop himself, like he needed to touch you to believe you were real.
You let him.
He stopped inches away, eyes wide, searching every line of your face.
You whispered, “I’m real.”
He didn’t speak.
He just pulled you into his arms—tight, fierce, trembling—and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding for seventy years.
His voice cracked at your ear.
“…How?”
You closed your eyes, gripping the back of his shirt. “It’s a long story. One you won’t believe.”
He held you like the world had finally stopped spinning.
And maybe, for one perfect second, it had.
────────────────────────
New York City – Stark Tower, 2012
The streets of Manhattan were still choked with debris, flickering emergency lights, and the aftermath of an invasion no one expected. But you didn’t stop moving—not through the airport, not through the eerily quiet flight, not through the ash and twisted metal littering the city.
Because you saw it.
The footage.
Steve.
Tony.
A hole in the sky. And now—you were here.
You stepped through the busted entryway of Stark Tower, heart in your throat, shoes crunching glass. Security didn’t stop you. They knew who you were.
You pushed through the ruined lobby, into the elevator—thankfully still functioning—and rode it in dead silence, hands clenched.
The doors opened onto chaos.
And you saw them.
Tony, pacing near a half-functional console, bruised and blood-streaked but upright. Romanoff sitting on the edge of a workbench, stitches on her temple. Barton standing guard at the window. And—
“Steve—”
He turned at the sound of your voice.
You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, arms flying around him, holding tight.
“Are you okay?” you demanded, breathless, checking him over with your hands, ignoring the shield slung across his back. “What the hell happened—I saw you on the news, I thought—”
“I’m okay,” he murmured, voice tired but warm. “I’m here.”
“Well, great,” Tony cut in dryly, limping slightly toward you. “Glad to see Cap gets all the hugs. Never mind me, the guy who literally flew a nuke into space and crash-landed back to Earth like a comet.”
You turned, expression flat. Then without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him too, tight, one hand on the back of his head.
He blinked. “Okay. Wow. That worked better than expected.”
You pulled back. “Never do that again.”
“No promises,” he said, voice softer now. “But… since you’re here—” he gestured vaguely to the rubble, “—and we’re alive, I might’ve found something. A possible fix.”
You frowned. “Fix for what?”
Before he could answer, a voice echoed behind you like rolling thunder.
“Milady.”
You turned—and stared.
There, standing tall among the wreckage, was a man out of myth.
Blonde hair, broad shoulders, armor gleaming despite the mess. A cape. And a hammer—impossibly heavy-looking, dangling from his fingers like it was nothing.
Your eyes widened.
He stepped forward with regal ease. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and wielder of Mjölnir.”
You blinked. “Hi.”
He bowed his head slightly. “The Captain of America and the Man of Iron have spoken of you.”
Steve looked faintly exasperated; Tony was smirking.
“They told me of your… predicament,” Thor continued, “and of the relic that caused it. The Tesseract and it's power is not unknown to me. It is one of the Infinity Stones—powerful beyond your world’s understanding.”
You glanced between them, mind catching up. “You know what it is?”
Thor nodded. “And I believe I can help.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, all you could see was possibility.
You turned slowly toward Steve, toward Tony.
Steve gave a small, hopeful nod. “I think he can really help you.”
And for the first time in a very, very long time…you felt it.
Hope.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn – Abandoned Warehouse, October 2014
The space was cold. Cracked walls. Rotting beams. Bare concrete that echoed every breath like it was trying to remind him he was still alive.
He sat in the corner of the second floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, metal fingers clenched around the edge of a weather-worn blanket someone had left behind. He hadn't turned the lights on. He couldn't. He didn’t want to see what kind of ghost looked back at him.
A memory flickered.
A pair of blue eyes—his? Someone else's?
Gone.
He pressed his fists to his forehead, hard. Like pressure might force the truth out.
He knew the facts.
Names from placards and plaques. Faces on digital screens in museum halls. Steve Rogers: Hero. Captain. Friend.
And a photograph—grainy, faded.
Her.
You.
A woman in a dark dress. Laughing. Elbow hooked in Bucky Barnes’s. Smiling like you didn’t know war was waiting.
But he didn’t remember your name.
Not really.
Only—flashes.
A smoky bar. Laughter like wind chimes. A voice sharp with wit, low with want. The way you’d leaned in, chin tipped up, mouth just barely grazing his.
Then—touch. A warm thigh under his palm. Your fingers threaded through his hair. Skin on skin in a dark apartment that smelled like old books and lavender. His hand gripping your hip, your breath catching in his ear, your laugh—
“You make it too easy to love you.”
That one he remembered.
He choked on a breath. Pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
His mind was full of holes, Hydra-shaped voids that swallowed everything whole. But you were like a splinter stuck beneath his ribs—sharp, aching, impossible to dig out.
And it hurt. It hurt.
Not just the not-knowing. The not-having. But the knowing enough to miss it. To miss you.
He doubled over, forehead to his knees, metal fingers curling into the floor, dragging small scars into the concrete.
He hadn’t cried. Not in forever. But now his chest was cracking open, silent and violent and shaking.
Because the woman in the flashes—
the one who touched him like he wasn’t a weapon—
the one who kissed him like tomorrow was a joke—
She was real.
The air had gone still.
No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of old wiring somewhere in the walls and the sound of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow, like even that was a struggle.
He opened his notebook again—small, weather-stained, bent at the corners. A pen rested inside it, lid chewed to hell. His hand trembled as he flipped past scribbled museum facts, fragmented Russian, coordinates scratched in blind frustration.
Then—on the last page. A single line.
"Beautiful eyes, sharp mouth. Loud and free."
He stared at it. He didn’t remember writing it. But he knew it was about you.
You, who lived in the gaps between dreams and triggers. You, who surfaced in the quiet moments before the nightmares started. You, who touched him like he wasn’t broken, even though maybe he always had been.
The worst part? He couldn’t remember your name. Not your voice. Not your laugh in full.
Just impressions—like the warmth a flame leaves after it’s gone out.
A breathless laugh behind a rooftop kiss. A low murmur against his throat—“Don’t ever leave me.” A flash of skin in moonlight, your leg draped over his hip. And something deeper. Something dear.
The way you’d looked at him once—like he was worth everything. That memory stabbed.
Because no one looked at him like that anymore. Not even himself.
His metal hand clenched around the pen until it creaked, until it cracked, until the ink bled into his palm and he barely noticed.
He stood, pacing, fast and desperate. He needed something. A lead. A name. A reason.
He tore through the backpack he kept hidden under the floorboards—scavenged burner phones, papers, an old StarkPad he barely knew how to use.
He cracked it open with shaking hands.
Typed:
Brooklyn, 1940s. Woman. Bucky Barnes.
Nothing. Too vague.
Bucky Barnes. War nurse. Brooklyn, 1940s. WW2.
Still nothing useful.
He slammed the pad down hard enough to fracture the case.
“Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please…”
He didn’t know who he was begging.
Not Steve. Not God. Just you.
Because he could live without memories. But not without you.
The cracked StarkPad balanced on his knee, the screen flickering from overuse. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then moved faster—typing, deleting, retyping again over and over.
And then—
There it was.
A headline.
“The Mysterious Case of The Girl Stuck in Time: Survivor of World War II. Known for her service as a front-line nurse alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Has not aged since 1945.“
His breath caught.
He clicked the article with trembling fingers, the screen loading slow like it knew it held something sacred.
There you were.
A black-and-white photo from the war, standing in uniform beside Steve and him, smiling wide. The same eyes.
Then a more recent image—different setting. S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo, maybe. Hair pulled back, skin impossibly smooth. Too smooth. Like glass. Like time had decided it didn’t apply to you.
You looked the same.
But also—not.
The curve of your lips was tight, your eyes dull. Your beauty was preserved, but your light had dulled. In the photo, you looked like someone still breathing only because the alternative was worse.
His fingers brushed the screen like it might bring you closer.
He didn't understand.
What the hell did they do to you?
He dug deeper. Articles. Theories. Old interviews. They all called you a miracle. A myth. A phenomenon.
They didn’t know what he did.
That you were real.
Warm. Loud. Wild.
The girl who kissed him like the world was ending.
The woman who swore she’d never let the war steal you both.
Now the war had ended.
And you were still fighting.
He kept scrolling. More photos. All of them wrong.
That wasn’t how you’d looked when you whispered “You’re mine” against his mouth.
But you were alive.
His heart pounded. For the first time since the collapse of the helicarriers—for the first time since your name came back to him—he felt something close to clarity.
He had to find you.
No matter how long it took. No matter who you’d become. Because somewhere in there—
you were still his.
────────────────────────
San Francisco – November, 2014
Outer Richmond District, 4:37 p.m.
The sky hung low, swollen with clouds, heavy with the kind of gray that made the entire street look washed in cold ash. Rain fell in a soft, steady rhythm—thousands of tiny drops kissing pavement, pooling along curbs, hissing off car roofs.
Bucky stood across the street, half-sheltered beneath the overhang of a florist’s shop. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, collar turned up high. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed in slow, anxious rhythm.
He’d been here for hours.
Watched people pass. Listened to the city breathe in traffic hums and bicycle bells.
Waiting.
Waiting to see you.
He knew your life now—what pieces the world had.
The woman they called “The Girl Stuck in Time.”
He’d read everything. Every grainy tabloid photo, every polished New York Times spread from the 60s. He found the interview you gave in ’71—your voice quiet, controlled, your smile tight as you said you were just “trying to do something good with the time I’ve been given.”
Philanthropy. Global aid. A foundation in your name. Book deals you barely promoted. Speeches you didn’t like giving. Smiling for photos you didn’t believe in.
A life that looked full. Beautiful.
But behind your eyes? Still the same sadness from the museum photos.
Still you.
And now you lived here. In San Francisco. Far from Brooklyn. Far from the ghosts.
He didn’t blame you.
He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted.
Just a glimpse.
Just you.
You stepped out of the café first—coat belted tight, hair swept back from your face, a slight flush to your cheeks from the warmth you’d just left behind. Your umbrella tilted slightly as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, brow furrowed at something on your phone.
And then you looked up.
It wasn’t even at him—just up, vaguely, across the street.
But it didn’t matter.
Because your face.
Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.
You looked exactly like the pictures.
Exactly like the memories—at least, the fractured ones that still burned inside him.
But it was more than that.
It was you.
Alive. Breathing. Whole.
The girl from his dreams. The girl who haunted the spaces between gunfire and screaming. The girl whose name he whispered in sleep like a prayer, whose laugh he remembered better than his own.
You weren’t just real. You were here. And for one moment, just one impossible second—
You smiled.
Soft. Small.
Like the rain didn’t matter. Like maybe you had seen him. And in that moment, Bucky thought—maybe.
Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe had given him a mercy. Maybe you had been waiting for him too. Maybe this was the end of the darkness. Maybe he could finally come home.
His feet moved before he knew it. One step into the street. Then another.
Then—
Another figure stepped into view. A man. Umbrella in one hand, bouquet in the other.
Bucky stopped. Mid-step.
The man reached you. And you lit up. Brighter than you had been in those pictures he saw. Brighter than any memory he had left of you.
You laughed, pressed your hand to your mouth, and said something Bucky couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. The look on your face said everything.
This wasn’t polite. Wasn’t passing. This was love.
The way you touched his arm. The way he brushed a thumb across your jaw, held your umbrella steady as you tilted your head to receive it.
The flowers. Hydrangeas, your favorite. The familiar rhythm of your bodies as you walked together. The comfort of your closeness.
It was intimate. It was effortless. It was everything Bucky had lost—and you had found.
His chest cracked. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud.
Just quietly. Completely.
He stumbled back onto the curb like he’d been punched, mouth open, breath stolen. His hands curled into fists—both of them—like he could grip the pain and hold it somewhere that wasn’t his ribs.
You were smiling like you were safe.
You were holding someone else like he was home.
The ache bloomed slow.
Hot. Cold. Heavy.
He backed into the shadow of the building, eyes still locked on you.
He had imagined this moment so many times.
But in all of them, you were alone. Waiting. Needing him.
Not…
Not like this.
Not happy. Not healed. Not loved by someone else.
He didn’t feel the rain pick up again. Didn’t feel the damp against his jacket, the wind at his back. All he felt was the slow collapse of something deep in his chest.
A collapse that didn’t come with a crash.
Just… silence.
Stillness.
Because he was too late.
The woman in his dreams—the girl from rooftops, from crumpled sheets, from smoky bars and whispered promises—she had survived.
She had moved on.
And he had no right to pull her back.
Because that smile—
That was enough. That was all he came for.
Once more to see you.
────────────────────────
San Francisco, January 2015
You didn’t know what to say.
You didn’t know how to breathe.
Steve had said the words so quietly, like saying them too loud might break something sacred.
“He’s alive.”
And your whole world folded in on itself. Again.
You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Waiting for it to make sense.
It didn’t.
Not right away.
Your hands were still in your lap. Fingers laced together, knuckles bone-white. You hadn’t moved since he said it—like if you stayed perfectly still, the gravity wouldn’t shift.
But it already had.
“He went into hiding after D.C.,” Steve had said, voice tight. “Tried to disappear again. But eventually… he came to me.”
You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. The room felt too full. Too loud.
“And the only thing I could think to do…” He’d run a hand through his hair. “He needs something to hold on to. Someone. He barely remembers me. Only fragments. Just what Hydra left behind, and what he read in a museum.”
A sharp breath caught in your throat. Of course. That’s what he’d been reduced to. A legend on a plaque. A soldier behind glass.
And now—he was breathing. Somewhere in the same country. And he didn’t even remember Steve.
But he remembered you.
That’s why Steve was here. Because you were the only thread Bucky still clung to in the tangled web of his mind.
“I didn’t know if I should come,” Steve said finally, quieter now. “But… if there’s anything that can help him—it’s you.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed again. Nothing came out.
Because you had loved him. Loved him with every second you were sure you’d never get back.
And now? Now he was here.
And it felt like your heart had just started again. But you didn’t know if it was beating for him.
You didn’t know what to feel—except everything, all at once.
────────────────────────
New York City – Stark Tower, February, 2015
The jet landed in silence. No welcoming fanfare. No agents or escorts. Just the hum of engines winding down and the weight of Steve Rogers standing beside you like the ghost of your former life made flesh.
He hadn’t said much during the flight. He didn’t need to. The silence between you spoke loud enough.
And now, as you stepped into the elevator, every floor closer felt like pressure against your lungs. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.
You hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes in seventy years. And he wasn’t the same man.
Steve had told you as much. That the boy who used to kiss your neck in the back of his tenement hallway now had metal where his arm used to be. That he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That he was healing—but painfully slow.
You nodded. Told Steve you understood. But you didn’t. Not until the elevator doors opened. Not until you saw him.
He was in the corner of the room—half-shadowed, quiet, like he was trying to make himself smaller than a man his size could be.
And God, he was bigger.
The serum had carved him into something unrecognizable and so achingly familiar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, his back rising and falling in slow, cautious breaths.
But it was the hair that struck you.
Longer now, brushing his jaw. Unkempt but soft. And tucked behind it—those eyes.
Still that same steel-blue.
Still yours.
For a second, you didn’t move.
Your eyes traced the metal arm—exposed, gleaming in the light. Every line of it sculpted, silent, awful. That was new. That wasn’t the man you remembered. That arm had done things your Bucky never would have.
But when he turned—
When he really looked at you—
Time stopped.
Your breath caught in your throat like a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. And still… you walked forward. One slow step at a time. Trying to keep your spine straight. Your voice level.
“Do you… do you know who I am?” you asked.
You hated how your voice trembled.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Like his body knew before his mind did. Like his heart was dragging up something his brain couldn’t catch yet.
Then—finally—he spoke. Your name. Whispered. Barely there.
But yours.
It hit you like a knife to the sternum.
His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but the words came slow, fractured, unsteady.
“I… I met you in a bar,” he murmured, voice raw from disuse. “June ’41. Summer night. You were with… friends. Your hair was down. Laughing.”
“And you…” he huffed, something like a memory making his mouth twitch. “You told me not to buy you a drink because you didn’t like whiskey. Said I could impress you by dancing instead.”
Your eyes burned.
“You danced with me. That night. All night.”
A slow nod.
“And the next,” he mumbled. “And every night I could steal before they shipped us out.”
You looked at him then—really looked—and felt everything crash forward. All the time, all the silence, all the grief.
Because it was him. Changed. But him.
That need—the one you thought had died with the war—it flooded you all over again. Your skin remembered his touch. Your mouth remembered the shape of his name in a moan. Your heart remembered everything.
It was still there. Alive and loud and aching. But so was something else.
Because you loved someone else now. A different man. A good man. One who had held you when the world forgot you. One who kissed your cheek when your nightmares made you shake. One who was real.
And now your whole world was breaking open.
All over again.
A Year Later
The Avengers Compound – Sublevel Quarters
Morning, June 2016
The world was quiet. Too quiet for a day like this.
Bucky sat in the half-dark of his room, blinds pulled but not shut. Sunlight bled through in thin, uneven strips, painting his floor in quiet gold. The air was warm—June warmth—but he hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. Just a black shirt. Worn jeans. Bare feet.
The metal arm caught the sunlight. And he hated how quiet the room was. How quiet he was.
The voices were gone now. The static. The screaming commands. The weight of Hydra’s grip wasn’t around his throat anymore—but something else had replaced it.
Emptiness.
Like he’d fought his way out of hell and found nothing waiting for him on the other side.
His reflection in windows didn’t scare him now.
But it didn’t look like him, either. He didn’t know what he looked like anymore.
There was a knock. Soft. Then the door opened slowly.
Steve stepped in, already in a charcoal suit, tie neat. He looked uncomfortable—like the fabric didn’t sit right on his soldier’s frame. But his expression was soft. Tired. Familiar.
“We’re headin’ out,” Steve said, voice low. “Last call if you wanna come.”
Bucky didn’t look at him.
Just kept twisting the chain of his dog tags—cool, rhythmic, constant.
He already knew what today was.
Your wedding day.
And somehow, it felt like his funeral.
Today, you’d be someone else’s wife.
You’d wear white.
You’d say I do.
And Bucky would watch the sunset knowing he wasn’t the man you wanted forever with anymore.
“I’m not coming,” Bucky murmured, finally.
Steve didn’t answer right away. He stepped in, let the door close behind him.
“You could,” he said. “Nobody would mind.”
“I would.”
Silence.
Steve sighed. “You’re not… excluded, Buck.”
Bucky let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a choke.
“I know.”
His fingers stopped moving.
“I just don’t think I can watch it happen,” he whispered.
Steve looked at him for a long time. “You love her.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“I’m glad she’s happy,” Bucky said eventually. “I mean it.”
Steve nodded, quiet.
“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
The room fell still again.
Steve walked over, rested a hand briefly on Bucky’s shouler, “It’s okay, Buck.”
He hated how gentle his voice was. Hated that he needed it.
“You did good, letting her go.”
Bucky didn’t look at him just clenched his fist over the tags.
He didn't say anything else. He couldn't.
And then Steve turned to leave. Gave him one last look over his shoulder.
“I’ll tell her you said congratulations.”
The door clicked shut behind him. And Bucky just sat there. Still. Breathing like it hurt. The silence swelled again. And then—
Something snapped.
