ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › the tide has a way of bringing old things back to shore. and as the rain refuses to leave town, so do the memories you've spent months trying not to revisit.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mature themes, character death (readers mother), grief, 5+1 with a twist, five stages of grief + one stage of love, stage three: bargaining, emotional rollercoaster, hurt/comfort, self blame, semi slow burn, lowkey grumpy x grumpy, storm symbolism (i tried sorry if it suck/feels repetitive) not beta read we die like... everything
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 5.4k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › halfway there >:) also ive decided that editing is writings evil cousin bc WHY does it suck so much pls cant i just wave a magic wand and make the spelling errors go away
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
The storm refused to leave.
It settled over the coast like an unwelcome guest, filling the sky with heavy gray clouds and turning daylight into a muted, washed-out version of itself. Rain drummed against the cottage roof morning and night, sometimes gentle enough to disappear into the background, sometimes loud enough to shake the windows. The weather report insisted it would move offshore tomorrow, tomorrow came and it stayed. By the fifth day, you'd stopped checking altogether.
Instead, you found yourself sitting on the porch each morning, wrapped in your mother's old knitted blanket, a mug of coffee cooling forgotten in your hands.
The repaired half of the railing remained sturdy, the unfinished section remained cordoned off by a pair of old sawhorses. An ugly reminder of last week, of words you couldn't take back. Rain blurred the horizon until the ocean and sky became one endless sheet of gray. Even through the weather, you watched the tide. It came in, and went out. Again, and again, and again. Your mother used to say that if you watched the tide long enough, you'd realize the ocean never really lost anything, it only borrowed it. Shells disappeared beneath the waves only to wash ashore somewhere else, driftwood floated away before returning months later, smoother than before, even footprints weren't erased forever. Just carried somewhere else, the looming promise of its return fizzing away in the foam caps.
You used to roll your eyes whenever she said things like that.
"You make everything sound like a life lesson."
She'd smiled over the rim of her coffee.
"That's because everything is one."
At fifteen, you'd thought she was unbearably sentimental. At twenty-eight, sitting alone on the porch she'd loved so much, you wished you'd listened more carefully.
The tide rolled away from shore, then returned. Give. Take. Give. Take.
Your thoughts had begun doing the same. Every quiet moment became another negotiation, another impossible bargain.
If I'd called more... The thought arrived before you could stop it. You'd called every Sunday and most Wednesdays. Sent pictures throughout the week, but maybe, maybe every Sunday hadn't been enough. Maybe she hadn't told you she was lonely because she didn't want you to worry. Maybe she spent evenings sitting in this very cottage wishing you'd come home.
If I'd visited more... You'd always meant to but work was busy. Projects piled up, clients demanded impossible deadlines. There would always be next month, next summer, you used to tell yourself. The holidays, there was always another visit waiting somewhere in the future.
Until suddenly there wasn't.
If I hadn't left... That one stayed the longest. You imagined impossible versions of your life, one where you'd never accepted the promotion, one where you'd stayed in town after college, one where you'd bought a little house down the road. You pictured stopping by after work and fixing things around the cottage, cooking dinner together, insisting she let you carry the groceries.
Would she have gone out that morning if you'd been here? Would you have driven instead? Would she still be alive?
Your rational mind answered immediately. You know that's not how this works, yet your grief ignored it completely. Instead, it continued rewriting history, searching desperately for the version where everyone lived. You found yourself replaying your final phone call with her, not the words but the spaces between them. Had she sounded tired? Had she paused longer than usual? Had she been trying to tell you something?
You couldn't remember and that frightened you most. You were already forgetting, not the important things, but the ordinary ones. The exact sound of her laugh. Whether she'd still said "goodnight, sweetheart" at the end of every phone call, whether she'd preferred daisies or sunflowers. You'd spent your entire life assuming there would always be time to ask again.
Time had quietly disagreed.