He stood. Abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped.
His breath caught. He stared at the door. His chest was tight. His heart too loud.
He didn’t know what he was going to say. Or do.
But he had to see you.
Just once.
One more time.
Before he let you go completely.
────────────────────────
The Plaza, Private Bridal Suite – New York, Late Morning, June 2016
The room was silent.
Soft light filtered in through lace-curtained windows, dust floating like quiet confetti in the air. The kind of stillness meant to calm. The kind of stillness you’d prayed for.
You stood in front of the mirror, veil draped over the back of a nearby chair. The dress fit perfectly. Your hair was set, every pin tucked just so. Everything was exactly how you had planned it.
And still…
Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your neckline.
Your eyes studied your reflection like it was a stranger.
This was supposed to be the beginning. The start of your real life.
You’d earned this. You’d survived. In 2012, the doctors confirmed it—after Thor's help, your cells had finally stabilized. The tesseract’s grip had faded. You were free.
You were aging. Like everyone else. Like you were supposed to. And you’d cried.
Out of relief. Out of fear. Out of the overwhelming weight of time returning to your body.
But you hadn’t gone back to your old self.
You hadn’t gone back to her.
The wild girl who danced barefoot. Who loved a soldier with reckless joy. Who pressed her cheek to a metal dog tag in the dark and whispered “come back to me.”
You buried her.
Built something new. Something safe.
You found someone who loved the woman you became—quiet, poised, a little haunted but finally real.
And today, you were marrying him.
Your hand hovered over your heart. But there was this… ache.
It didn’t make sense. Everything was perfect.
The dress. The weather. The man waiting at the altar. But something deep inside your chest was pulling.
You pressed your hand flat to your ribcage, as if that would stop it. It wouldn’t.
Because it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else.
Something… missing.
And you didn’t know why.
You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't hear it close. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.
You were too lost in the mirror. In the image of yourself. The one everyone else would call beautiful. Radiant. The woman who made it. Who endured.
But all you saw was someone still trying to believe this was real. Still trying to make that ache go away.
Then—
A voice. Low. Familiar. Reverent.
“You look beautiful.”
You flinched. Spun. Your breath caught. Because he was there.
Bucky.
Standing just inside the door, tux fitted like it was cut from memory, his long hair combed back, bowtie slightly uneven—because of course it was.
He looked… God.
He looked unreal.
You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since you’d started wedding planning. Not since the night you said goodbye with your eyes but not your mouth.
But here he was. Right in front of you.
You stared at him. And he stared right back. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.
The air felt too thin.
And somehow, it wasn’t the dress that made you feel exposed—it was his eyes.
Because he looked at you like he still remembered the curve of your smile before it broke. Like he still saw the woman from 1942. And every version you became after.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
It was all you could manage.
His lips parted like your name was the only thing holding him together. He took a breath.
And the world, for just a second—stopped turning.
Your throat was tight. It ached just to breathe.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, like that would steady you. Like anything could.
Bucky’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand. And lingered.
On the ring. Silver. Simple. Clean.
His mouth twitched—not in a smile. In something like memory.
“For him,” he murmured. “Not you.”
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded at your hand. “It’s silver. You always liked gold.”
You looked down. And for a second, the breath you’d been holding collapsed in your lungs. Because he was right. You did like gold. You always had.
“Bucky…” your voice broke around the name, fragile.
He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to be near.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just—I needed to see you. Just once.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely stand.
His voice was velvet and gravel, threaded with every unspoken word you’d buried over the years.
“I didn’t come to stop you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the memory of you walking away.”
You closed your eyes. Because it hurt.
Everything about this—his presence, his voice, his knowing you even now—it made your chest feel like it was folding in on itself.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“But you are.”
“I am.”
Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. And still—you didn’t move. You swallowed, but it didn’t help.
Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, laced with something between ache and awe.
“You’re alive…”
You shook your head, barely. “But I still feel like I’m mourning you.”
The words hit the room like a confession no one had earned but had to be said anyway.
And maybe you were mourning him.
Not just the man in front of you, breathing and solid, with his tux and his sorrowful eyes. But the man you were supposed to have.
The one who never got to put a ring on your finger. The one who never came back from that train.
A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Bucky moved before you even registered it—just one step. But it was instinct. Memory. Love.
His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, catching the tear like it offended him. His metal hand didn’t flinch. He held you like he might break something sacred.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Sighed softly, shakily.
He studied you like you were the most precious thing on earth.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged. “It’ll ruin your face.”
You let out something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s already ruined.”
“No,” he said, softly, firmly. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Your breath stilled. His thumb traced the damp track left behind. His brow was drawn, eyes dim but focused like the moment might disappear if he blinked. And in his silence was everything neither of you could say.
I loved you. I still do. But it’s not mine to hold anymore.
You didn’t mean to reach for him. But you did.
Arms around his waist. Face against his chest. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar in a way that shattered you.
And he held you. Not like someone about to say goodbye. But like someone who already had. His arms wrapped around you like they were the only safe place you had left. One flesh, one steel. Both trembling.
You could feel his heartbeat—steady, slow, heavy.
He lowered his head, nose brushing your hair, your temple, your jaw. And he breathed you in. Like he wanted to memorize you one last time. Like this was the end of a dream he had held onto for too long.
You held him just as tightly.
Because what else could you do? What else could you give him, when your name was about to become someone else’s?
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered.
And the silence that followed was louder than any scream. You didn’t say it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.
A knock shattered the stillness. Soft. Gentle. Final. You both froze.
Your hands lingered on his back for just one more second. Then slowly—too slowly—you pulled away.
You crossed the room. Heart in your throat. You opened the door.
Tony stood there in a sleek tux, his mouth already forming some sarcastic line until his eyes locked on you. And for once—he said nothing.
He just looked at you. Then softly, “You ready?”
You didn’t answer right away. You turned.
Bucky stood in the shadowed half of the room, just behind the edge of the door. Out of sight. Out of reach.
But your eyes found his. One last time.
He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But he nodded. Just once.
You nodded back. And then turned.
You took the bouquet Tony handed you. Slipped your fingers into the loop of your veil.
And when he offered his arm, you rested your hand on it gently.
You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because some part of you would always be in that room.
Wrapped in arms that could no longer hold you.
────────────────────────
The music swelled—soft, elegant, perfect.
You held onto Tony’s arm, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your veil floated gently behind you, trailing over polished marble floors beneath glittering chandeliers.
The room was everything you’d never imagined as a little girl. Beautiful. Grand. Full of carefully curated perfection.
Your eyes lifted—
And there he was.
Cole.
Waiting at the altar. Back straight. Eyes soft. A man who had held your hand through everything, who had made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.
But as your steps echoed down the aisle—
Your mind drifted. Just for a second.
And the year wasn’t 2016 anymore.
It was 1946.
And you weren’t in Upper Manhattan.
You were in a modest little church in Brooklyn—St. Mary’s of Carmine, two blocks from the tenement you’d grown up in. The kind of church with creaky pews and peeling paint, where sunlight spilled through old stained glass like warm memory.
And waiting at the end of that aisle…
Was Bucky.
Fresh-faced. Hair neat, eyes wide and red-rimmed like he’d already cried and might do it again. He looked at you like the whole damn war had been worth it just to see you in white.
Next to him—Steve. Grinning, proud, a little choked up but trying to play it cool.
You weren’t wearing silk or designer lace. Just a simple, sleeveless dress. No name label. Just love stitched into every seam.
And you were walking toward forever.
The fantasy faded as the room came back into focus—music, flowers, the soft murmur of guests.
Cole was still there. Still smiling. Still waiting.
And you loved him. You really did.
But as you neared him—hand still resting on Tony’s arm—you couldn’t stop the ache that curled low in your chest.
Because somewhere in time, in a church that never stood long enough… You’d already walked this aisle once before.
Your steps slowed. Tony gently squeezed your hand, then released your arm, stepping back as you took your place at the altar.
The air was still.
Cole turned to face you fully. His eyes were soft, steady, full of the kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations.
And maybe that was why this could be real. Why this was.
Your fingers trembled slightly around your bouquet. You glanced up once, just once, to the soft light pouring through the high windows.
The music faded. The pastor cleared his throat gently.
“Dearly beloved…”
You looked forward again. At Cole. At the future you had chosen.
Even as another version of you, in another year, in another universe, still stood in a Brooklyn church, whispering I do to a boy with a medal on his chest and stars in his eyes.
And maybe that version of you would always live, tucked away in a corner of your heart.
But this one? This you—
This you was ready.
The ceremony had begun.
And you didn’t look back.
A/N | Yes chat, we all crying rn, I don't know how many times I made myself cry writing this. Lowkey think this should be left like this, but if ever I write a part 2, it would be like post-blip, Tony's dead, Steve's dead, and cole died somehow, and you're suffering from postpartum and grief, and Bucky's there always to be there for you.
Songs that inspired this fic: once more to see you - mitski | i want you - mitski | i bet on losing dogs - mitski | you were good to me - jeremy zucker | when the sun hits - slowdive | fake plastic trees - radiohead | all I need - radiohead | motion picture soundtrack - radiohead
summary › every other weekend, sam hosts a cookout at the docks. every other weekend, bucky pretends he isn’t looking for the same girl standing by the water at sunset.
pairing › bucky x female reader
content warnings › set during tfatws, soft/nervous bucky, (attempted) flirting, sam being a meddling cutie
word count › 1.4k
authors note › a little fluff for summer! if you guys couldnt tell tfatws bucky is my obsession. i love him and need him forever and ever.
Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.
Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.
Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.
Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.
The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.
Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.
Bucky stares too long. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”
Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.
“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”
“That’s not—”
“Five.”
Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.
Bucky exhales slowly.
Say something to her. Anything.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.
“You uh—”
Brilliant start.
“You’ve been standing there a while.”
The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.
Nice going, Barnes.
But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”
Then your eyes flick back to his.
“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”
And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?
I notice you every single time you walk into a room.
I started showing up early hoping you’d be here.
I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.
Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.
“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”
Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.
“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”
You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”
The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.
“I notice you too.”
Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.
“You do?”
Smooth. Very cool.
You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.
“Kind of hard not to.”
Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.
This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.
Bucky clears his throat.
“I uh—”
God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?
“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”
You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.
“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”
There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.
“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.
“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”
Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.
"A setup?"
"You and Sam."
"We've never discussed you."
"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."
The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.
"What are you having?"
"Lemonade."
He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.
The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.
You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.
Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.
You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.
"Don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are."
"I haven't said a word."
"You're thinking things."
That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.
"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.
"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."
Fantastic.
"God."
You laugh again.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly.
"Let me start over."
"Okay."
He's smiling now despite himself.
"So. Next cookout."
"Next cookout."
"Would you wanna come with me?"
The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.
"I'd like that."
Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.
"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."
And for the rest of the night, Bucky can't stop smiling. Not even when Sam catches his eye from across the grill and points both thumbs triumphantly toward the sky. Not even when you laugh at that too. Not even when your head finds his shoulder, or stays there.
Summary: Steve assigns a mission to you and the Bucky, knowing full well you don’t get along. You don’t know why, but one day Bucky decided he couldn't stand you anymore, and it’s been a battle since. What you didn’t expect was for Stark’s tech to give out on a mission to one of the coldest regions on the planet. Or for the stereo system to be the last straw.
Words: 11.9k (I did this instead of work on my novel)
Warnings/Tags: No use of Y/N. Not canon compliant in the slightest. 40s inspired outfits and music (I did lots of research for this one but I’m sorry if it’s historically inaccurate). Mean!Bucky, but also soft!Bucky. Enemies-to-lovers but really, they’re idiots. Lots of pining. Forced proximity. Lack of communication because do we really think he knows how? Reader has abandonment issues. Reader is described to use a curled hairstyle briefly. Reader has an engineering background, but I don’t so it’s not perfect. The pictures above are not meant to describe reader. Age gap (he’s 106…). Symptoms of hypothermia. Hurt/comfort. Major groveling. Angst, always HEA. if I missed anything lmk.
Proofread by me... and only me lol. masterlist in pinned
PRIOR
It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else.
Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating.
Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there?
Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together.
The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave.
Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out.
And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand.
₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·
PRESENT
Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering.
“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once.
“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?
“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion.
But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.
You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall.
“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.”
You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him.
You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark.
Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for.
You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.
Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal.
Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.
You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission.
But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders.
You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?”
But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable.
That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.”
The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently.
The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question.
“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.
“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you.
He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.”
It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet.
Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet.
Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.
“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine.
“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.”
“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge.
Fine then.
You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees.
“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place.
“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation.
His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”
Okay, ouch, but fair.
“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person.
You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany.
“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”
“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”
“Well you might as well have–”
“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.
Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth.
“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!”
“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength.
“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires.
“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew.
Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this.
Small victories.
You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.”
Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring.
Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit.
After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear.
Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve?
You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck.
You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear.
You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door.
“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond.
“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.”
It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in.
“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”
With her.
With her?
You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain.
Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite.
Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you.
You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.”
His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?”
You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.
He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.”
Right.
Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.
Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.
“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent.
The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy.
When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better.
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening.
“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out.
“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–”
“That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”
You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry.
He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you.
You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff.
So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much.
“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing.
He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing.
Your eyes widened, was he…?
“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?” He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.
“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering?
As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature.
You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.
A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder.
What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good.
He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.”
He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.
“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing.
“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”
You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either.
He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled.
And there it was.
You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.
Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged.
The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name.
By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing.
You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away.
“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument.
You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie.
When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.
“Bucky–”
“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move.
“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”
“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant.
He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—
“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE.
You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–”
He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly.
“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”
“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.”
You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”
“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin.
You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth.
Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth.
An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.
But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.
The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern.
Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just.
You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…
“Okay, come here.”
His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead.
“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours.
“Are you not…?”
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you.
He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere.
His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain.
You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back.
What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture.
You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question…
“…Why?”
You were asleep before you could hear his response.
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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light.
The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome.
So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms.
You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–
You stood, took several steps back.
That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy.
You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver.
One more time.
You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…
Little more to the left.
Angle, and–
Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system.
Rock… country… rap… pop…
“What are you doing?”
His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.
You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was.
You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.”
Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said.
You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least.
You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood.
“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment.
You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”
He growled your name, but it was too late.
The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers.
You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.
You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–
Until the music stopped completely.
You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you.
Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.
But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong?
You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door.
But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it.
You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go.
You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for.
It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.
“Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you.
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?”
“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.”
You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will.
“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.
“Because you go and do shit like this!”
“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”
“You remind me of the 40s!”
His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place?
You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra.
“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”
“What are you–”
“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–”
You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything.
The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.
Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved.
“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”
“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger.
“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!”
“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–”
“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!”
“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.
It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns.
But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks.
“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst.
“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them.
“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha.
She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.
You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight.
When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day.
The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen. What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?”
You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention?
She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…”
You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.
Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.”
“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more.
“Maybe you need a distraction?”
“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”
“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother.
But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”
“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’
She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory.
You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble.
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“You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress.
He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record.
Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get?
There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.”
Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest.
Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all.
And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked.
Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.”
He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it.
When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.”
“Did you try to make it right?” He asked.
“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.”
“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”
Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.”
Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”
“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement.
And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.”
Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”
₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·
In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you.
You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor.
You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers.
Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner.
It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.
You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.
You cleared your throat, “Yes?”
There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”
Oh. Straight to the point.
You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.
But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them.
You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard.
And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”
“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”
“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction.
You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?”
The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet.
You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–”
“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.”
What?
You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words.
But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”
“I walk in a room, and you leave–”
“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant.
But he couldn’t possibly–
“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.”
Oh.
But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”
“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.”
Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels.
“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.”
You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words.
He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…”
Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…”
He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”
That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was…
You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!”
He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–”
But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you, and you knew better than to get your hopes up.
He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head.
You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–”
You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt.
And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.
Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this.
The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into.
And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.”
note: this is my first time posting in a long time, and also my longest fic so far! I haven't gotten to write creatively for a long time (fuck you college) so this was honestly a challenge. I hope everyone enjoyed it. And if not, it will improve as I get back into the swing of things lol
SUMMARY: An unexpected group of outcasts and nerds must come together to solve their small town’s mysteries, learning what it means to become found family and heroes.
PAIRING: Stranger Things x Fem!Adopted!Henderson!Reader
INTERACTIVE: This story is completely interactive! Place votes at the end of each chapter to dictate what decisions are made, romantic relationships (within the older teen group), friendships, and more! Every decision matters!!
A/N: Dates on chapters are subject to change, coming earlier if votes lean heavily one way, and chapters coming later if votes are tight.
WC: 297.6K (so far)
♫ We can be heroes, just for one day ♫
Suggestions/Ideas!
Dump all of your suggestions or ideas here! This story is interactive after all!!
Extra!
Find any extra posts I’ve made for Heroes here!
Trailer!
Characters and their respective D&D roles
Fates of Characters as Song Quotes pt.1
Fates of Characters as Song Quotes pt. 2
Chapter 18 Dialogue Breakdown: Parallels
For the girl I love mixtape
You’re Running Out of Time, Reader
SEASON 1
Chapter 1 - The Demogorgon
Chapter 2 - Skater
Chapter 2.5 - What If…
Chapter 3 - Monster Hunting
Chapter 3.5 - What If…
Chapter 4 - 16 Candles
Chapter 4.5 - What If…
SEASON 2
Chapter 5 - Hot Shit Hargrove
Chapter 6 - D’Artagnan
Chapter 6.5 - What If…
Chapter 7 - Electricity
Chapter 7.5 - What If…
Chapter 8 - You’re Pretty Metal
Chapter 8.5 - What If…
Chapter 9 - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
Chapter 10 - Who’s Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?
Chapter 10.5 - What If…
SEASON 3
Chapter 11 - Bummer Summer
Chapter 11.5 - What If…
Chapter 12 - The Wrong Soul Answered
Chapter 13 - Beginning of the Irreversible
Chapter 13.5 - What If…
Chapter 14 - Be My Lifeline
Chapter 14.5 - What If…
Chapter 15 - That Wasn’t Your Line
Chapter 15.5 - What If…
Chapter 16 - Fate Waits Patiently in the Dark
Chapter 16.5 - What If…
Chapter 17 - Illusion of Choice
Chapter 17.5 - What If…
Chapter 18 - This is All so Paradoxical
Chapter 18.5 - What If…
Chapter 19 - That’s Not Power, It’s Control
Chapter 20 - They. Want. You. He. Wants. You.
Chapter 21 - It is Not in the Stars to Hold Our Destiny but in Ourselves
summary | a velvet-cloaked vampire is haunting a historical sokovian castle… and somehow, you're the one who always ends up in its arms screaming.
tags | Scooby-Doo AU but make it Marvel, FLUFF college-aged mystery solvers, haunted castles & fake vampires, rope traps and poorly executed tackles, excessive eye-rolling (mostly nat and sam), brawling that looks more like interpretive dance
a/n | start of october. so let's get this scooby doo shit on, since so many of you loved my idea. also fun fact about me: this'll be the first october I'm actually experiencing autumn. literally for all my life october has been spring for me lmao. also I've had this in my notes app for a whileeeee now 😬
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @saradika-graphics and @uzmacchiato
You truly never understood how it always ended up this way.
The second Steve said “Let’s split up, gang,” the universe seemed to roll its eyes and deal the same hand every time.
Bucky and Sam would argue like their very lives depended on it—because, honestly, they kind of… did? They swore up and down that they were cursed, always the ones who ended up stumbling face-first into the bad guy. Which wasn’t exactly wrong.
Still, no matter how much they whined, they always ended up together. It was almost impressive in its inevitability—like watching two moths fly straight into the same bug zapper, night after night.
Nat never looked for clues, please, that was beneath her. She preferred the direct approach: marching down dark hallways, ready to beat the living crap out of the culprit hiding in the walls.
And Steve, bless his all-American optimism, would trot along after her, still insisting that the answer was to build a trap out of rope, duct tape, and “teamwork.”
Which, of course, left you. You and Alpine. The brains and the beauty. Not that you minded—you preferred it, really. Someone had to be the functional one while the others were busy running around like headless chickens. Alpine was sharper than half the group anyway. Together, you two always found the actual evidence while everyone else was busy embarrassing themselves.
Take last month’s debacle: The Gargoyle of Hell’s Kitchen. The terrifying stone demon leaping across rooftops? Please. You’d figured out in about ten minutes it was Wilson Fisk—“philanthropist” (what a generous word for him) with more cologne than conscience—trying to spook tenants out of their buildings so he could swoop in and gentrify the block.
Or two weeks ago, the so-called Pale Wraith of the Smithsonian. Honestly, the theatrics. A glowing figure haunting the museum halls after dark? You almost applauded the drama—until you caught Ebony Maw, the museum manager, hiding expensive stolen artifacts in crates out back. Not even original.
Really, the list went on. And you could’ve named plenty more if you’d cared to. At this point, you didn’t have enough fingers to count all the grown adults who thought throwing on a rubber mask was an intelligent business plan.
So here you were. In freakin’ Sokovia—though honestly, Transylvania 2.0 was a better fit—investigating some wannabe vampire scaring tourists out of one of the country’s most famous castles.
You sighed, tugging your coat tighter. Big, historic, dramatic-ass castle, and yet no heating. Figures. If they’d invested in radiators instead of gargoyles, maybe you wouldn’t be able to see your own breath fogging the air.
“C’mon, Ally girl,” you muttered, watching Alpine trot ahead, fur pristine and tail high like she owned the place. She didn’t even flinch at the cold. Of course she didn’t. Cats never suffered like people did. Meanwhile, you had so many layers on you’d basically become a walking laundry pile, and still your nipples felt like they could cut glass.
Your boots clacked against the stone floor, echoing in a way that made you wince. A centuries-old fortress and apparently no one had heard of rugs. Typical. Everything smelled of damp stone and extinguished torches, like a bad reenactment of Dracula if Dracula had an HVAC problem.
Alpine paused, ears twitching, and looked back at you with that smug, judgmental stare only cats could pull off. You arched a brow right back. “Don’t give me that look. Yes, you’re fearless and mysterious and blah blah blah. Congratulations. Some of us rely on body heat, sweetheart.”
The archive room was colder than the hall, somehow. Rows of filing cabinets stretched out like metal tombstones, papers stacked carelessly on desks that hadn’t seen daylight in decades. You tugged your gloves tighter and wrinkled your nose. Damp stone, old ink, mildew—delightful.
Alpine hopped neatly onto a cabinet, tail flicking as she pawed at a half-open drawer. “Good girl,” you murmured, rifling through a folder stamped in Cyrillic. A ledger, some receipts, nothing that screamed bloodthirsty vampire, unless you counted bad bookkeeping as a crime.
“Honestly,” you sighed, pushing a strand of hair out of your face, “if our ‘vampire’ is hiding evidence in here, he has the aesthetic range of a filing clerk. Spooky castle, dripping candles, and then—paperwork? How tacky.”
Alpine answered with a throaty little mrrp, batting a stack of yellowed papers to the floor. A photograph slipped out, sliding under your boot. You bent, plucked it up, squinting at the blurred image of castle corridors.
Something about the angle made your lip curl. “Of course. Surveillance. Because nothing says immortal bloodsucker like twenty-dollar security cameras.”
You were so busy rolling your eyes that you didn’t notice the figure shifting in the far corner. A patch of black that seemed a little too thick, like the shadows had pooled wrong. The faintest scrape echoed against stone—a boot dragging.
And then… the eyes. Two pinpricks of red in the dark, glowing faintly, watching you.
Alpine froze mid-tail-flick. Her ears flattened, body going still in that unnerving way cats did when they knew before you did. She hissed low, eyes locked on the corner.
You glanced up, annoyed. “What, another mouse—?”
The hiss sharpened, louder now. Alpine’s back arched. Your own stomach dipped. The corner was darker than it should’ve been, and when you squinted—yes. Eyes. Staring back.
Red. And unblinking.
You backed up a step before you realized you were doing it. Alpine’s hiss rattled off the cabinets like a warning siren, her fur standing straight, tail puffed wide.
The shadow moved. Slowly. Like it had all the time in the world.
And then it spoke. A voice so low you felt it in your bones first, thick with an accent that made every word crawl down your spine.
“Sokovia does not forgive trespassers, little dove. In this land… beauty is always the first to vanish.”
The figure took one heavy step forward, boot scraping against the stone. Another. The glow of those red eyes sharpened as the dim light finally caught the sweep of a cloak—dark velvet, jagged edges that dragged the floor.
You froze, every nerve in your body buzzing. It wasn’t the first time you’d faced something like this, but it didn’t matter. In the beginning, it always felt real. The teeth glinting white, the cloak, the damn echo of his footsteps.
You swallowed, adjusting your coat with an irritated little flick, because if you were about to be eaten by a vampire, you’d at least die looking put-together. “Velvet in this century? That’s brave. And not in a good way.”
The vampire didn’t stop. His grin widened, sharp as the fangs flashing under the torchlight.
Alpine yowled, claws scraping against metal as she bolted across the cabinets. Your heart jumped into your throat—
—and then his shadow was on you.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the other side of the castle…
Down one drafty corridor, Bucky and Sam had wedged themselves into what had to be the smallest broom closet in Eastern Europe. It wasn’t even wide enough for a mop bucket, let alone two grown men.
Sam’s elbow was jammed so hard into Bucky’s ribs he was convinced it had left a permanent dent, while Bucky’s knee was grinding into Sam’s thigh like some kind of medieval torture device.
Dust clung to the air, cobwebs tickling at the back of their throats. Every shallow breath stirred it up again, making Sam want to sneeze and choke at the same time.
“This was your idea,” Bucky muttered finally, words muffled against the sleeve he’d yanked over his face.
“My idea?” Sam hissed, keeping his voice low but sharp. “You’re the one who freaked out when the suit of armor creaked.”
“It looked suspicious!”
“It was a statue, Buck. A statue.”
They glared at each other through the dark, breaths clouding up in the stale air.
Sam shifted an inch, trying to ease his shoulder free, but the entire closet let out a protesting groan, wood cracking loud enough to echo down the hallway. Both men froze.
“…Congratulations,” Bucky whispered tightly. “We’re gonna die because you couldn’t keep still.”
Sam shifted again, elbow digging deeper. “Move your bony ass over.”
“There is no over,” Bucky snapped, “We’re in a broom closet, Sam, not a penthouse suite.”
“Then stop breathing so damn loud. Sound carries in castles, you know.”
Bucky glared at him through the dark. “For cryin’ out loud, you want me to just—stop breathing?”
“Yes! Hold it in! Do us both a favor—”
A sudden clang echoed down the hall, sharp enough to slice through their hissed argument. Both men froze. The silence stretched—then came a sound that punched through Bucky’s chest like a bullet.
A scream.
High, sharp, carrying through the stone corridors.
Your scream.
Bucky jolted like someone had jammed live wires into his spine. He nearly took the whole door off its hinges in his scramble to get out, shoulder slamming into wood until it cracked. Sam yelped as he was shoved aside, barely catching his balance before Bucky burst free like a cannonball.
“Jesus—Buck!”
But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already barreling down the hallway, boots hammering against the stone, your name ripping from his throat like a war cry. He didn’t care about shadows, didn’t care about whatever monster had you. He was running like it was the damn Olympics and the only gold medal that mattered was finding you.
Sam stumbled out behind him, coughing on dust, and groaned. “Oh, hell no. I did not sign up to chase Dracula.”
Bucky tore through the castle halls like a man possessed. He didn’t think, didn’t breathe, didn’t even register the way Sam shouted after him. All he knew was that sound—your scream—still echoing in his head.
He barreled around a corner, boots skidding on the stone, and slammed shoulder-first into the heavy door. It banged open so hard it rattled the frame.
And there you were.
You were half-backed against a desk, shoving at the cloaked figure looming over you. Fangs bared, cloak sweeping—the whole nightmare.
Alpine was a streak of white fury, clinging to the man’s cape, tiny claws scrabbling against velvet as she hissed like a teakettle. But she was too light; one sharp shake had her tumbling to the ground, skidding across papers.
“Get your filthy undead hands off her!” Bucky yelled.
The vampire turned, red eyes glinting in the torchlight, grip tightening on your arm. He didn’t get the chance to sneer.
Bucky didn’t even think. One second he was screaming at the top of his lungs, the next he was colliding full-body with the cloaked figure. They hit the floor in a spectacular crash—papers exploding into the air, a whole cabinet toppling sideways with a squeal of rusty metal.
From there it was just… confusing.
Bucky wasn’t fighting so much as flailing, fists flying in every direction, legs kicking like he was swimming through air. The vampire snarled, cloak whipping around them like a stage curtain caught in a fan. They rolled across the stone floor, knocking into desks, scattering centuries of paperwork like confetti at a parade.
You pressed yourself against the wall, while Alpine darted back to your side as you tried to keep a straight face. He was giving it his all, sure, but it looked more like a bar brawl in slow motion.
“Bucky!” you called over the commotion. He grunted, swinging blindly and nearly punching the floor. “It might help if you actually opened your eyes!”
“I am!” he shouted back.
“You’re not! You’re windmilling!”
“I’m improvising!”
The vampire gave a muffled grunt as Bucky’s elbow caught him in the jaw by sheer dumb luck. They rolled again, crashing into another cabinet—drawers popping open like startled teeth. Folders rained down on them both.
The fight was already ridiculous enough. Bucky flailing like a man possessed, papers floating down around them like snow. But then—
“Buck! I got your back!”
Sam came barreling through the doorway like he’d been waiting his whole life for this cue. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think. Just dove straight into the mess, tackling both of them at once.
Now it was three bodies rolling across the archive floor.
Sam shouting, Bucky cursing, the “vampire” grunting as he somehow managed to keep his grip on both of them. Desks screeched across the stone. A chair toppled over with a crash. Somewhere in the pile, Sam yelped, “Watch your knee, man!”
“Get off me!” Bucky barked, trying to shove him aside while still throwing wild punches.
“I’m helping!”
“You’re crushing me!”
“I said I’m helping!”
From where you stood, pressed safely against the wall, it looked less like a heroic rescue and more like a poorly choreographed wrestling match. The vampire—cape torn, fangs gleaming, still holding strong—had these two grown-ass boys locked in like it was a fair fight.
You blinked. Your face said it all—unimpressed, judgmental, and already calculating how many nails you were going to break pulling them out of this. Alpine mirrored you perfectly, narrowed eyes and a low, unimpressed mrrrp under her breath.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, arms crossed. “Two college athletes versus Party City Dracula, and it’s an even match. Honestly, boys.”
That was when Steve and Nat burst in.
Steve was clutching one of his prized rope traps—the kind you were pretty sure he kept hidden in the back of the Mystery Machine like emergency supplies. His expression was caught somewhere between determination and panic as he took in the scene.
“Jeez…” he muttered. “I just don’t know if I can throw it without hitting Buck and Sam…”
He hovered there, net in hand, shifting from one foot to the other like a man facing the hardest moral dilemma of his life.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Oh, for Christ’s sake—just throw it on all three of ’em, Steve.” You waved a hand lazily at the pile of limbs. “They’ll survive.”
Both Bucky and Sam’s heads shot up mid-scuffle, voices overlapping,
“What?!”
Their distraction gave the “vampire” a solid chance to shove them both back, cape whipping dramatically as he scrambled upright.
Nat sighed, long and tired, like she’d been forced to babysit the entire planet. She snatched the net straight from Steve’s hands without even looking at him.
And in one clean, efficient motion, she hurled it over the whole mess.
The rope spread wide, dropping neatly over all three boys and their caped opponent. They went down together in a spectacular crash, groaning and cursing as they flailed against the net.
“See how easy that was,” Nat muttered dryly, dusting off her hands.
The fight finally stuttered to a halt, all tangled limbs and heavy breathing beneath the rope net. For a second, the only sound was the rustle of fabric and the vampire’s labored grunts.
Then three sets of eyes turned upward in perfect unison, narrowing at the sight of you, Nat, and Steve standing free and untouched.
Sam looked like a man betrayed, his expression somewhere between a teacher watching his students set fire to the lab and a guy realizing his burger order got swapped at the drive-thru. “You couldn’t have waited,” he said flatly, shoulders straining as he tried to sit up under the net, “until maybe after we got out of the way?”
Bucky shoved damp hair out of his eyes, his scowl sharp enough to cut glass. “Seriously. We just needed five more seconds. Ten, tops.” His voice was hoarse from shouting, and his chest heaved like he’d just run suicides in gym class.
Nat crossed her arms, utterly unbothered. “You were losing.”
Steve cleared his throat, still clutching the corner of the rope like he might somehow salvage his trap plan. “Aw, heck, fellas, it’s not so bad—”
You leaned against the wall, Alpine warm in your arms now, both of you wearing the same unimpressed expression. The pile under the net wriggled uselessly, a tangle of groans, sighs, and muffled curses. You shifted Alpine into the crook of one arm and pushed off the wall, heels clicking against the stone as you strolled toward the chaos.
“Alright, gang,” you said, smoothing your coat, “time to figure out who this vampire really is.”
The “creature of the night” hissed through his fangs, struggling weakly against the rope. You crouched just enough to reach him, fingers hooking the edge of the mask. The fabric was hot under your touch, damp with sweat.
With one sharp tug, it came free.
A pale, familiar face blinked up at you, hair plastered to his forehead, glare intact even through the humiliation.
“Helmut Zemo?” the gang echoed in unison, voices bouncing off the archive walls.
You arched a brow. “Well, well. Not exactly Dracula material.”
Steve leaned closer, frowning like he’d just been asked to solve a riddle without the answer key. “But… I don’t get it. Why haunt this castle? He owns it.”
You sighed, straightening, Alpine’s tail flicking in tandem with your own exasperation. “Correction, Steve, he owns part of it. The boring part. Walls, beams, roofs that leak when it rains. None of the valuables. None of the historical treasures inside.”
Sam squinted, still half-wedged under Bucky. “So, what, he scared off tourists to… what, play house?”
“Not quite,” you said, enjoying the way every eye was fixed on you. “Keeping tourists and locals out meant he had free rein to strip the place from the inside out.”
Nat gave a single nod. “Makes sense.”
“Jeez, that sure is underhanded…” Steve said, shaking his head, still looking baffled. Then knelt to untangle the mess of limbs under the net, muttering “great job, guys” even as Bucky swore and Sam groaned about bruised ribs. Nat stood nearby with her arms crossed, keeping Zemo pinned with the sharp edge of her stare.
Freed of the mask, Zemo straightened his posture despite the rope digging into his shoulders. He almost looked proud, like getting caught was just another step in his carefully drafted script.
“You people are insufferable,” he sighed, accent curling around each word like smoke. “But… resourceful. I’ll give you that.”
Sam sat up, rubbing at his thigh. “Man, just tell us what the hell you thought you were doing.”
Zemo’s smirk sharpened. “Simple. Tourists bring noise. Crowds bring eyes. But fear? Fear empties a room faster than fire. While everyone kept their distance from the ‘haunted’ castle, I walked freely through its veins, taking what was worth taking. Gold, manuscripts, jewels. Centuries of Sokovian history now tucked away in places far more lucrative.”
Steve frowned… again, disappointed in the way only Steve could be. “That’s downright unpatriotic.”
“Patriotism doesn’t pay,” Zemo returned smoothly.
You planted your hands on your hips, after setting Alpine down as she curled around your ankles like punctuation. “Alright, fine. But what I don’t understand is why you were trying to kidnap me.”
Zemo’s gaze flicked to you, lingering too long. He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling. “Because you were getting too close to the truth, little dove. And—” he shrugged lightly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “—because what sane man wouldn’t want to capture the pretty girl in his castle?”
You scoffed, sharp and quick, though the warmth flickered across your cheeks before you could stop it. “Flattery’s not going to save you.”
Before Zemo could retort, there was a blur of movement. Bucky was suddenly at your side, brushing dust from his jacket, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. His glare at Zemo could’ve chipped stone.
“For cryin’ out loud,” he muttered, sliding himself between you and the ropes. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. Got it?”
Zemo’s smirk only widened, like he’d found a new kind of amusement in the jealousy simmering in Bucky’s shoulders.
“And, of course…” he drawled, eyes flicking to you with that same infuriating glint, “I would have gotten away with it… if not for you meddling children. And your—” his lip twitched, almost a sneer, “—obnoxiously perceptive feline.”
Alpine flicked her tail at that, unimpressed.
Sam let out a dry laugh that sounded more like an exhausted cough. “Yeah, yeah, real original. Heard that one before.” He waved a hand vaguely, still nursing his ribs like he’d just been tackled by a linebacker.
Nat exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing as she muttered, “Children? We’re twenty-two.” The way she said it made it clear she was two seconds away from kicking him unconscious.
Two Sokovian officers finally showed up, uniforms stiff and expressions caught somewhere between weary and annoyed. They didn’t even flinch at the sight of Zemo tangled in rope—just hauled him up by the elbows like they’d done this dance before.
Zemo still managed to look smug, cloak dragging in the dust as they pulled him toward the door. “Enjoy your little victory,” he said smoothly, chin lifted. “But castles have long memories. And so do I.”
Sam huffed, folding his arms. “Man, does everyone have to be dramatic? Just say you’re broke and go.”
Nat rolled her eyes, muttering, “Idiot,” though you weren’t sure if she meant him or Sam.
Steve, meanwhile, looked genuinely troubled, scratching at the back of his neck. “Still feels wrong, calling us children…”
“Because we’re not,” Nat shot back flatly. “We’re adults.”
“You barely pay rent on time,” Sam said, cutting her a side-eye.
Bucky snorted, leaning against the desk. “You’ve been living on my couch for two weeks.”
“That’s called community,” Sam fired back.
The officers finally dragged Zemo out of sight, his cape catching on the doorframe before disappearing down the hall. The moment the echo of boots faded, Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the desk like he hadn’t just face-planted into a filing cabinet ten minutes ago.
He adjusted his jacket, shoulders back, trying on that cool, untouchable look. “Well,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door, “guess it’s a good thing I was here to take him down.”
Sam let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You? Man, you were barely holding him off! He had you in a headlock while I was saving your sorry ass.”
Bucky shot him a glare, like someone had just insulted his mother. “Didn’t see you taking initiative, Wilson.”