The cottage creaked behind you as a gust of wind rattled the windows, the lights flickered once, twice then steadied. You looked toward the ceiling instinctively. The storm wasn't showing any signs of slowing down and the weather radio had warned about possible outages all morning.
You sighed. One more errand.
You'd hoped to avoid town for another few days but apparently life had other plans.
An hour later you found yourself pulling into the hardware store parking lot beneath a sky the color of wet concrete. Rain tapped steadily against the windshield as you sat there for a moment watching droplets race one another down the glass. The store's fluorescent lights glowed warmly through the windows while people hurried inside carrying umbrellas. You pulled your hood over your head and stepped into the rain.
The automatic doors whooshed open and warm air smelling faintly of sawdust and fertilizer wrapped around you. You headed toward the lighting aisle, your list echoing through your head, flashlights, lanterns, extra batteries and a few oil lamps, just in case.
Your mother always kept oil lamps ready for hurricane season.
"Electricity's nice," she'd always said. "But candles and lanterns don't care about power lines."
The memory almost made you smile. Almost.
You reached for the last hurricane lantern on the shelf as another hand reached for it at exactly the same time. You closed your eyes before you even looked. Of course.
"You've got to be kidding me." You muttered.
Across from you, Bucky looked equally unimpressed. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his hair onto the shoulders of his jacket.
"Not my fault you keep showing up where I shop."
You let out a disbelieving huff.
"I'm fairly certain this shelf existed before either of us walked into this store."
He considered that.
"...Probably."
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth threatened to move. You caught it before it could. Thunder rolled across the coastline once more, echoing through the store. Though you couldn't see it, beneath buzzing fluorescent lights and the smell of fresh-cut lumber, the tide quietly shifted again.
For a second, neither of you reached for the lantern as rain drummed steadily against the roof overhead. Someone pushed a cart down the next aisle. The ordinary sounds of the hardware store settled around the silence neither of you seemed eager to break.
You shifted your weight.
"So..." you looked down at the lantern between your hands. "I should probably apologize."
He tilted his head slightly. "For what?"
You blinked. "The porch."
His expression stayed neutral.
"You know..." you gestured vaguely. "The part where I told you to get the hell out of my house like a crazy person."
"Oh."
"Yeah." Heat crept into your face despite the cool air humming from the store's vents. "I'm really sorry about that day."
The words came easier than you'd expected.
"My life is kind of..." You laughed softly, humorless. "...a mess right now."
You rubbed absentmindedly at the back of your neck. "And you didn't deserve any of that."
The admission hung awkwardly between you. "You probably think I'm some crazy unstable person."
Bucky's shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I don't think you're crazy."
A breath escaped somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
"Well..." you looked toward the ceiling. "Maybe you should."
The corner of his mouth twitched, not enough to become a smile but enough that you noticed. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, just, thoughtful. Outside, thunder rolled again closer now.
Then, quietly—
"It's not your fault."
You looked up. "...What?"
Bucky leand one shoulder against the shelf beside him. "Whatever's eating you alive inside."
His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact.
"It's not your fault."
You stared and your heart gave one strange, uncertain beat.
"...What?" The word came out much smaller this time, almost afraid. How did he—had someone told him? Had Mrs. Patterson said something? The diner? The grocery store? Was the entire town talking about you?
Your stomach twisted.
Bucky shook his head as though answering a question you hadn't asked.
"You have this look." He gestured vaguely toward your face, toward all of you.
"Every time you walk into a room..." he searched for the words. "...you brace yourself."
You frowned. "For what?"
"For what you think is going to happen."
His eyes stayed on yours.
"Then nothing does." Another pause. "And you still look devastated."
Your throat tightened. Nobody had ever described grief like that before. Not as sadness, not as crying. Bracing. As though every ordinary moment carried the possibility of another terrible phone call, another loss, another rug pulled out from beneath your feet.
You hadn't realized you were doing it.
Apparently everyone else had.