“Because I’m not an idiot.”
You tilted your head, ignoring the sniping, and allowed the tiniest smile. You could’ve pointed out the truth—that it was Nat throwing the net and sheer dumb luck that did most of the work. But where was the fun in that?
Instead, you crossed the space with an easy sway, eyes on Bucky’s. “My hero,” you said sweetly, letting the words drip like honey.
His chin lifted a little higher. “Damn right.”
“Strong,” you went on, voice airy, “brave.”
He smirked, though his foot tapped like he was waiting for the encore. “Keep goin’.”
“Selfless. Dashing.” You balanced on your toes, closing the last inch, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
He froze, then exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. A huff escaped him as he tried to play it cool, his mouth curving into what he thought was a crooked grin—though the pink at the tips of his ears gave him away. “Eh,” he scoffed lightly, “just doin’ my job, sweetheart.”
Sam rolled his eyes so hard you swore you heard it. “Unbelievable. I bust my ass, and this jackass is out here getting kisses like candy.”
And you? You just smiled, enjoying the flush crawling up Bucky’s neck as you adjusted your coat and strutted past him like you hadn’t just fed his ego raw meat.
also decided to tag everyone who gave me so much love for my original idea 😁:
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader, inspired by HCA’s The Little Mermaid, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), medieval rom-com, love at first sight, mutual pining, yearning, caretaking, wound tending, awkwardness, angst that resolves, fluff, first kiss, lots of kissing actually, love confessions, body dysmorphia, body worship (feet and legs), cunnilingus, mild biting and marking, hair pulling, size difference, size kink, explicit consent, loss of virginity, pain during sex, riding, breast play, nipple play, coming inside, aftercare, protective!Dunk, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk, bittersweet ending.
<- part one
synopsis: A mermaid falls in love with a knight praying on her riverbank. A witch gives her legs and three days to make him love her back.
word count: 21,2K (I don't even know guys)
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics and @honeyluvsw! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@lateknightbites, @hextoken and @siliceousooze)!
When you wake the sword rests exactly where it was put in the evening, as if its weight disregards night-time shuffling. You study it from your side of the bedroll, baffled by the patience of it. Perhaps it is only a symbol, one of those man-made rules given shape in iron. Perhaps Duncan would have struck you with it had you rolled too far in your sleep and crossed into whatever danger he believes lives on the other side. The thought has no sense to it. The sword does nothing to quell you. In the night he is warm through cotton and blanket, broad back turned to you. His hair is curled soft at the nape where sleep has dampened it. You fell into slumber looking at that small dark place beneath his skull. You wake to his side empty and sunken into the ground.
So he has kissed before. Says he enjoyed it, or supposes he has. You are thoroughly torn on the matter. On one hand, it is good that at least one of you might know what to do with hands and tongues and teeth. On the other, it ires you greatly that someone you have already marked as your man has rested his mouth on another—and more than one, you presume, from the way he speaks of it—and found pleasure there. You wonder if the women he kissed bore any likeness to you. If he would find it agreeable to kiss you. If all that blushing and hiding of his face comes from the abashment of wanting, or if he is plainly too polite to tell you to stop. If two remaining days are enough to charm him, or if the witch tricked you to get her fill of a soul.
Trying to rise finds you stiff all over. Sleep in water gives the body constant motion. It hones you into fluid, graceful softness, even in dreams. Sleep on land is a meaner thing. The ground holds you in one shape and punishes you for keeping it. Your wretched legs have forgotten everything they learned the day before and returned to being useless logs, long and dumb beneath you. The cut across your foot pulses with a dull little heart of its own.
You push yourself up on your arms. Try to bend one knee. Then the other. Nothing comes kindly. Your joints pull, thighs ache, feet sit at the end of you, inert and limp.
Duncan comes back from the stream with the waterskin filled and dark at the seams. The moment he sees you struggling, he hastens over, nearly sloshing water down his leg.
“Hallo, m’lady,” he says, breath touched with worry. He bends, and his hands hover a moment, large and useless in the air. You make the choice for him, seizing his forearms and grunting angrily as you haul yourself toward him.
“Are you in pain?” he asks.
“No, it is only—” You huff, because the lie is poor and the truth is stupid. “I have gone stiff in the night.”
His grip steadies. “Aye. It happens so to folk unused to sleeping on the ground.” He bows his head a little with plain and honest regret, as though the hardness of the earth were some failing of his hospitality. “Forgive me for not giving you better rest.”
“I enjoy the arrangement,” you say, and mean it more than he can know. “Just my legs seem to disagree.”
He helps you out of the bedroll and onto the grass. At once, your knees show their feeble loyalty. One gives, then the other threatens. Duncan catches each stumble before it can become a fall, swift and careful. His hands close round yours until you are held between him like something being taught to stand by force of kindness.
“Easy,” he says. His eyes are lowered to the ground between you, watching your feet as if they are creatures likely to calm under his gaze. “Hold to me.”
So you hold. He steps back. You step forward, or try. He faces you all the while, walking backwards with a patience that ought to shame the road. His palms stay firm around yours, drawing you neither too fast nor too far. “Put your weight here," he says. Corrects, "No, not so much," when you get that wrong too. "Heel first. Then let the rest follow. Aye, that’s better.”
“It feels worse,” you say.
“Aye, well. Better things often do,” Duncan replies, which sounds to you like another of those human miseries dressed up as wisdom.
After a few steps, his brow furrows. “Were you hurt, then? Is that why it comes so hard?”
You nod quickly, because it is easier than explaining the truth and close enough to keep from being a lie. You hope he will not prod at it, and he does not. He only adjusts his hold and lets you try again.
“I’d wager you are used to softer beds,” he says, likely meaning to ease whatever discomfort has grown between you.
You think of weed-beds and wet sand. Of tree roots stretching their long limbs down into the water, making cradles in the dark. Of sleeping where the current runs over your back and little fish nose curiously at your hair. None of it is soft in the way he means. All of it is gone from you.
“Not exactly,” you say.
Duncan looks at you for half a breath. Then, he mumbles, “Right.” He keeps safeguarding you across the grass, step after strenuous little step. After a while, he clears his throat. “So. Are you seeking to reunite with kin in Riverrun, or—?”
Your brows rise. For a moment you cannot tell what he is asking. Whether he has found some crack in you. Whether he is trying to pry loose the fib you have not quite told. Whether he only wishes to make talk because your hands are in his and silence has begun to notice.
Your folk come to mind with no gentleness at all. There is no coddling among them. No teaching of the young beyond what hunger teaches. You are spat into the world, and if the bodies that made you survive their coupling, they become only two more mouths in the same water. Two more foes over food, territory, warmth, the shadowed places where a creature might sleep without teeth finding her. “I am seeking a fuller life,” you say.
The sadness in your own voice surprises you.
Duncan’s hold changes. Softens at the edges. His thumbs brush over your sleeves, and one finds the bare skin at your wrist by accident. Instead of pulling away, he stays. For a heartbeat, he only stands with you held between his hands, looking down as though some answer might be written in the grass.
You are unaware that it indeed is. When your foot skids back a little, Duncan gasps quietly. “Oh, heavens,” he mutters. His whole frame dips, and he sets your palms on his shoulders so you do not stumble. You cling there, confused, while he lowers himself before you and looks at the grass.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and there is a soft tsk in it. “M’lady, you’re bleeding still.”
“Oh?” You look down as if the foot belongs to someone else. “I thought—”
“Hold to me.” Then, he takes you by the ankle before you can ask why. Warm fingers, broad enough to meet round the bone. The touch startles more than the pain. He lifts your foot with such care that the rest of you must lean harder into his shoulders, then sets his palm flat to the sole. When he draws it back, red has smeared bright across the heel of it.
Duncan frowns up at you. “Why did you not tell me you were wounded?”
You stare at the blood on his skin. “I thought it would close.”
It should have. Your old body sealed itself quickly. Slashes, bites, the ragged marks left by shell or tooth—by morning they would be shut, tender at the seams perhaps, but no longer asking anything of you. Certainly not for a knight crouched in the grass with your ankle in his hand and alarm in his face. The witch has given you legs and human weakness with them. Flesh that opens and stays open. Flesh that must be begged back together.
“I thought it would just—”
“It needs tending,” Duncan says. His voice gentles, as if he has heard some of what you cannot say. “We’ll see to it. Aye?” He lets go of your ankle and rises with your hands still on his shoulders. “May I carry you?”
You nod and put your arms round his neck, ready for the old manner of being lifted. Instead, his hands come to your waist. The blush returns to him fierce and pink, but he endures it. He simply braces you there, lifts, and carries you back over the grass with your feet held clear of the ground.
His face is close. Too close for the shape of him to stay sensible. He looks you in the eye, searching for protest or hurt, but the looking itself becomes unbearable. You draw a larger breath into your lungs, and your chest expands against his. Duncan closes his eyes for a brief moment. His breath smells of crushed mint.
“There we are,” he mutters when he reaches the bedroll.
He sets you down as if the earth might bruise you further, then reaches for waterskin and turns to his sack. Begins pulling things from it: a strip of cloth and a little packet of something dried and green.
“I’ll clean it first,” he says. “Then bind it. It may smart.”
You give him your foot when he reaches for it. His thumb brushes your toes by accident, and the whole limb twitches under the tickle. There's a tiny squeal, and Duncan's face cracks into a smile that seems impossible to withhold. He looks dear with it.
He wets a clean cloth and wipes away the blood that has started seeping again under the pressure of walking. You watch him in silence. His head is bent, hair falling forward, mouth set in focus. “Thought it would close,” he murmurs once, almost to himself, and huffs through his nose as if the notion offends him.
When he presses harder, you hiss and jerk your leg. His grip holds firm enough that you only thrash a little. “Beg pardon,” he says. “Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you. I’ll be gentler.”
You bite the inside of your lip. He is so lovely to you that it empties your head. There is no answer fit for it, so you close your eyes and let the touch happen. Cloth over sole. Fingers at ankle. Palm holding your calf when he forgets himself in the work. He handles pain as if it is something that can be negotiated with, made smaller by tender perseverance.
When he binds the foot, he sets your heel against his thigh to check the tightness. “Too hard?”
You shake your head.
He tears the remaining tongue of bandage with his teeth, then secures it with a bow. The bow only makes things worse in your heart. A man knowing how to tie one. That fact that his hands can hold sword and rein and still make this small, neat kindness at the end of your body.
“You’ll be glad,” he says, sitting back. “No shoe for this one.”
“How will I walk?”
“You won’t.” He gives the bandage one last look, then lifts his eyes to yours. “Let it seal. I’ll carry you to Chestnut and off her again, if you’ll let me.”
"I'll allow it," you tell him, and Duncan snorts through his nose.
“That is kind of you,” he says with his mouth pulled shyly at one corner.
He packs the camp with the care of someone used to owning very few things and losing none of them. Oilcloth rolled, wool shaken out, bowls wiped with grass, and fire killed under his boot until smoke gives up in sullen threads. He loads the horses, checks straps, checks them again, then comes back to you as if lifting a girl on and off beasts has become one more road-task his hands are meant to know.
When he sets you on Chestnut, your arms go round his neck and he bears it with the same amount of colour proximity always seems to paint him. “There ye are,” he says, and steps back once you are sat properly.
The day grows warmer than the one before. At first you think the heat is only the sun choosing to dislike you more openly. Then your new body begins casting out its own water. It gathers at your neck, under your arms, between your breasts, slicking you in a thin unpleasant film. Sweat, you remember. Humans leak themselves when the air grows heavy. Understandable why they are so fond of cloth. It gives the body somewhere to be ashamed.
Ahead, Duncan rides with his shoulders set beneath his shirt, and soon the linen darkens down the column of his spine. It clings there, marking the long line of him. His back is broad enough to resemble one of those softer beds he keeps apologising for failing to provide. You think it would be a better one than the ground, and likely kinder.
Chestnut begins blowing through her nose, impatient with the heat. Duncan turns in the saddle. “Aye,” he tells her. “We ought to cool off somewhere.” Then his eyes come to you, expectant now in a way that pleases you. “Any water near?”
You look around. Wait. Listen past the horse-breath and tack-creak and road dust. There. “A little further ahead,” you say, pointing. “There should be a stream.”
Duncan nods this time without that careful pity from yesterday. Soon enough the road bends and forks into a smaller path toward the trees you chose. Beneath the leaves, water susurrates over stone, plain as speech.
He stops in a green hollow where the stream runs slow and bright. First he helps you down from Chestnut, hands steady, then settles you in the shade on a soft bed of grass.
“Would you mind if I tend to the beasts first?” he asks.
It endears you that he calls them what you call them, and you nod with great solemnity. Duncan leads the horses into the water, murmuring to them as they drink.
You sit where he has placed you and watch him, only a little. He steps in barefoot, water up to his knees, breeches darkening where they drink the river. When he bends to wash his face the sound he makes is so relieved it nearly has shape. Then, his body shifts as if he might turn, so you lie back quickly and pretend great interest in the sun glittering through the crown of leaves overhead.
For a second, or maybe two, you are interested. Light breaks itself on leaf-edge and comes down green-gold and restless. But in the corner of your eye Duncan pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bank, inadvertently impoverishing your attention.
It shrinks to his back, shining with sweat and riverlight. Large shoulders become larger bare. The hard-working breadth of him slopes down into a waist that seems almost shy for belonging to such a man. Water skids from the back of his neck and runs between the moving shelves of muscle. His arms gleam where the hair on them catches sun, each strand lit briefly as mosquitoes are lit in evening air. Lower, the ridges at the base of his spine look softer than they ought to, plush little marks above the band of his breeches, a place made by the gods for the pressing of a mouth and then hidden from decent folk by linen.
Duncan forgets himself for one blessed moment. He lowers into the stream with a groan, then lies back where the water is deep enough to take some of his weight. His chest comes into view. No wonder it is so broad if it must hold the sort of heart he has.
His ribs expand slowly and crown the upper swell of his stomach. The whole front of him looks safe. Pliable. Opulent with flesh, with strength, with the dark scatter of hair that begins across him and gathers itself into a neater line below his navel, leading somewhere your thoughts visit, and you don't even care to leash them. The little cup of his belly looks tender enough for a cheek. For a kiss, perhaps. For asking forgiveness of whatever part of him you have offended by wanting so much.
You watch him through leaf-shadow and sun-break, hunger loosening warm in your mouth. It is the looks, yes. You are young enough and living enough for beauty to matter. But the beauty wounds because it is his. His shoulders that carried you. His hands that tied the bandage. His mouth that stammered around kindness. His generous body laid briefly open in the water, while the heart inside it has been nothing but careful with you.
Then you notice the dark brand of mortality spoiling what is dear and fair and supple. A wound at his side, ugly with bruise-bloom and old blood, the flesh round it gone a deep wine-dark colour that makes your teeth meet. That is what has made him wince and grunt whenever he has pretended effort is a stranger to him. Someone put that there. Someone opened your knight and left him to ride on with pain hidden under cloth and courtesy.
Whoever hurt your beloved becomes at once your beloathed.
You want to tend him. Cure him. Put your mouth to the slash and draw the pain from it. Lick it clean. Pack it with moss and bitter green things. Seal him with leaf and mud and charm and the old patience of riverbeds. Hide him somewhere cold and safe where no sword can find him and no lord can send him back out to be struck again. Then you remember that whatever powers lived in your old body have been taken from you with your gills and your tail. All that remains is knowledge. Root, herb, current, and small useful things land and water will still confess if you ask properly.
Heat climbs through you, anger and want together, so fierce the stream begins calling harder. To you, it is communal. Water is company, cleansing, and peace. A place where bodies are honest and the world knows how to hold them. You begin undressing before sense catches up, fingers already at the borrowed linen. Then Duncan’s red ears return to you. His stricken crouch over firewood. The way he begged you to spare him from some bare skin as if you had raised a blade.
Whether that was true misliking or liking too much, you still have no clear answer. Men have a great many words for lying softly.
So the shift stays on. This, you think, is decorum.
You rise with care and make your wobbly way to the bank, each step placed as though the earth may change its mind beneath you. Duncan lies with his ears under the stream, face turned to the sky, and does not stir. The first touch of water over your bandaged foot is bright enough to steal your breath. Cool. Familiar. Wrong only because your body receives it poorly now, through skin instead of gill, through ache instead of ease. Still, it welcomes you better than road and saddle ever did.
You step knee-deep. Then further. The stream dips there into a dark little hollow beneath the willow roots, and the water climbs your thighs, your hips, your waist. Your shift billows round you and then clings. Duncan floats an arm-length away, chest moving slow, the gash ugly at his side like an insult left unanswered.
“You are hurt,” you say.
He jerks so hard his head goes under. For one sharp instant his limbs thrash and water breaks. Then Duncan surges upright, coughing badly, droplets streaming from his hair into his eyes. Water reaches his waist. His mouth opens on a half-strangled oath.
“Seven bloody hells!” he bellows, making the horses lift their heads from drinking. Drags a hand down his face and finds you standing there in your soaked shift. The cloth has gone thin and faithful to every line beneath it. His gaze strikes you once, panics, and bolts upward to the trees. “M-m’lady,” he rasps, still coughing. “Gods. You near frightened the soul out of me.”
“Let me tend to you,” you say, reaching. Your fingers brush his ribs and—oh, gods. He flinches. Flinches as if you have burnt him, near stumbling back on the pebbles.
“N-no,” he stammers. “No, there’s—” Another step back. “There’s no need. I, uh—I’ll let you bathe. Forgive me, I—”
“Ser Duncan?” You only blink at him, stunned. He stays where he is, eyes down. “Ser Duncan, you mustn’t be so foolish," you say. "It is only tending.”
“Please,” he says, and the word comes out almost a whine.
You come closer despite it. Set your fingers to his side again, gentler this time, and find the flesh above the cut warmer than the rest of him. “You’re in pain.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” he says. “Hah—” His breath hitches when your thumb brushes the soft of his belly. “Please,” he says, lower now. “Don’t… don't touch me.”
The hurt of it lands before you can reason with it. Your hand retreats. Your jaw sets tight. “As you wish,” you say, and dip wholly underwater and let the current take you a little way from him.
Duncan starts the day perturbed and only grows more and more mortified during the course of it.
First, sleeping next to you proves shallow and restless, for you keep making soft sounds in the night and moving under the blanket. Your body seems to disregard the steel barrier entirely and every now and then one of your limbs brushes him. Fingers on the hem of his shift. Foot nudging his low on the bedroll. Duncan sleeps terribly.
Then he is shamed for the hurt on you, and rightly. He had been so fixed on keeping his eyes clean and his hands honourable, so addled by the bareness of you, that he had given your bad walking some name out of fear and pity and left the simplest answer underfoot.
A cut. A cruel slash across the sole. Even close, even with your hands in his, it takes the red smear on the grass to make him see it, and the sight puts a shudder of anger through him so sharp he nearly speaks too harshly. After that comes worse: your ankle warm in his hand, your heel on his thigh, the soft give of your calf under his palm while he cleans what he can. You trust him through it. Squeal when it stings, then bite yourself quiet and try to be brave for no reason he deserves. Your skin imperils him by seeming new-made, tender in a way ordinary skin is not, without the leathering of road or work or weather. Dunk binds the foot as gently as he knows how and keeps himself from lifting it to his mouth and kissing it better only because that would mean bringing your leg higher, opening you by accident or design, and he is certain as sunrise that he would not survive the sight.
He contemplates this predicament of knightly challenge while floating on his back, body idle where his mind is restless, and gets startled by your voice. Then haunted by the same fingers that brushed him in the night and the shape of you, plain and vulgar and hallowed all the same under the shift clinging to you. He mumbles his futile excuses, manages to offend you by trying to maintain his honour, and stumbles out of the stream burnt up to his ears and heavy between the legs. Gods have mercy on him, Duncan has a few more nights with you ahead of him and faith in himself near shredded to scraps.
For another hour or so, he is quiet as a dead man. Sets you onto Chestnut with his eyes barely open, and rides in suffocating silence. At camp his heart inevitably melts back to warmness, because you try to feed Sweetfoot an apple you have chewed yourself first, and for it the horse adores you so much that Duncan almost chars the bread he is trying to make less stone-like. You squat too close to the fire and near singe the hem, making him certain you are not road-wise at all, then gut a fish he has caught in tremendous efforts with such unnerving competence Dunk has to revise his whole sense of your shelteredness.
Once he loosens enough to laugh and make talk with you again, the questions return. Seven hells, they never end, and Duncan scowls at each and every one of them. Do 'married things' feel better once people are married? Is it always a man and a woman who do 'married things'? Do folk kiss only on the mouth? Where else can one kiss? At which point Dunk contemplates pouring boiling water from the pot over his palm just so he is spared.
You seem oblivious. Charmingly so, because every inquiry leaves your face adorned with child-like curiosity, and the things you speak of having nothing child-like about them makes you only that much purer and more disarming in his eyes.
“How do I know a man would like to kiss me?” you ask, blinking at him wide-eyed and hopeful.
He is thankful the bite he took has already gone down his throat before that one lands. Duncan considers it gravely, though not without a fresh wave of shame, because while he means to answer you truthfully and as best he can, he need not bare himself doing it.
“It depends on the man,” he says, vague as a coward, and is met with another blink. “He might, uh—” Duncan tries. “Some men would gape at you outright, mayhaps. Some would try to steal looks and turn away when you caught them at it. Some might go nervous round you. Blush some. Look at your mouth and then wish they hadn’t, because—” He exhales hard through his nose. “Gods. I don’t know. Forgive me, m’lady, I've no proper answer for that one.”
You sit across from him with your face set carefully, taking each word in as if it has been given for study. Only then does it dawn on Duncan that he may have given himself away after all.
At nightfall, he prepares the bedroll again and sets the sword down, doubting its use. What he named protection that first evening serves tonight as the restraint he needs so dearly, and there is something wholly unknightly in that.
As if for punishment, he wakes hot and clammy, half-rolled off the wool, his side aching badly. When he opens his eyes, you are perched on one elbow with your hand hovering over his forehead. “Ser Duncan,” you say. “You’re burning up. Let me clean your wound, or you’ll go stiff as a dead fish.”
His mouth is parched. He fights himself a moment, tries to move, and when he finds it painful beyond keeping his face straight, Duncan nods, wincing. “A-aye,” he rasps. “Aye, all right then.”
You get to work at once. Even through the blear in his eyes he sees that you limp less than yesterday. Slow, still, and careful with the foot he bound, but less at war with the earth. You move from the bedroll to the fringe of grass near the stream, bending over plants, touching leaves, bringing them to your nose. Some you take. Some you let fall again with a little dismissive flick of your fingers. Moss from the wet bank. Green things he cannot name. A strip of bark peeled from a low branch after you press your face close to it and seem to listen. You come back with all of it gathered in your skirt, along with clean water from the stream and the bandages pulled from his sack.
Then, you sit on your heels beside him and roll his shirt up. Duncan hisses. “Ah—”
“Ser Duncan, we should not travel today,” you say.
“I’m bound for… for Riverrun soon, ah—” His breath catches when you peel the linen from his side. The cloth gives with a mean little tug. “There is business there.”
“You’ll be more useful to them sound than fevered, Duncan.”
You say it while looking where he cannot see. He looks where he should not. The furrow between your brows, the fall of your hair, and your pretty mouth tightened in focus, and oh—your lips part round a twist of bark and bitter leaves, and thought leaves him in one shameful rush. You chew them all together with grave purpose.
Duncan watches, transfixed enough that the first spill of stream-cool water over his ribs catches him unprepared. His stomach jumps. You take the sound for pain and murmur something under your breath, sweet and wordless, as you pat the wound dry. He is grateful for the mistake. Grateful too that your eyes keep going to his face and the blanket lies over him from the waist down, because your hand is braced low on his stomach and his body has begun turning traitor in ways fever cannot excuse.
“Is this too much?” you ask.
He shakes his head for the lump in his throat makes speech a poor wager.
You pack the wound with moss and the green pulp you have made, careful as any septa laying cloth over the dead. Sphagnum, he knows dimly, from old hedge lessons and worse roads. The rest is beyond him. He must be looking at it strangely, because you pause with your fingers at his side.
“I vow to you, this is safe,” you say. “It is what my people know of healing. I would not harm you.”
“I… I know that,” Duncan says. The answer comes quickly, because it is true before he has time to dress it better. He covers the hand you have set on his stomach. Your skin is cooler than his, cool enough to make him ache toward it.
“I beg your pardon for my weakness, m’lady.”
“I’ll grant you no pardon for that, ser,” you say. “For it needs none.” Your mouth curves a little, thoughtful rather than cruel. “The foolishness, well. That one I might grant pardon for.”
Despite the pain, something near a laugh moves in his chest.
You reach for the clean bandage and begin to bind his waist. He has to raise himself for it. The doing hurts badly enough to sour his breath, but he does it all the same, one arm locked beneath him while you pass the cloth under his back and round again. Your hands move with surprising certainty. All the awkwardness with laces and shoes gone from you the moment flesh is the thing in need.
When it is done, you tie the bandage firm and check the edge with two fingers. “Too tight?”
“No.”
It is, a little. But he would sooner bite his tongue than make you fuss over him again.
You seem to know that somehow, or else you have learned his face too well already, because you loosen it by the smallest measure before he can protest. Then you lean in, set a wet cloth over his forehead, and smooth it once over his brow. The touch quiets him worse than sleep could.
“Rest, Ser Duncan,” you say. “Riverrun may wait a day.”
It is as though you have put a spell on the world, because Duncan’s eyes grow heavy and everything seems set on peeling the fever off him. The air cools during his sleep and billows with loud howling through the trees, making breath come easier into his lungs. By the time he wakes, the mean bite in his side has dulled to a steady ache, and the heat in him has lessened into something nearer the natural state of a body than the foul blaze of sickness.
For a moment he does nothing but lie there, listening. You are humming beside him. The sound is low and strange and threaded so gently through the wind that he almost thinks he has dreamt it. When he opens his eyes, he finds you curled near the fire in a small, careful shape, arms tucked round yourself as if trying to keep what warmth you have from fleeing. Your hair moves across your cheek. Your face has gone solemn in sleep or thought; he cannot tell which.
He clears his throat and pushes himself up. The movement hurts, but only in the way of a wound that means to remind him it exists, rather than one trying to split him open. “Are you cold, m’lady?” he asks.
You turn your head toward him. Duncan looks round before you can answer and sees at once that a great part of the day has been stolen from him. The shadows have shifted long across the ground. The light has taken on the thinned, slanting look of late afternoon.
“How long was I out?”
“A few hours,” you say. “Do you feel better?”
“Aye.” He presses one hand carefully near the bandage and finds it firm. “Aye, I do. You’ve got my thanks.” He makes himself stand, slower than he likes. “I’ll start the fire proper, so you can warm up.”
You only nod. That troubles him a little.
He works at the kindling with hands that feel almost his own again and urges the fire into steadier life. When it takes, he motions you closer to it. You come, but even with amber light painting your face and the flame catching in your eyes, you keep your arms around yourself. Duncan watches that a moment, then rises and goes to his things. He finds a spare shift that does not shame him too badly for smell, shakes it once, and brings it back to you.
You look up at him. “Do I need more layers for your comfort?” you ask, mild.
“N-no,” he blurts, and then wishes he had managed it better. “No. This is for you. To get warmer.”
You take it after a pause. “Thank you.” Then you pull it over your head.
It unmakes him some, seeing you in something that came from his back. The cloth sits loose on you, too large in the shoulder, the sleeves falling past your wrists, and for some reason that is worse than all your wet linen had been. Worse in a different way. Quieter. It puts a claim in his mind he has no right to make and no courage to name.
He passes you water. Food. What little there is. You take both, but without the bright delight of the nights before. The silence in you discontents him. It sits between the pair of you heavier than his sword does at nights.
You both wait through the sinking of the sun with no moon rising after it. The sky grows dark by degrees and stays that way, blind and deep.
Duncan’s mind, made foolish by fever and wanting, begins to search for crimes. Mayhaps he snored like a pig. Mayhaps he spoke in his sleep. Mayhaps some foulness of the body escaped him while he lay senseless, and you are too gentle or too strange to name it. Then worse thoughts come. Mayhaps you have remembered some home you do not wish to speak of. Mayhaps the road has frightened you. Mayhaps he has touched too much, or withheld too much, or made some fresh error in the long ledger of not knowing how to be with you.
At last he cannot stand it. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “Have I frightened you somehow?”
What he means is, Were you frightened for me? Did my sickness put fear in you? Did you sit here humming me back from fever while I slept like a lump and gave you no thanks worth the doing? He does not ask that, of course.
You look at him across the fire. “Is your fever gone?”
“Aye. I think so.”
Then, you reach out and set your hand to his forehead. Duncan decides to let you. After all his defending himself from your touch, the yielding feels almost humiliating. Your palm is cold. Cool enough that he leans a fraction into it. “It is a wonder, what you did,” he says. “Truly.”
You stay there a moment longer. Then slip, not away, but to the side of his face.
“Are you cold still?” he asks.
You nod.
There is something changed in you now. He cannot say what. You are quieter, but the quiet has gone sharp and watchful. Closed in a way your face has never much managed before. It leaves him with the queer sense that he has done wrong and is only waiting to learn the charge.
“We’ve another blanket,” he says. “You may have it.”
You shake your head. Your hand moves from his cheek to his neck. His breath forgets itself.
“Would you hold me?” you ask and the question leaves him with no ground beneath him.
He wants to. Gods, he wants to. Wants it with such simple force that for one foolish instant his arms open before honour can set a guard over them. To hold you and warm you and give back a little of what you gave him. To fit you against him and learn the shape of your weight with nothing between but cloth and breath. To stop being careful long enough to stop aching.
You come into him as if you had only been waiting for the smallest leave.
Your body moulds tight to his chest. One hand slides behind his neck and into the hair at his nape; the other settles carefully near his side, avoiding the wound with a tenderness that cuts him deeper than a careless touch would have. Your face turns against his throat. Scent comes up with the heat of you—river-cold still, and green, with a foreign worry underneath it that seems made to ruin him.
He sits rigid at first, then lowers his arms around you. He circles your back with great care, as though the wrong pressure might break whatever spell has allowed this. His palm moves once between your shoulders. Then again. A slow, broad pass, the way he soothed you by the bank, only now there is no panic in your breathing. Only the nearness of you. The trust of you. The soft press of your shirt against his chest.
He says nothing. He does not trust his voice. Instead, he closes his eyes.
“Ser Duncan?” you ask.
“Mm?”
“When people kiss—” you start, lancing him with relief so strangely he almost laughs outright. Another question. Another weird, killing little question, but a question all the same. Something with words on it. Something safer than the warm mouth of you near his throat and the hand at the back of his neck making a weak man of him.
“Where does the nose go?”
A huffed chuckle leaves him. He has never once thought on it, which seems impossible now that you have asked. His chin lowers by a little. The dark gives him no help at all. “Wherever it can go,” he answers.
You shift against him, and crane your head back to look at him. “Would you show me?” you ask. Duncan near stops breathing altogether.
If time were a pocket full of stones to be thrown into water, yours would be light now. Between startling him in the stream on the second day and the morning of the third, you are nearly out of pebbles, and nowhere near certainty that what sits so swollen in you has found its likeness in him.
You tend him because pain on Duncan seems an offence against the order of things. Your hands know more than the rest of your borrowed body does, because the old small wisdoms of healing remain when all your better gifts are gone.
Then he sleeps. If you had all the time in the world, it would be a blessed thing. To sit with him through the day and look your fill without having to steal it. To learn his face by light rather than glances: the slope of his nose, the soft fall of his mouth, the worried place between his brows that seems carved by use. But every hour that passes comes down with a weight in it. Doom pressing thumb by thumb upon the tender back of your neck. You have hardly thought of the other choice. You do not know yet if your heart has turned vicious. You do not know what would prove easier in the end: longing or death. You do not even know whom you love more—him, or yourself.
So you hum, for it comes from somewhere old in you. Habit before speech. A small line thrown back to the creature you were so eager to cast off the moment a knight knelt bloodied at your riverbank and broke your life in two by praying. The song is low and almost without shape, but Duncan’s face softens beneath it in unspeakable measure. Sleep takes the worry from him first. Then pain. Then the lines around his mouth ease as if the song has set careful fingers there and smoothed them flat.
When he wakes, your nerves stir again. You have spent hours with him, but he has not spent them with you. He returns from slumber healthier, clearer, less fever-taken, and a bitter thought slips through unbidden: you ought not to have helped so eagerly. A fevered man is easier. Easier to seduce. Easier to kill.
Both notions sadden you in equal measure. If you were willing to win a weak version of him, you may as well have lured him with song the first day and let the river take the rest. As for killing—well. You came hoping for something to begin. Not end.
You cannot decide whether the air has chosen to be ally or enemy. Yesterday, heat helped very little. Duncan took great offence at you bathing near him, though your shift had stayed on like a banner of hard-won virtue, and afterwards he rode ahead in his breeches still dripping, neck blazing red. You still have no clue whether the sun kissed him so passionately there or whether his own blood had run faster from mortification. If the latter, you might almost take comfort. It would mean skin alone does not imperil him, but the shape of what it is stretched over does too.
Now the day has turned cold. All the small ends of you stiffen with it: toes, fingers, nose, the delicate rims of ears you have only just begun to understand. When Duncan gives you his shift, it helps little and wounds much. You eat the food, and it is still good, but doom dulls even salt and fat. You sit by the fire, which burns hot and warms everything except the parts that matter.
The only improvement is his scent. It gathers in the cloth he gives you, in the space around him, in the place where days have drawn the truth of his body closer to the skin. Earth after rain, almost. Warm ground turned by a hand. The deep, honest rot of flesh worked hard and loved too little. It is inviting in the way banks are inviting after too long in flood-water. Safe. Pure in a manner nothing you have known as pure before, because it belongs to a creature who has had every chance to harm you and kept choosing not to.
It makes you want to try harder. So you ask to be held, plainly and bravely, because every subtler method has failed you.
And somehow, blessedly, that works. Duncan opens his arms as if forgetting himself for one breath, and you go into him before he remembers any reason to stop. He is warm. Broad and rigid at first, all restraint and alarm, then his arms lower around you with a care that makes your throat ache. One hand moves over your back. Slow. Heavy and kind. The other stays mindful of his wounded side, and you press yourself where you may without hurting him, cheek near his throat, hand at the back of his neck where his hair curls soft against your fingers.
His scent is stronger here. His breath too. His ribs lift against you once, held too long, and you feel the panic in him before he makes any sound of it.
Emboldened, foolish with nearness, you crane your head up to look at him. “Would you show me?” you ask.
At once, Duncan locks himself in his stringent state of lungs filled with fright. For one breath he only looks at you. Mouth parted, eyes dark and wide and wretched with wanting he seems determined to suffer through rather than obey. His hand moves from your back to your shoulder, then stills there, made smaller and shaking in some deep part of him.
“M’lady,” he says, and the title sounds scraped from him. “You do not know what you ask.”
“I ask for a kiss.”
“Aye,” he says, almost pained. “That is the trouble of it.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair. He swallows. You feel it against your wrist, that small motion of life going down through him, and it draws you closer without thought. Your mouth is near enough now that his breath moves over it. Warm. Uneven. Human.
“Please,” you say, because pride has begun to feel like a thing for creatures with more time.
Duncan shuts his eyes. When they open, there is something terrible in them. Kindness, of all things. “I mustn’t,” he says. “Not like this.” Then he peels you from him.
Gently. Carefully. As if your arms are brambles he means to free himself from without breaking a leaf. That gentleness finishes what the refusal began. His hands leave you with honour in every finger, and you hate the honour so sharply you feel it in your teeth.
“We should rest,” he says, voice low. “You’ve had a hard day. Both of us have.”
You sit back on your heels and look at him. “I will be right there,” you say.
Duncan nods once. He looks as though he wants to say more and knows better than to trust his mouth. Then he lets you go.
The dark receives you with no comfort. No moon has risen. The sky hangs black over the trees, and every small night-sound seems to have sharpened itself for your hearing. The fire cracks behind you. Water calls ahead. You walk toward it with your arms wrapped around yourself, feet wet already from the grass, the bandage gone cold and weighty against your sole.
Stream takes your ankles first. You stand there a while, letting it worry the hurt in your foot, and sing softly because there is nothing else in you large enough to hold the ache. The song comes out thin. Sadder than you mean it to. A thing for deep places and lost skins, for girls foolish enough to think love would explain itself before the third night came hunting.
He has no love for you. That is what the witch’s voice says inside the dark.
He is kind. He is tender. He looks at you as if looking pains him. He has warmed you, carried you, fed you, let you touch his fevered body. He has given you his shirt and his fire and his poor sleeping place. Everything in him leans toward you.
Still, he will not give the proof.
The contradiction scrapes through you until you could scream. He has chosen fear. Virtue. Whatever cold, shining thing men put between their bodies and the bodies that want them. He has chosen the sword.
Something knocks softly against your bad foot, so you look down.
The dagger lies in the shallows, dark blade nosing against the stone as if the river has carried it back in its mouth. Returned from the mud where you left it to rot.
You stare at it first, then bend and take it. The hilt fits your palm with malicious ease.
When you return, the camp is nearly spent. The fire has sunk to a red eye. Duncan sleeps on his back with his face turned toward the dark and the sword laid down between you, steel dull and matted in the thin light. It looks and feels, to you, like an insult.
You kneel beside him with the dagger in your fist and learn again how human bodies rid themselves of water. Your eyes cloud. Your throat swells shut around breath. Tears fall hot down your cheeks and onto his forearm, though he does not wake.
He is very large in sleep. Very warm. His side lies beneath the blanket, bandaged where your hands have worked mercy into him. You know where he is weakest. Where to put the blade. How to turn the hand so it goes under the rib and up. The thought of all that warmth spilling out of him sickens you so badly you nearly retch.
“Forgive me,” you choke, and turn the dagger toward yourself.
Your hand shakes. The blade catches clumsily in the cloth, then slips, and in your blind effort to right it you snag his forearm. Duncan's eyes open.