"...That obvious, huh?"
His answer came immediately. "Yeah."
You winced.
He looked away briefly. Then added, almost absentmindedly—"Well... I know that look pretty well."
Something about the way he said it stopped you from asking. There was no bitterness, no self-pity, just recognition. Like two strangers unexpectedly speaking the same language. Your eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the sleeve covering his metal arm and you thought about the first day on your porch. The way he'd noticed you staring and the way he'd quietly let the moment pass.
Nobody ended up carrying that kind of history without learning something about loss.
"I'm sorry."
The words slipped out before you thought about them.
Bucky looked back at you. "You said that already."
The tease was gentle, light enough that you felt yourself smiling. A real one this time, small but real.
"Yeah well..." you glanced down at your shoes. "I mean it."
"I know."
Another silence settled between you. This one softer than the others.
The rain battered the windows harder, and the wind howled around the building.
You inhaled slowly, held the breath, then let it go.
"Can I..."
You stopped. God, this felt awkward.
"...Can we..." another deep breath. "...like..."
You laughed quietly at yourself. "Can we start over?"
Bucky looked at you for a long second, his face remained completely unreadable and your stomach sank. He's going to laugh. He's absolutely going to laugh. Instead, he shifted the lantern into his other hand, then held out his right.
"I'm Bucky."
You blinked. A surprised laugh escaped before you could stop it as you nodded your head. Your fingers slid into his hand, warm, solid and steady. The simple contact startled you more than it should have. You couldn't remember the last time someone had shaken your hand, the last time another person had reached for you without pity or obligation, without condolences waiting behind their eyes. Just... hello.
His palm was warm against yours, comfortingly so. You realized, with a strange ache in your chest, how long it had been since you'd touched another human being. You hadn't noticed the absence until the warmth returned.
You gave your name. "It's nice to meet you, Bucky."
His smile arrived slowly this time, small and almost shy.
"You too."
The handshake lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary as neither of you seemed in much of a hurry to let go. Eventually, you did, almost reluctantly.
"So..." he nodded toward the lantern in your cart. "Preparing for the apocalypse?"
"The power's been flickering."
He glanced toward the ceiling as another crack of thunder echoed overhead. "...Fair."
The lights buzzed once and flickered then recovered. Then the rain intensified all at once, not just rain anymore. Sheets of water slammed against the storefront windows hard enough to blur the parking lot into gray. Several people stopped what they were doing to look outside.
Someone muttered, "That's not good."
Bucky frowned toward the entrance. "My bike."
You followed his gaze to the motorcycle that sat completely exposed, already disappearing beneath the downpour.
"You can't ride in that."
"I've ridden in worse."
Lightning cracked somewhere uncomfortably close. Both of you instinctively looked toward the windows.
"...Maybe not today."
Without really thinking about it, you spoke. "I can give you a ride."
"You sure?" His eyes shifted back to you.
You nodded. "It's the least I can do."
He considered the offer, then smiled faintly.
"Then I accept."
Relief settled somewhere inside you.
"...But."
You should've known there'd be a but.
"I drive."
You frowned.
"What?"
He took your keys from your open palm before you could protest. "I don't need you backing into any more stationary objects."
You let out an offended laugh. "I hit one motorcycle."
"You hit one motorcycle that belonged to me."
You waved your hand. "Details."
"They're pretty important details."
Despite yourself, you found yourself laughing again. Quieter this time and without the sharp sting of guilt that had followed the first one. Not gone, just less immediate.
The drive began exactly as expected. Rain pounded the windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up. Roads disappeared beneath standing water.
You assumed he'd direct you toward town. Instead—
"Left here."
You frowned when he didn't take it.
"My cottage's the other way."
"I know."
Another turn. Another unfamiliar road.
"Bucky..."
"It beats sitting in that old cottage with no power waiting for the walls to blow down."