It must be raining, he thinks at first. Droplets hit his wrist, then his cheek. But when something stings his skin with its sharp tooth, Duncan is alert through knightly instinct, or the instinct that let him survive Flea Bottom as a lame boy, or it is merely the Warrior watching over him. Which one, he does not know.
He knows only enough to move fast when a blade is being turned near where he is weak. His body acts before his mind can give the order. He is battle-trained and large. To seize the perfidious wrist, to roll over a deceitful body and pin it, to bash the weapon from the hand that nursed him away from fever only to break faith with him now—it is all nothing. It is but a blink.
To look into your wet, frightened eyes is everything. Everything that destroys him.
Duncan wants to scream, yet what leaves him is a foolish little thing, near too small to live inside him without getting lost.
“Tell me why,” he breathes over you. The sorrow in it he despises. “Speak, girl!” he says, louder, trying not to sound so heartbroken.
Since now he is sinew and bone first and everything else later, he notices things in scraps. Wretchedly, your spread legs below him. Woefully, your fast-beating heart under his, distraught in the same measure. Lustfully, your mouth, for he is only a man who has yearned for a woman for three days that felt like three lifetimes. Then, dreadfully, the way the mouth cuts itself into a lopsided sickle and begins to wobble. He finds your eyes again, and they are overpouring.
“Why?” he cries. “I’ve nothing for you to rob me of, and I’ve tried to do right by you. To keep my promise, to keep you safe, to—”
His grip tightens as he drags through the miserable list of his own reasons, your wrists caught in both his hands. He feels the small bones under his fingers and catches himself in anger. Loosens. His face cannot decide what shape to take, anguish or ire, so it hangs between them in some ugly misery.
“Why would you betray me?” he whispers.
“It’s—” Your voice breaks before it begins. “It was not meant for you. The w-witch… the witch said a soul, she did not say whose—”
Duncan stares.
“She—she gave me three days,” you sob, words tumbling over themselves, half-choked and damp. “And it has been three days, and I—I would not— I would never, not you—”
Your chest hitches under him. You try to pull one hand free, fail, and only curl your fingers in the air as if reaching for words that keep slipping from you. “It was for me. I was going to—”
He understands naught of it. “Girl, what is this nonsense that you speak of?” he asks, desperate. “What witch? What soul?”
You blink at him through the tears. For a long moment you only gape, and the fear in your face goes strange, as if some part of you had expected him to know the tale already.
“You’ve no love for me,” you say, so quietly he almost misses it. Your fingers flex above the wrists. Duncan lets go.
The instant he does, you take his hands and set them at your throat. Your own close over his, pressing them there, begging with them. He feels how feeble that column is beneath his palms. The hard swallow of it. The frantic life inside. How easily his thumbs could end you. How surely it would end him too.
“You’ve no love for me,” you say, “and it means I cannot go back. I cannot go home, and I cannot take your life, so it has to be mine. Please, please—”
Duncan sees part of it plain, and another part not at all. Your palms squeeze round his, eyes leaking plea after plea. He is certain that if you could reach it, you would hand him the dagger and point its tip to your own neck. How this would ensure his sparing, he does not comprehend. What he recognises is the devotion of putting oneself at the edge of the blade if that means your beloved lives.
“M’lady—” he mouths, stunned by the discovery.
All of the teasing, all of the questions—none of it was malevolent. None of it was oblivious either, or meant to make him stray off his path, use him, seduce him for sport. It was you speaking I want you to him in a language he used to know and misplaced when he found folk scarcely so openly honest.
“Calm yourself. Calm yourself now,” he says, terrified at being the cause of your sorrow. “Oh, girl. Hush now, hush.” He removes his hands from your throat and brings them to your swollen cheeks. “Tell me plain,” he says. “Slowly. Don’t be afraid.”
Your sobbing eases. “I saw you on the bank lancing a man through and praying for him a minute later. You—” Your fingers come up to his cheeks, damp and trembling, and the touch strikes him so softly he can hardly bear it. “You bewitched me.”
Duncan sucks in a breath.
“So I went to a crone and struck a deal. To get legs. So you—” You swallow. “So you could love me.”
“Legs?” Duncan huffs. “Girl—”
His mind begins to move, slow and fearful, through every half-remembered tale old women or some Flea Bottom drunk or hedge septon ever muttered near a fire. Water-wives. River maids. Green-haired things who drowned men by kissing them. Old gods in stones and streams. Stories, he had thought. Ways for folk to dress up queer happenings so the world seemed less wide and hungry than it was.
Yet he thinks of you in the willow-shadow, floating as if the stream had been made to hold you. Of your strange wisdom with water and wound and herb. Of your dread of shoes. Your open face. Your body new to its own legs.
“Where’s your home?” he asks.
You look at him, and he holds his breath without meaning to. Then, you say, “The river.”
The way you looked hugged by water suddenly makes sense. “River-folk,” he mutters. “I was right, then. You’re no human girl.” Your face changes at that, guilt passing plain over it, and the sight only settles the truth harder in him.
“Gods,” he says, hushed. “You’re a river maid. Some old god’s daughter, mayhaps. Holy thing of the water.” It's all muttered half to himself, as if wagering with his own mind whether such a thing can be possible, but awe gets into him anyway. Awe and fear. Awe and the brutal knowledge that he has had a holy thing weeping under him with his hand at her throat.
Your eyes widen. Confused, mayhaps. Hopeful too, in some small wounded way. “What say you to me, knight?”
Duncan shifts. Sets himself firmer on one elbow, then bends one knee and hooks it carefully against your leg to keep you open beneath him. Closer now. More intimate than the pinning had been when his body only knew defence. His hands slide to the back of your head, thumbs settling where your jaw hinges, close beside your ears. He presses there gently.
“What did the witch tell you to do?” he asks.
Wariness moves over your face, but you answer. “She said to bring her a soul if you did not fall for me within three days.” Your eyes drop. “Otherwise I am cast out and trapped in this ugly body.”
The shape of it becomes clearer. Witch-craft with its fangs hidden until the mouth shuts. A sworn sword and a maid from the water. A bargain made to rot between them. How easy to mislead you. How easy to make failure look like virtue and restraint look like scorn.
His body understands some ruinous part of it before his mind is finished. The angle has him feeling you everywhere that matters: your breath hot over his face, the soft give of you under his weight, your fingers brushing shakily beneath his eyes and near his mouth as if you want to touch and are afraid. His groin fills out against sense, against decency, against every terrified plea he has made to the Seven in three days. Reprehensible, mayhaps. True all the same.
For desperate want of proof, he manages to ask, “And how were you to know if I had fallen or no?”
You move a little beneath him. It pains him terribly. “When you want between my legs,” you say. “That is why I needed them in the first place.”
Duncan laughs then. Breathless. Broken by it.
You frown. “What?”
“Wee thing,” he says. “Oh, Gods—” His eyes close.
“Duncan?”
He rubs at the base of your skull. “Hush, sweet thing. Only tell me if I wrong you.” Then he lowers his face slowly to yours.
“There ain’t nowhere for the nose to go,” he says.
First, he fits himself beneath you, clumsy with care. The tip of his nose fills the warm curve above your upper lip, where your mouth rises into that soft little bow. When he speaks, his mouth frames your lower lip so closely that the words seem to move against it. “It just goes here,” he murmurs.
Then he shifts higher, until your mouths face one another and his nose wedges beside yours, dipping into the slope where cheek begins. Nearer now. Close enough that, if your lips were not stunned and motionless beneath his, it would already be a kiss. “Or here.”
He presses in by the smallest measure. “Or flattens some,” he breathes, “when it’s more ardent.”
Duncan wants to kiss you ardently. He also wants to tell you this is not how love works, but he catches himself knowing naught of it. He's been charmed by women, by their voices and breasts and the napes of their necks, thought of them for days upon days, and inevitably, forgotten most of the maids for the sake of his pliant heart remaining whole. You, he's certain, he'd never forget. Despite his body being crude and primal around you, he thinks, innocently, that it is the heart that animates his blood to go where it goes. He presses down on you with ingenuity between the shoulders and lust between the hips, and the lust is pure too, for it comes from affection.
Your leg hitches higher on him and fingers find some valour in their groping. You take a clean hold of his face and trap him there, in the in-between kiss state, and look at him with the sort of plain youthful hope that keeps unearthing him.
"What are you saying?" you ask.
Duncan’s hands come up to answer first. Where you keep him, he cradles you back, careful thumbs, fingers spreading into your hair. There. There is the shape of it. Want met with want, fear met with shaking, your breath touching his and making no wound of it.
“I am saying,” he murmurs, moving the words against your mouth, “that the witch has been proven wrong already. You had my heart before you had legs steady under you.” Your eyes search his so closely he feels near flayed by the looking. “But if you need proof in the flesh,” he says, rougher, shame and hunger dragging at the same rope inside him, “I would be honoured to give it. Gods help me, I would. Only you should know I may be poor at it.” His breath hitches. “You would be my first.”
You consider him calmly. “I don’t need it,” you say, making his whole chest suck in on itself. Then, Duncan breathes again, when you add, “But I want it.”
Finally, the holding concludes. You kiss as if the thing has angered you by staying unknown so long. Your mouth opens wide and catches his lower lip between yours, soft first, then with teeth. Duncan makes a sound into you. He cannot tell whether the bite is artless or bold already, whether you have stumbled into hunger or known the road to it all along. This, at least, he can teach. When the cloth comes off, when bodies are bare and honest and frightening in the dark, both of you will be green as spring branches. But kissing—kissing he knows enough to begin.
So he shows you. Shows you how the nose can fit beneath yours, how it can slide along cheek and breathe there, hot and loud. Shows you how a mouth may press and soften and press again, how teeth need not wound to be felt, how the lips can ask twice before taking. Then his tongue finds the seam of you, and when you open, he slips inside.
He discovers that you must be finding that pleasurable because you moan softly and bend beneath him and fit yourself firmer to his cock, making him ache more. Your fingers climb to his hair and tug, and some helpless part of him near thanks you for it.
You learn fast, too—answer his tongue with yours, and they press each other and taste each other, and to Duncan you taste like blessed water and flesh made open. He kisses you deeper for it, ardent at last, enough that his nose flattens against your cheek, and the nonsense of it is so small and heartbreaking the clothes start itching him unbearably.
“I wanted you,” he whispers. “Gods, I wanted you.”
For a moment you stop kissing in favour of laughing sweetly, so he, in his ardour, pulls the shirt off his back, bearing himself to the night and your eyes. You stop laughing then and fix your pupils somewhere below his chin, and Duncan sees a glimpse of what he presumes lesser creatures see before you seize their throats and snap their spines. Lowering lids and lashes gone droopy over them, you breathe out, set your forefinger to the hollow of his throat, collect the dampness there, and bring it back to your mouth.
“And I wanted you,” you say.
Duncan leans in to kiss you some more. The dagger lies abandoned in the grass.
Your knight loves you. He is kissing you, and for a man who only supposes he likes it, he is incredibly fervent about it. Obedient too: he rises when you all but press your fingers to his bicep and lets you climb him a little. He sits on his heels and lowers his head for you to reach. His mouth tastes clean and cold of crushed mint. His hands on you are warm, warming up with every pass. They hold your neck first, then slide down your shoulders, pause briefly at your elbows, and continue lower. You are lost in it, learning how to do this thing called kissing and where the poking parts of the body go during, when desire emboldens him enough to stray beneath your skirt.
You catch his wrist unconsciously, mouth curbing. Before, his touch was medicinal. And rightfully so, since there was nothing else you'd rather have done to your legs than fix them. Heavy, graceless logs beneath you with one foot mangled, the mending of which, despite being mildly titillating for his gentleness, heralded no perfervid development and remained purely sanative. Now, there is intent in it. Now he's looking at your thighs, and regardless of him being a different kind of folk, a kind of folk who likely enjoys thighs, you wish, terribly, for your tail to be back in its rightful place. For the thing of poise and cordiality you could show him. For the thing that makes you beautiful in the water and in sunlight, smooth and shiny and worth seeing, instead of bruised knees and prodding ankles and dirty shins and the sole gone plump with its cut and blood dried round the cut's edges.
When your eyes meet he looks very concerned. His touch stalls. "Have I… have I wronged you?" Duncan asks. He lifts his hands a hairsbreadth off you and murmurs, "Do you want me to stop?"
"N-no, no," you tell him. "No, I don't, just—" Your eyes drop to where he's hovering. You cringe. "Just do not look at me so."
"How did I look?" His fingers curl, then retreat completely to rest on his knees. "Have I looked wrong?" Dunk asks.
"No, I just… don't like them."
Duncan sags a little. When you look up, he's blinking at you, baffled. His mouth moves while he's chewing his own tongue, and finally, he stammers, "Y-your legs?"
You nod. Sit back, pull the skirt over the knees for the lack of a better shield, and hug the whole bundle to hide it from being perceived. "They're ugly," you tell him.
At that, his face breaks open with fondness and ache. Duncan breathes around something that looks like exasperation, though gentler than any you have known. Plainly, he seems to not know what is meant to be said to a girl who tells him she hates a part of herself. So he says nothing at first. Only comes to you, slow on his knees, until he is close enough for the heat of him to reach through the miserable pile you have made of your limbs.
His hand finds your cheek. He turns you toward him by a little, thumb rubbing along your jaw as if coaxing the bone to unclench. “They brought you to me,” he mutters at your ear. The words go through you strangely.
“They bled and still carried you.” His fingers nose, tender and frightened, beneath the edge of your skirt, finding the place where your hip creases under cloth and the guard of your folded arm. He brushes there and goes no farther than you allow. “You’ve had them three days, and they’ve already learned the road so well.”
At that, something in you loosens. Your arms slacken by a measure. Enough for him to slide down to your knee, where the fabric bunches under his broad palm.
“I adore them,” Duncan says, simply enough to make mockery impossible. His eyes lift to yours, serious and shy both. “Would you let me show you?”
You are apprehensive still, but you look at him properly then, and his face is so genuine it gives you no clever place to hide. So trustworthy. So pure in its truth-telling. For a moment you think that perhaps love can be graceless. Perhaps here, with him, it may be youthful and ebullient and still be love. Perhaps the grace you were robbed of has no bearing on your worthiness of it. His hands are clumsy too, trembling and bashful, but eager in the way they touch you, forthright in their care. He seems to pay no mind to his own awkwardness. Only to you. To the careful unpeeling of you in a way that does not leave the parts beneath raw and aching.
“How?” you ask.
Duncan smiles as if something has just been answered for him. “Tell me no at any moment,” he says.
He goes to the lacing at your waistband and pulls at it slowly, eyes fixed on yours. Then his fingers hook between fabric and skin and he begins guiding the skirt down. You prop yourself on his shoulders and lift for him. The cloth passes your hips and drags down your thighs, and you close your eyes briefly so you do not have to see the hated shape of yourself being bared.
Chill kisses your ankles and calves, then deserts them once Duncan’s hands find you. He goes to sit farther away, facing you, and places your feet with their soles to his stomach. Your shift falls loose between your thighs and gathers there, covering you only to the middle of them. You lean back on your elbows and finally open your eyes.
He sits on his heels again, thighs flattened and filling his breeches until the side seams seem fit to complain, so abundant there his knees knock apart naturally. Between his legs he is curiously swollen. You want to touch there. To see him. To learn what it is that makes a man breathe faster and blush the way he does. He is pink up to the temples and sweating round there. Beneath your soles, his stomach ripples now and then. His fingers curl round either of your ankles, eyes fixed on the dorsums of your feet, thumbs brushing where your toes ladder into five thin, twig-like bones.
He unwraps the bandage gently. Checks you for wincing, and when he sees you only staring with your lids nearly disappearing into their sockets, the colour on him deepens.
Then, he lifts your foot to his face, and you learn where else people can be kissed.
He slots his mouth to the hollow where the cut had been. It is barely a brush of lips. A small thing. Soft enough that it should hardly matter. Yet he does it with such care that the warmth of it travels up your throat from the inside, humiliating and near hallowed. Duncan swallows as if bracing himself, then sets his tongue to the sealed line of it and licks across.
The wound has closed. Tender still, and puffed at the edges, but closed. It receives his affection with a strange little pulse that runs the whole length of you and lands low in your belly like kindling catching.
You go very still when he kisses it again. Then the arch, then the heel, then the place below your toes where the skin is softer than you expected it to be. His hand holds the whole weight of your leg as if it weighs nothing at all. You let it rest there, pliant and cradled, and he seems to like the trust of it. Seems to grow gentler and more intent for having it.
When his mouth reaches your toes, he hesitates. His eyes lift to yours. Deadly honest. Pinked still, mouth damp from you, breathing with the rough care of a man at the edge of his own courage.
Then he closes his lips around you, and the sound you make is pulled clean out of you.
He smiles. You feel the shape of it more than see it. The small wickedness of it startles you worse than the mouth does, because he has spent three days shy as a colt and now there is this on him too, some pleased knowledge that he has made you louder. His tongue moves over your toes in a slow pass. His lips draw, soft and firm together. The pressure is nothing like kissing. You cannot answer it except by breathing harder and letting your head tip back, by spreading your fingers on the wool and trying to understand why a useless little toe should have any road at all to where pleasure lives.
The angle opens you by a little, making you learn, once again, how human bodies lose moisture. This one is known to you and strange all the same. You have felt your slit weep at the sight of folk tumbling in the tall grass by your bank, but this is warmer. Thicker. It pearls at the centre of you and pulses there, as if bidding him to come closer.
Duncan releases your foot and turns to the other. “Should I stop?” he asks, voice low.
You shake your head.
He nods as if you have given him some important charge, then bends again. Kisses the second foot with equal devotion. Along the ankle, over the knob of bone, up the calf where his nose stirs the soft hair covering your skin. His breath follows after, hot in places the night had cooled. His lips travel slowly, learning you with more patience than skill, though the patience is its own skill, perhaps. You cannot decide. You only know that each place his mouth has been feels newly awake when he leaves it.
At your knee, he lowers himself. The breadth of his shoulders knocks your legs further apart without hurry and without force. As though both of you were made for this particular placement. He settles on his stomach between them, enormous and careful, and begins again above the knee. Mouth open now. Breath heavier. The kissing grows less neat. At the inner soft of your thigh his eyes cover themselves with the thick row of lashes, and for one moment he seems to forget the mild kind of gentleness in favour of a hungrier one. His jaw opens, then closes with teeth.
Your head lolls back with the force of the moan breaking out of you, and Duncan freezes.
The absence of him is immediate and cruel. You lift your head and find him staring up at you, stricken, his mouth still near the mark he made.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Do it again,” you breathe.
His face does a strange, blissed out thing. He nods, snakes one arm under your leg and sets his palm to your hip. Mouth returns to the same place. Teeth first, as asked. Then lips. Then a slow draw of suction that makes your spine change its mind about what shape it wants. His nose dents the skin beside the bite. Each puff of air from him lays heat there. You watch, fascinated and stunned, because this feels good and the witch never spoke of it. She spoke of being opened. Of men putting themselves where they wished to go. She spoke as though the act were a blade and a body only the place it entered.
She said nothing of this. Nothing of mouths on knees and thighs. Nothing of being marked with blunt, crooked fangs and of brands they leave being so pretty you wish for them to be permanent. Nothing of a large knight lying between your legs with zeal shaking through him and of pleasure arriving before proof.
Your hands move without your leave, rolling the shift up for the cloth to gather over your belly. The apex of your thighs is bared to the night. Duncan groans so loudly it startles you.
“Have I done wrong?” you ask.
He shakes his head at once, almost violently. His hand tightens at your hip, fingers pressing in. “N-no,” he says. “No, sweet thing. Gods, no. Only—”
His free hand comes up slowly. It stops at the curls there, hovers, then dips with two fingers as though he expects you to vanish if touched too boldly. “May I kiss you?” he asks. His voice has gone rough enough to catch. “Here?”
You look down and realise he is nervous. For some reason that steadies you. “Have you kissed there before?”
The colour deepens on him. “No.”
“Is that where folk kiss too?”
“Some,” Duncan says. He swallows. “If they are let.”
His fingers rest in you lightly, barely a touch at all, but your body answers with a soft wetness that reaches him anyway. You see when he feels it. The way his mouth parts. The way his brow draws tight, as if want has put its hand round the back of his neck.
He looks up at you. “Talk to me,” he says. “If I do wrong, tell me. If you want me stopped, tell me. If it is good—” His thumb moves, shy and uncertain, and you draw breath through your teeth. “Tell me that too.”
Then down he goes, and with it something in you drops so low it near shackles you to the ground. It is unimportant at first whether he lands aptly or not, for just the idea of being kissed like this, right there, has already begun to derange you. Another mouth-place, another gate and a room this body contains that can, and deserves to be treated with the same fervour he's given your lips. It makes you forget you own legs whatsoever.
It is but a blunder consecrated by pure intentions. He intends, purely, to show you how pieces of you that you've disregarded and treated as means to an end are also part of the beloved. A little over-eager when his mouth finds you too high and drifts as if listening with tongue instead of ears, but at least honest about his greenness. His nose presses into curls on your mound, and you watch him there, the low-hanging lashes, the blood-filled cheeks, and hair falling loose over his brow and this whole great body brought down to its knees by the smallest knot of nerves you possess. Something absurd lives within it, and something magnificent too, making you want to laugh, or seize him, or ask him if he understands he is doing something to you no one explained. Something outside the cruel little law you've been given, one that doesn't mention being searched by a mouth so loving the searching becomes more devastating than force.
Before he licks you, he hums. The sound buries itself in the flesh of his throat, and then his tongue follows, making the strangest disorder happen. Too much earnestness, broad and hard enough to make white light snap through you with benevolence, so you yelp and drag at his hair.
He stops. Lifts his face, and there he is with his mouth shining and eyes stricken, mumbling, "No?"
"Softer," you tell him, feeling weird for demanding around something that's been gifted.
Duncan only nods, swallowing. Grateful for the doctrine, he gets back to learning you with the same studiousness he's given to the walking lessons, all of it made dangerous by how badly he wishes to do it well.
You bend your knees to make the spread of his shoulders more agreeable, but it only makes you open wider like you're an awkward, frog-like thing with human joints. He takes the leave of it and slides his hands under your thighs as though this is too dear. Makes a cradle of his arms and lifts you into it, saving you from the labour of your own legs. The hated things go light. Your calves rest against his shoulders, heels find his back. The position splits you and steadies you both, and a hot, startled pride moves through you when his breath hitches at the sight.
“Here,” you say, gathering his hair into your fist. You guide him lower by little pressures. “Like you kissed my mouth.”
Obedient still, he tries again. Lets his breath soften you first. Then, a brush. A press and retreat of lips. Underneath it your body is trying to make sense of a feeling that has no mate in memory. It is a kiss, yes, but one that cannot be returned by the same road. You can only suffer the pleasure and be enlarged by it. The passivity maddens you. It makes a queen and a fool of you together. You lie there growing wetter, thinking, wildly, that this must be what land does to rivers when it forces them into beds and banks and makes them learn a new shape by pressure.
“There?” he asks against you. The word itself touches.
“There,” you say. "Please, again."
His tongue returns, gentler, and your mind begins to come apart in layers. First, the ordinary mind that knows cold air and sharp grass, then the clever one counting for proof, and the old water-mind too, with remembrance of lost fins and sealed gills and split tail. Beneath all of them lies this new thing, this land-flesh, this warm, weeping, treacherous little mouth of the body opening under another mouth.
Duncan hums once, and the vibration enters you. Your head falls back. The sky above has no moon, no witness, only a depth of blackness so complete it feels like the world has closed its eyes. You begin to grasp that he is teaching himself by the breaking of breath, the little disloyalties of your spine, and the way your thighs tremble when he loses the right place, and part when he comes near it. Warmth opens there. Thickens. Pearls for him and makes him groan as if the taste of you has struck some hidden bell in his chest. You give more and more of it until there is too much. Until it slicks and drips on your skin, and threatens to waste itself on wool, and Duncan, oh—
He slips his tongue inside. Ladles it cleverly to drink from you, and suddenly your body feels more yours. Alive and awake. "Oh—" you say, and he lifts his eyes without parting you. Tries to fit himself deeper, and in the trying his nose brushes the place that seems to have been waiting for him to discover it. You'd laugh at the sweet lesson of it. At the versatility of destinations bodies hold for noses, if only your muscles wouldn't tense like that, if only teeth weren't busy mauling your lower lip and your eyes weren't rolling back from the euphoria of this little accident.
And Duncan is no master of anything except attention, it would seem. He does it again, slower. Meaner, you'd think, if he were someone else. The arms under your thighs tighten while his tongue slips in with a firmer, deeper thrust. This time his nose finds you on purpose. Rubs you small and blunt, and all of you answers in a vicious little flood. Your hips buck into his face and he groans as though he has been granted something by it.
Again—more, bolder, stronger. Mouth open and breath loud, he makes the double sensation catch you so oddly you cannot tell whether you are being entered or kissed or spoken to. No matter the direction your body chooses, he loves it into splendour by the inch. A living thing throws itself against the inside of your skin, and when you look down you fingers make a mess of his hair and he's there, stubborn and panting, poor sweet creature driven half out of himself by the need to bring you fully past this threshold. You realise then, with a kind of rage, that this body has kept secrets from you.
The witch gave you legs and pain and a wound in the foot. She gave you shame, knees, ankles, the absurdity of toes. She gave you the fear of being split by love or killed by its absence. Yet here is a secret she either did not know or refused to tell: that the body can be opened without being invaded, that a man may go down rather than in, that wanting may have humility in it, that Duncan’s mouth can make a sanctuary of the very place she named as doom.
The thought breaks something, or something he does breaks it. "Yes," you breathe. "Oh, Duncan, yes—"
The pleasure keeps almost arriving. Almost, almost, until the almost becomes its own country and you are trapped there, flooded and furious, hearing yourself make sounds no trout, no eel, no seal-slick thing in the water ever taught you. Human sounds. Girl sounds. The foolish, broken music of having flesh that can beg without words.
He stops at no point, and somehow it works. Or perhaps works is too clean a word for it, for no grace is returned to you in triumph. The body simply takes command with the crude authority of something older than self, and you go with it because there is nowhere else to go. A bright, prickling tug gathers low in your groin, sharp as a hook caught in something living, and then it pulls. You choke on the first sound of it. Bend up so hard your belly creases and your mouth opens wide to the dark, all the while Duncan stays there, caught under you, grunting into the convulsion—pleased, most likely proud, very likely simply surprised that his mouth has become such a mighty tool. Your thighs try to close round his head and cannot, because he is too broad and too fixed and too willing to be crushed there. The bliss grows fangs, pointed and sharp, and when he keeps at it with the same obedience, you pull him off with actual force.
He comes away on the strength of your fist in his hair. For a moment you forget the feeling in yourself because of what has been done to him. He looks changed by it too. Made a man fully, if he had been hovering on the edge of it before, glassy-eyed and glossy-mouthed, lips plumped by labour. His lashes are damp. The skin of his cheeks has risen with blood so deeply it seems lit from underneath. Still large. Still tremendous. Shoulders filling the space between your knees, body hot and weighty against the earth. Yet he lets himself hang from your clenched fist as if he is a head severed clean and kept alive only by the mercy of your grip.
“Too much?” he rasps.
“Enough,” you say, though the word comes out wrecked and fond.
Duncan nods.
His hair slips from between your fingers, and he drops forward as if the cut strings of him have remembered gravity. Down onto your belly, where he turns his face into the soft, creased place below your ribs and lies there breathing hard with arms thrown around you. You listen to him dragging air in and out as if he has been the one carried to some violent height and dropped from it.
Then he asks, muffled, “Did I please you?”
The tenderness of it nearly undoes what the pleasure left standing. “Gods, yes,” you say.
He breathes again, deeper this time, and his cheek shifts against you. You feel the absurd bashfulness returning to him now that his mouth has finished its brave work. His hand moves on your thigh. “Do you still hate them?” he asks.
You look down. There is he, and there are your legs, still strange. Still graceless. Still jointed wrong for a creature born to move as one sleek muscle through water. But his hands have held them. His mouth has blessed them. His shoulders have borne their weight. Shame, you discover, cannot keep its shape where Duncan has put his devotion.
Your fingers slide back into his hair. “I don't think I can hate anything you’ve touched,” you say. His mouth quirks, boyish again.
Duncan thinks, dimly, that he has been allowed too much. He lies on the soft bed of your stomach with his cheeks full of your sweet sap and his scalp scratched by your fingernails, wondering when the gods mean to smite him for a fool like himself daring to touch a holy creature like you.
To think you forsook your home for him. To think you almost passed from the world because he was too much of an imbecile to swallow down the price, the inadequacy, the fear of being too much and too little and simply unworthy.
He looks at your thighs and loves them dearly. One bears the brand of his uneven teeth, a ring like the rings of boulders set into loose soil by men who believed in old gods. It is a place only for him. If anyone else strayed there and saw it, he would have to make them a head lighter.
That is the sort of thought he should turn away from, and quickly. Carnal things have been running him ragged for three days, and now his mind seems determined to drag him through every mire it can find. Nothing about where he is helps. Nothing below him helps. His cock had been hard before his mouth ever reached you, and only turned harder, meaner, more convinced of itself as you softened and opened and shook above him. The ground hides the worst of it well enough, but it pacifies poorly. Each small shift is deadly, especially for a man who has known mostly the mean kind of friction. Solid surfaces and his own hand now and then, when loneliness or some insistent memory of breasts, throats, legs—legs, precisely—made an animal of him in the dark.
And there he is back at the legs.
Yours, with what lies between them still fresh on him, warm and slick and living, a taste so strange and cleanly foul it seems to have made a new chamber in him. He relives the feel of you under his tongue. Of what your body did when he licked properly, when he hummed deep enough, and your fingers turned cruel in his hair. That pulling ought to have hurt more than it did, or shamed him into sense at least. Instead it had near humbled him completely. There seems, to his great peril, to be some direct and wicked road between the roots of his hair and his loins, for when you yanked him up from you with that fistful of him, Duncan had come so close to spending that his whole being narrowed to the crude effort of refusing it. He does not know if that is a thing in him entire, the general affinity for receiving some manhandling, or only another power you have over him. Girlhandling, perhaps, but performed by you.
All of it helps very little. The belly under his cheek and your scent smeared across his face and the hand in his hair, they all help naught. Duncan smacks his lips once, then stirs.
It takes a mean little grunt to rise. His side has drunk some cold from the earth, bandage stiffened where it wraps him, and when he pushes himself up onto his hands the wound pulls as though remembering it has been slighted by all this pleasure around it. Duncan sits back on his heels slowly. Has to set his knees wide as he does, for there is no seemly arrangement left in his breeches. His cock is stranded there, neglected, thick with complaint, as if some part of him expected reward for honest labour and cannot be made to understand that love is no tally of services. He looks at you instead. “Are you well?” he asks, voice rough.
You prop yourself on your elbows, knees knocking together after all that boldness, and nod. You look changed. A little hollowed, though sweetly, in the manner of a body given just enough nourishment to keep wanting and nowhere near enough to be sated by it. Your mouth is damp. Your eyes keep their dark, inward shine. “Yes,” you tell him.
Then, to his utter horror, you scramble up too. Your thighs twitch with the movement, and Duncan has to close one hand on his own knee to stop himself from reaching out and putting you back into decency. His gaze drops, shamelessly, shamefully, to where he has made you glossy. He drags his eyes higher in penance and finds no mercy there either, for you cross your arms, seize the hem of the shift, and pull it upward.
The cloth lifts first over the lower belly he has just lain upon, skin giving way to the shadow below your ribs. Then sternum, then the underside of your breasts, and his cock kicks so hard it seems to have taken a separate oath against him. Your face disappears behind linen for one blind second. All he sees is your torso stretched in the act of undressing, your breasts prickling against the cold, the lifted arms, the night making an open country of you. His mouth goes dry enough for prayer.
By the time the shift drops beside you, words have gone useless in him. Which leaves him wholly defenceless when you take his hands.
You guide them to your chest with solemn purpose, as if returning some misplaced thing to its rightful shrine. His palms meet warmth and weight. He sits petrified while your thighs part again, while you climb him with no more grace than you have had all along and no less power for the lack of it. You settle across him, bare, pressing your cunt to the length of him through wool, and Duncan has great trouble finding the road by which he arrived here. From a girl on the skirts of battle, a crying maid in his cloak to a water-spirit. A sacred thing. Now this same impossible creature sits naked on him, offering him her tits and seeking his mouth as if all of it follows plainly from the first mercy he ever thought to show you.
You kiss him slower this time. Deeper. With the new patience of someone who has discovered there are pleasures that improve by circling.
Duncan lets it happen for a beat because he is weak, because his hands are pleasantly full, because the weight of you has turned his thoughts into warm mud. You draw back by a little, tongue touching your own lip.
“You taste different,” you say.
“Mm.” It is a poor answer. It is the best one he has. Still, your brow furrows. “It’s yourself you taste,” he says then.
You blink at that, and grow delighted in a way so sudden and frank it frightens him. “Do you like it?”
“Mm,” he tries, or means to. Aye, of course. Aye, I like everything. His body answers instead with a hard, hungry throb under you and an involuntary squeeze of both hands round the fullness of your chest.
Your lashes lower. “You do like it.”
“M-m’lady,” Duncan strains.
You kiss him again before he can gather honour into a shield. He manages half a breath against you, then turns his head with some grim effort. “I—I—we needn’t,” he says. “We do not have to. I only wanted—”
You cradle his whole head in your arms and draw him in, mouth close to his ear. “I want to make you feel as you made me feel,” you whisper. “To see you in it too.”
That stills him. For three days he has been thinking in terms of rescue and ruin, sin and restraint, oath and breach. He has been trying to place his body somewhere outside the matter. But your heart is hammering and your hands are in his hair and your cunt is hot for him, and there is no bargain in the looking.
You want. He wants too. At last, even Dunk the Lunk can read a thing so plainly written.
He starts fumbling at the front of his breeches since this is likely what you want, then stops himself halfway through, red to the scalp, and checks anyway. “You wish to see?” he asks. Against his ear there is a breathy yes, so Duncan sets his mouth tight and pulls the waistband away from himself.
His cock comes out, barely half of it, with a weeping eye at the top and blood vessels girdling down the flesh like roots bulging out of the earth. He closes his eyes and seeks asylum in your neck, so the next thing that happens Duncan only feels.
A finger, curious and subtle, teases the meeting of nerves below the crown, then goes up towards the slit. Much like with his throat, you gather and take, and when his eyes open you've got that finger in your mouth and your tongue around it. You seem spellbound. Enchanted, if Duncan believed such thing could be felt about him. "Show me more," you tell him, and he only realises that what you mean is for him to stand and present himself when you slide off him and sit on the bedroll cross-legged. Shameless.
He's battling the opposite. Shame-full, he nods. Even manages to mutter a miserable, "Aye," and stands with one hand braced at his bandaged side, the other just holding the breeches up, uselessly so, for of all things his thighs need no shielding. He lets the linen drop and, with a sombre kind of horror, waits for judgement. Looks down only to not see your face, and that turns against him too.
Between the legs he sways heavy, standing up from himself with more confidence than his mind owns. He has disliked his size before because it made him clumsy, conspicuous and wrong for rooms, so he's made it useful in labour and steel. When he finally harbours the courage to find your eyes, you're wearing the most bizarre expression. All soft-edged and melting with wonder, you are looking as though excess is the blessing.
Your teeth reveal themselves in a sweet, beaming smile, and your hands come out to wrap round his wrists. You pull him back down, and he barely gets his knees under him before you are on him again, kissing, touching, arranging by instinct and no wisdom. So he has to become useful in a new kind of way.
Where friction lived there is now a slide of skin on skin, and Duncan nearly loses the whole of himself to the difference. Your belly moves against him, your breasts flatten to his chest and drag there. Between you, his cock is trapped upright in the soft of both your stomachs, rubbed by every wriggle you make by accident and purpose in turns, and every rub comes barbed. You are kissing him eagerly, messily, trying to find some road forward by moving, by grinding. He can feel how quickly this will become end. You will pant and twist and grow no nearer to what you asked for, while he spends himself like a green fool against your belly and leaves you with his shame cooling on you.
“Sweet thing, please—” he grits, catching your hips. “Slow. Let me be of use to you. I’m… I’m big, and—”
You still for him, though your breath keeps coming hard. Those aspectabund eyes fasten on his face, obvious enough to make hiding useless. “Will you hurt me?” you ask.
“No,” Duncan says, hurt by the very shape of the question. “No, never. I only mean—we go slow. Aye? Slow.”
Your face calms as if he has laid a hand over troubled water, and the trust of it harms him in some deep place. To have someone look at him and believe him so easily. To be taken as a safe thing by a creature who had teeth enough to open throats and the foolish courage to turn a dagger on herself rather than on him. He presses his forehead to yours and breathes there, rough through the nose. “Lift for me?” he asks. “Only a little.”
You brace your hands on his arms and rise. Duncan looks down to guide himself and is bludgeoned by what he finds there. Slick has slipped down your inner thigh in a shining track, catching the dark like some private river. He groans and closes a fist round the base of himself with more force than required and steadies there, feeling the whole of him jump in his hand.
“Do you want me?” he asks into your mouth, legible with the need to hear it. You nod, but that is not enough when his heart has become a greedy thing too. "Tell me," Duncan says. “Please, tell me.”
“Yes,” you say. Your mouth goes wandering over him. “Yes, I do. I want you in me.” Your hips sink once, eager but aimless. “Take me.”
A fierce, impossible belonging spreads through him. He aligns himself and slips twice for the jerking blood in him. You make a small impatient sound and he near smiles despite the terror. Then he gets it right enough for the first touch.
Only the head of him drags through you. A kiss of a different kind. His cock has known linen, callus, mean hurried pressure, and now this unbelievably soft, hot, living mouth of the body. He rubs through it, barely, and his hips lock with the effort of keeping still. Again, slower, collecting what both of you have made, spreading it over himself until the slide turns slick. The intimacy of it is nearly worse than being taken inside would be. This staying at the gate. This being allowed to touch the edge of you and feel you open by a fraction under him. This kiss below kissing, where neither mouth speaks and both bodies answer anyway.