You looked out at the storm. The trees beginning to bend beneath the wind and the relentless rain. Part of you wanted to argue, to insist you could handle it, that you'd spent the past several weeks proving you didn't need anyone. But another part, a quieter part, was simply tired. Too tired to spend another night pretending isolation was the same thing as healing.
So, for once... you didn't argue.
You simply watched the rain race across the windshield as Bucky drove toward a place you hadn't expected to end up. And for reasons you couldn't yet explain, you didn't mind nearly as much as you thought you would. Bucky's house sat at the edge of town, tucked beneath a stand of old live oaks that leaned toward the shoreline as though they, too, had spent their lives listening to the ocean.
It wasn't large. Just a weathered one-story cottage with faded blue shutters and a wide front porch that had clearly been repaired more than once over the years.
Some porch chairs rocked gently beneath the covered awning despite the storm. The windows glowed warm against the gray afternoon. Home. The thought came uninvited. Not your home. Just someone's.
The engine quieted, rain continued drumming against the roof.
"You coming?"
You blinked, realizing you'd been staring.
"Right."
The dash from the truck to the porch lasted only a few seconds, still long enough to soak the hems of your jeans, for the cold rain to sting your cheeks.
Bucky unlocked the front door.
"Watch the rug."
"What?"
"It likes to slide."
Sure enough, your foot caught the edge. You stumbled and Bucky reached out instinctively, steadying your elbow before you could fall.
"See?"
"I wasn't going to fall."
"You absolutely were."
"I recovered."
"You were recovering and I caught you."
You rolled your eyes.
"I liked you better when we were strangers."
He laughed quietly as he disappeared into the kitchen.
"Liar."
The house smelled like cedar and coffee. Something simmered in a slow cooker somewhere, while fresh rain drifted in every time the wind rattled the windows. It wasn't immaculate. There were books stacked on side tables, a flannel thrown over the back of the couch, a toolbox sitting half-open near the fireplace. Evidence of someone actually living there, not performing the idea of home but just existing inside it.
You found yourself standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room unsure what to do with your hands. Unsure what the etiquette was for unexpectedly taking shelter in a near stranger's house.
"You drink tea?"
His voice carried from the kitchen.
"Usually coffee."
"I've got coffee."
You hesitated.
"...Coffee sounds nice."
"Good answer."
You heard cupboards opening, the clink of mugs, water beginning to boil. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. They settled something restless inside you. Your gaze wandered toward a bookshelf, to the photographs lined the top. Friends, family, people smiling beneath summer sunlight. You looked away before examining them too closely, it felt private.
The rain intensified again. Hard enough that conversation would've been impossible outdoors yet inside, everything felt wrapped in warmth. The mugs arrived a few minutes later, one was set carefully into your hands. The ceramic radiated heat through your chilled fingers, you hadn't realized how cold you'd become.
"Thanks."
"Mhm."
Bucky settled into the armchair opposite the couch. Not beside you, not close enough to crowd but present enough to feel normal. Steam curled lazily from your mug and you watched it disappear into the air.
One breath. Then another.
Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it simply existed, like the storm, like the ocean. Eventually, your eyes settled on the rain streaking across the windows. You could feel your thoughts beginning to form and figured now was better than ever.
"I..." the word caught.
You tried again. "My, uh..."
Your fingers tightened around the mug. "A few months ago… my mom died."
Saying it aloud still felt impossible, like speaking another language. The room remained quiet around you two. Bucky didn't interrupt, didn't offer sympathy, didn't tell you how sorry he was. He simply listened.
"I tried to keep going." You laughed softly, without humor. "Back in the city."
Another pause.
"I went back to work."
The meetings, emails, presentations and business lunches. You remembered every single one feeling wrong. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
"It all felt...wrong. So," you looked down into your coffee. "I sold almost everything I owned and quit my job."
The sentence sounded absurd now that it was out loud, pulling another quiet humorless laugh from you.