Then it is you who grows greedy. Your weight comes down, and Duncan recognises the change before he can speak to it. He becomes held where he has only been sliding, then feels the first giving inch. Your face breaks into a wince, then a gasp, so he reaches round you hard enough to stop both of you where you are.
"Easy," he says. "Sweetheart, easy."
The tightness has him by the root. All the soft has turned gripping and small on him, shocking his spine so quickly he has to shut his eyes for a moment. Yours are wide and scared in front of him, and the pleasure becomes a rotten thing with guilt in it.
"Why does it hurt?" you ask, voice thin. "You said—"
"I know," Duncan says. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He presses one hand flat between your shoulders and holds you while his cock throbs like a wound. "Shh. Breathe with me. Breathe—"
You stare at him, doubtful and pained, but try. He draws breath in through his nose, slow enough to make an example of it, then lets it out against your cheek. You follow poorly at first, catching on the inhale, shuddering on the release. He keeps you still with both arms, though the stillness near murders him.
There is some mercy in it too. The worst of the first push hangs there between your bodies, neither taking nor retreating, and Duncan’s mind runs through every filthy scrap of knowledge folk have ever thrown into the air near him. It should ease. It should get good. Use spit. Women like this or that. Noise from those who made knowing sound like conquest and left him with nothing useful but the fear of damaging you.
“We can stop,” he says. “We can stop here, m’lady. I’ll not—”
Before he can make a noble mess of rising you away from himself, your breath changes.
Only a little. The next exhale leaves lower in your chest. Your hips soften by a measure, and the flesh around him gives its small, unwilling quarrel with his size. You notice it too. He sees the fright shift in your eyes and your body listening under the hurt, finding some other report beneath it. You breathe again, this time because you want the breath, and your fingers come to his shoulders.
“There,” he says, relieved. “Good, gods. Just so.”
Your brow stays pinched, but your mouth parts around a sound that has less grievance in it. Duncan does not move. He only holds you, forehead set to yours, the whole of him turned toward patience. Another breath. Another. Under him, inside you, the grip changes by degrees. Less like refusal. More like a fist slowly learning how to open without letting go.
“Oh,” you say, very quietly. It makes him put his teeth together.
“Aye?” he asks, and hates how much hope gets into it.
You nod once. Small. Fierce.
So he keeps holding. He has never been so deep in anything. He is barely in you at all, and already there is that terrible gladness in his sack, akin to one that comes when his cock starts threatening a scrape too raw. He does his best to throttle it, for despite you saying you wish to see him, he's convinced he wishes to see you harder.
You sink on him, stubborn-faced and quiet. Duncan feels each small victory in his muscles, while his mind remains oblivious to the thaumaturgy allowing it. Your brow is set hard at first, then anger at the pain cuts across it because ache has got between you and the thing you want. After, comes the stern listening. You go still around him, eyes lowered, as if this new flesh has answered in some difficult tongue and you mean to learn it properly. He lets you use him as you need, though the need itself is killing work. More of him goes into you. Inch by inch, all of them so alive and close his own breath begins to come wrong.
“Gods,” you say, and then, with a sort of insulted wonder, “You are large.”
Duncan goes hot to the roots of his hair. “I know,” he says, because there is no use pretending otherwise. Worried, he asks, “Does it trouble you?”
You huff through your nose and consider him, sitting there skewered on the question and on him both. “No.” Your hand comes up to his neck, fingers digging briefly as you deepen another little way. “I like that you are an effort.”
A sound gets out of him, small and strangled. He sets one palm to your cheek because he needs somewhere decent to put it and because your face has become dearer to him than life.
“It feels full,” you say. His cock gives a hard throb. “I can feel you—" You take his hand and guide it low to your underbelly.
There he is. Invasive and indeed, large enough to make himself known from the outside. It is foully private. Wonderful. So much so that Duncan whines, “Seven save me,” and hides in your throat.
You are on him, completely, and he stays frozen, stunned stupid by it. Your voice finds him, hushed. "What do I do?"
He near laughs. An odd sense of camaraderie spreads in him because, gods, he knows naught. He never thought getting this far possible at all. "I—" He swallows. Looks at you. "I dunno." Then, helplessly honest, “Whatever feels right.”
Your mouth curves. He knows then that he is in peril.
Flesh squeezes around him fiercely, and as if it is not humbling enough you tease, “This?"
The groan comes out of him as though struck from the gut. “Hah—oh, Seven, this—this feels right, aye.” He pants, staring at you as if you have found a latch in him and pulled it open. “Do that again.”
You do, smaller this time, watching his face as you learn him. Dunk puts his hands to your ribs and awaits another ripple when he remembers he's needed here too. “What… what do I do?” he asks lamely.
The pain has gone from your eyes. For a moment you merely observe him, sat, and he's struck by your beauty in it. Oh gods, he's managed this. Brought you through unease into this quiet wanting. Somehow, by some mercy, he is the man under you.
Then, you tell him: “Whatever you want.”
And for once, Duncan finds some selfish wickedness in himself.
He bows his head to your chest. Breathes out quietly, "This?" and before you can answer, his mouth closes over your nipple.
“Oh—” you moan. Loud. Arch some too, seven fucks. Gods, you arch for him, spine bending as you offer more of your tits. Your arms go behind you, hands brace on his knees. He takes the weight gladly, the shift round his cock graciously, because when your hips roll by accident or discovery the movement carries all the way down and wrings him near inside-out.
Duncan groans into your breast and sets his tongue to work. You grind on him in short, close strokes, hardly lifting, making a mill of your hips and his cock. Whole of him sits inside rubbed alive, worked into small cruel space until his thoughts blunt at the edges. He keeps his mouth on you, because he wants it, and because it gives him a task. In a useful order of things he sucks, breathes, then sucks again. Your nipple hardens under his tongue and he takes it in deeper, hollows his cheeks into a jaw that starts aching sweetly. His hands ride up your back to where spine bends for him. Skin wrinkles there under his fingers and he holds that kink, trying to retain exactly the places where pleasure seems to fold you.
This, he thinks, dazedly, must be being fucked. Men call it fucking. Men call everything fucking when there is ale in them and a chance of dying soon. They talk as if women are tavern benches with cunts, as if the doing is a matter of putting a thing where it goes and rutting till pride spills out. He has heard enough to last a lifetime. Women taking a cock to the root without a sound, as though maids are all built like sheaths and men all swords worth taking. Some girl against a stable door. Some widow with her skirts up in a ditch. Some camp follower who took three men and begged the fourth. A thousand lies told by mouths with grease in the beards.
This bears no kin to those stories. You are whispering his name as if it is helping you take him, and it rolls lovely off your tongue. You are trying to make yourself come on him, and Duncan has his mouth full of your tit, working at it with fixed devotion of someone given one good thing to do and determined to do it well. That, to him, seems closer to the truth. This awkward holy labour. This sweating. This being used sweetly and trusted through it. This is lovemaking, right here, with wanting you vivid under his hands more than he wants his own ending.
Your rhythm finds itself crookedly. Then loses itself. Then finds another way. Duncan follows what he can. Pants though his nose. Groans when you bear down. Grows bold enough once to nip you with his teeth, and you seem to adore it down to your tightening cunt. So he does it again, softer, and your body grows snugger, wetter, meaner around his cock. When he licks over it, you exhale the strangest little oh.
“Gods,” he mutters into you. “Gods, girl.”
The change starts plain. It's less orderly. Your body has its mind elsewhere now, and that mind has no use for manners. The strokes go crooked, breath starts jumping. The hands on his knees dig in until he feels the half-moons of your nails and hopes they stay. Pain would be proof come morning. A mark of where he was when you needed somewhere to put your strength.
Then you push off his legs and catch his head between your arms.
Duncan leaves your breast with a wet sound and lifts as far as you allow. Your forearms yoke him close. His nose fits beside yours almost by habit now. Your eyes are dark and open and half-wild.
“Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me—”
“I love you,” Duncan bursts, with no search needed for the answer. “Gods, I love you. I love you. I love you—”
Your mouth trembles near his. “I love you,” you say. “You’re mine and I love you. I was right about you, oh gods, I was right—”
In all your mumbling, you ride him hard enough that he feels the signal in it. More. Deeper. More room, more of him given up to you. His hands go to your arse and grip there, sudden and rude enough to make his ears burn, but you give a sharp glad sound and bear down again. That decides him. He braces, lifts you with him a little, and unfolds his knees from under himself. The shift wrenches both of you. He falls back flat with a grunt, side burning, cock dragged deeper by your weight.
The sky opens above him, black and moonless. And you.
That is all there is for a breath. You astride him, hair loose, thighs going badly and beautifully, hands on his chest as if he is ground and beast and lover together. Duncan catches your hips, then lets them go because you seem to know more when he does less. You lean down to kiss him and your face breaks in the middle of it. He feels it seize you.
Your hands find his cheeks. Nose knocks beside him. Your muscles grip him so hard his vision blanches, and then you are coming with his name caught in your teeth and love spilling out in pieces. I love you Duncan, I love you, and he just grips your shoulders and holds on, holds on and on, because if he moves wrong he will lose everything at once. The luck of being the thing inside you when it happens is unbearable.
“My girl,” he gets out. “My girl, my—”
Then, he's ripped in half. It starts low and pulls everything with it: thighs, sack, belly, chest, throat. It frightens him how good it is. How deep it seems to go from him. He has spilled before with his face hot from shame and hand slick round himself, but this is nothing like those past miseries. He's being drawn out and kept. He fills you in hard pulses and lets his body believe it has come home, foolish as that is, dangerous as that is, true as anything he has ever known. Lucky, he thinks, with what little mind remains. Lucky, lucky, lucky. To be wanted. To be held there. To spend in a creature who loves him and says so.
He keeps saying, "My girl, gods, my girl," because there is nothing else in him.
You take each spill with a gasp, and then a smile begins to sprout on your face. You're smiling while he's being torn asunder.
After, the world grows smaller. Deafer, as if great hands have closed over its ears. Duncan hears himself muttering things into the little space between you, broken stammers and poor scraps of prayer and slur. Gods, and Seven, and yes, still, still, as if he is trying to tell you you have done well and make certain he has done well too. You sag on him. Your arms wedge themselves beneath his neck, baring his throat, and your mouth comes there. It is hardly a kiss. More the arrival of a mouth too tired and too fond to do more than rest.
He turns to the side with you wrapped round him. You squeal some, as though you have forgotten his strength, or forgotten that he has been pliant beneath you because you asked him to be.
Something enormous has been done to him. Duncan comes out the other side of it a full man, and thinks, dimly, that full men do not brag about this sort of thing.
Then he notices you are trembling differently. When his cock shifts inside you, bathed in himself, he feels the scrape of soreness against it. It sobers him at once.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me—”
He holds you close and draws back with as much care as he has left. Your body resists round him, tight and displeased, then gives him up with a low, unhappy sound that makes his stomach pull. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.
He looks down and sees the oddest medley of the body’s humours. Milk tainted red, gone pink where it oozes out of you. His cock smeared along the length with blood and spent. It all sobers him tenderly.
“Let me see,” Duncan says, and dips between your legs as if there is something his hands may yet fix.
He knows it is virgin blood. Something old and primal flickers in him, a brief possessive pride at being the proof of your first, and then it dies under the weight of your hands finding his cheeks. You guide him back up to your face, and he goes.
On the way, he thinks how unjust it is that women must bleed so boys can grow into men.
Then he sees your worry. At first he's certain it is pain troubling you, but your eyes move from his face to his groin and back again. “Have I damaged you?” you ask, with honest dread.
It hits him then that you understand as little as he does. Mayhaps less. You have done some violent inland magic with a body you barely know and come away afraid you have broken him by it.
“No, m’lady,” he breathes. “I ain’t so easily damaged.” Then he winces, because his side pulls when his arms try to hold you, and he ruins his case entirely.
You laugh, damp and small, and begin to fuss over him. “Oh, my sweet,” you murmur, touching his face, his shoulder, the binding. “Oh, my love.”
Duncan fusses back, trying to look you over while you try to look him over, until it becomes a strange little quarrel of hands and fret, each of you meaning to tend the other first.
When it's over, when wet cloth has been found and put to swollen parts, when hair has been brushed off slick foreheads and knuckles have been kissed, Duncan pulls you to him, cages you in him, and breathes so deep it feels like a first honest breath of his life. "I love you," he says to your temple. "Thank you. Thank you, my love."
You say it back. I love you into his throat. I love you against his jaw, and then I love you put to his cheek and preserved there. He keeps kissing you until his mouth goes tired and then his eyes grow heavy and then Duncan falls asleep with his beloved safe next to his heart and blades thrown away to lie useless in the grass.
Cold moves down your skin correctly. Your lungs feel heavy and full and familiar. When you open your eyes, the vision comes warped and magnified, and at once you understand you're floating in water.
It is hard at first to assess anything. You remember him under you. You remember his mouth, his hands, his flesh, warm and abundant, splitting you and filling you until body has torn itself to pleasure and blood.
But when you look at yourself, there are no legs he's ventured between. You're made whole again, with your old grace returned which feels like theft, somehow. Your tail glimmers in morning sunlight. Hands, panicked, come to your sides to find skin sliced back into gills and the palms themselves are scaled and fingers connected with thin, translucent webbing.
She tricked you. She gave you a quest and a man and told you all about what would happen if you failed, and naught of what comes of success. Now, you've regained yourself right after making peace with feeble knees, so it feels more like a loss. When you break the surface another loss lies still where you've left him, large and sleeping and oblivious.
Duncan looks peaceful. He's on his side on the bedroll, breathing calmly and his arms are thrown around a space where a body is missing. It seems that some lessons of humanity remain, for tears push themselves violent and hot into your eyes. They add to the river, salt into sweet water, and you're crying audibly, sobbing and hiccuping, because it all comes down on you, unkind and sad and miserable. He's right there and you cannot touch him. He's right there and you cannot hold him, because once again you've been made to belong somewhere where he doesn't.
"Duncan!" you call. It comes less as a call for him than a wail after something already lost.
He wakes badly. Jerks in the bedroll, one hand to the empty place under his arm. He looks there first, sleep-stupid and stricken, at the flattened hollow where your body ought to be.
Only then does his head turn. You see the first thing his face does: smile.
That wounds worse than anything. He cannot see you properly yet. He is still thick with slumber, hair mussed and mouth soft, looking at you as if this is only another of your oddities. Bathing at dawn. Calling for him from water. Waiting for him to come.
He rises slowly, muttering something you cannot hear. Finds his breeches. Pulls them on with one hand braced to his side, half awake and half fond, and comes barefoot over the bank with grass stuck to his soles.
The waiting lacerates. You are submerged to the waist, though waist is no honest word for you now. Beneath the surface the tail hangs in one long weight, scales catching and throwing the sun in broken pieces. You keep as still as you can, as if stillness might delay his seeing. It does not, of course.
His steps slow. Then stop. The colour drains from his face.
“M’lady—” he says, and the word fails. A breath goes into him sharply. He comes down to crouch at the bank, staring as if the world has put a second world inside it while he slept. “What has happened?”
“She tricked me,” you say, and once you begin the words come in scraps. “Wicked thing, wicked old thing, may she choke on peat and fishbones, may her teeth fall out, may the bog take her house and all her foul eggs—she tricked me, Duncan, she tricked me—”
You curse until the anger frays and leaves fear showing through, all the while he is staring.
It dawns on you then. He must be frightened. Repulsed. Cheated. A night ago he had a girl with legs, a girl who could sit astride him and bleed and laugh and walk badly into his hands. Now there is this creature before him, river-made and scaled, and made of different cloth from him.
You break into sobbing. Hide your face in your hands. “Forgive me,” you say. “Forgive me, I did not know. I did not know— I would never have, if I—”
“Gods be good,” Duncan breathes. His voice makes you freeze.
You lower your hands by a little. His eyes are wet. His mouth is parted. There is no disgust in him that you can find, only shock, and awe so plain it seems almost childish.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” he says.
A sob gets trapped in your throat. Mistrustful. “You said the same of the other body.”
“Aye,” he says.
“You needn’t make mercy of it.”
Realisation moves over his face. That you think this is the loss of him. That you think your shape has become a problem to solve or pardon. He softens entirely. “My sweet girl,” he says. “It is all true.”
Your tail twitches. His eyes go to it and you hate yourself for that too, for still wanting him to see and still wanting to hide from the seeing.
“Wilful girl,” he says under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart. Believe me. Please, believe me.”
Then, he steps into the water without bargaining or careful testing of whether the magic might stain him. Only comes, with his legs wide for balance, slipping once on the shallow stones, hissing when the cold gets him, and still coming. Water darkens his breeches and climbs his thighs. The bandage at his side drinks at once and is ruined, but he pays it no mind. His eyes stay fixed on you. Awed, devoted, and so full of purpose there is no spare room in his face for doubt.
His arms come for you. At first the holding is awkward. Your body is heavy in a different way now, long and slick with no knees to bend around him. His hand finds where your waist remains and the other comes to your cheek. He adjusts when you move toward him. Learns the weight of you without complaint, frowning only with the effort of keeping you close.
“It matters naught,” he tells you. “It matters not at all, my sweetheart.”
“How will we be?” you ask, disbelieving.
Duncan looks at you as if the question is large but the answer is simple. “I’m a hedge knight,” he says. “It is no great hardship to sleep under the stars. Rivers, then. Streams and lakes and ditches, if I must. I’ll find you.”
“Will you?”
“Aye,” he says. “Always.”
It strikes you that he offers no solution because he needs none. He does not speak of witches or bargains, of throttling the crone into giving the legs back, of fixing what has been returned to you. You cannot tell if he is so kind or simply stupid. Mayhaps both.
“I have no legs,” you insist.
Duncan laughs softly. “Aye, I see that.” You glare at him through tears, so his face comes close to yours. “You’ve a heart I adore, though,” he says. Softer, with the shyest wickedness tucked beneath it, “And you still have a mouth.”
He kisses you once. Small and careful. Then murmurs against you, “No matter the rest, this is where the nose goes. Always.”
And he shows you: his nose finds the side of yours. His mouth follows. The kiss is shy first, then surer when you clutch at him and kiss back. Around you, the river carries morning light over the lovers.
It is an old tale. A girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl. Big things, ancient things come between them, but youth pays no mind to the impossibility of worlds colliding. It regards naught the steel of propriety or the dull blades of daggers hungry for souls. With fear dressed as arrogance, youth traverses bridges invisible to the faithless, and so the mermaid falls for a hedge knight, and the hedge knight falls for her back.
So Clark takes the reader and Bobby to the backrooms, so the reader is the one to go down and get attacked by captain Clark and is able to survive but gets scars, hearing her screams Bobby goes down, not carrying what happens to him but he gets lost. Some time passes and after long days of running, the reader reunites with Bobby, but they find the painting that Mary found in the movie and they find Clark, he knocks them out and they get into the dinner scene. The reader is the one to play Clark's wife before she and Bobby call Clark out and then captain Clark appears, Bobby is able to free himself and the reader, they see captain Clark take bite out of Clark's shoulder and run, bassically the rest is like the movie and in the end, they run into the ASYNC and they get them out
hi lovely, i will definitely try and write this soon, i’m a little busy at the moment but hopefully i can get back to writing soon!!
gracieabrams
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
origamiaround
izzy806
2087
blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