"I packed three boxes," your throat tightened. "And I came back."
Back here. Back to the town you'd spent years convincing yourself you'd outgrown.
"I thought... I thought it would make things better."
The storm answered for you. Rain battered the windows, wind sighed through the trees and up against the door. Howling through the air
Your voice cracked. "I think I'm just unraveling."
Silence settled between the two of you. Not empty or echoing, just patient.
Bucky looked into his own mug for a long moment before speaking. "I lost someone."
You looked up.
"My..." he smiled faintly to himself. "My best friend."
His thumb traced absent circles against the ceramic.
"He was the closest thing I had to a brother. To family."
Something softened in his expression. Memory.
"I think..." he breathed slowly. "I think a part of me always knew it was coming."
The admission seemed difficult, like lifting something heavy.
"But it still hurt."
He looked toward the rain, his voice remained steady.
"I knew he deserved peace. I just didn't know how I was supposed to find mine without him."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Because that was it, that impossible contradiction. Wanting someone you loved to stop hurting, then not knowing how to continue once they had.
You looked down at your hands. "...Did you?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Find it."
His eyes looked out toward the window. Beyond it, the ocean churned beneath dark skies. The tide continued its endless rhythm despite the storm. Coming in. Going out. Taking. Giving.
A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"Yeah." He leaned back in the chair. "Took a little while."
The smile grew, barely.
"But... " his gaze drifted toward the shoreline visible through the rain. "I'm happy here."
There was no grand revelation in the words. No dramatic speech, just quiet certainty as though happiness wasn't something he'd found all at once. As though it had arrived slowly piece by piece, like driftwood washing ashore after a storm.
You followed his gaze to the ocean. The waves were rough, the sky still dark, nothing about the view suggested peace. And yet sitting here, wrapped around a warm mug in a house that smelled like coffee and cedar while rain beat steadily against the roof... you found yourself believing him.
Maybe peace wasn't the absence of storms. Maybe it was simply finding somewhere safe enough to wait for them to pass.
Your eyes burned and the tears arrived quietly this time. Not with the overwhelming force they'd carried these past months, just a slow sting gathering behind your eyes. You blinked once, twice and the feeling eased, you'd cried enough in front of strangers. You weren't sure Bucky counted as one anymore. The realization caught you off guard. That somewhere between repairing porch railings and sharing coffee during a storm, he'd become... something else. Not quite a friend, not yet. But no longer a stranger.
You let the thought settle without examining it too closely while the rain continued its steady assault against the windows. The tide churned beneath an angry sky, the water rushed toward shore. Pulled away again. Give. Take. Give. Take.
Your mother would've liked this house.
The thought arrived gently and not with the sharp ache it usually carried. She would've complimented the porch swing, asked Bucky entirely too many questions, probably insisted on bringing over blueberry muffins after learning he lived alone. The image lingered, then floated quietly away before you realized you were smiling. It was small, almost invisible.
Bucky noticed anyway.
"What?"
You shook your head. "Nothing."
"Hm."
He didn't press.
Instead, both of you watched another flash of lightning brighten the horizon. The silence settled comfortably around you once again. Eventually, curiosity won.
"So..." you turned toward him. "How'd you end up here anyway?"
He glanced over.
"You don't exactly look like the beach local type."
The words left your mouth before your brain had fully approved them.
You grimaced. "...No offense."
"Offense."
The reply came so dryly you couldn't help it, a laugh escaped, short and soft.
"You are impossible."
"I've been told."
You tucked one leg beneath yourself on the couch.
"So?"
He rubbed a hand thoughtfully across the back of his neck.
"My buddy Sam."
"The one in the pictures?"
He nodded.
"Lives outside Delacroix."
The unfamiliar name rolled around in your head.
"I spent some time down there." His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled windows. "Needed somewhere to land."
The words were simple but you suspected there was an entire story hiding behind them. One he wasn't ready to tell and you understood that.
He continued.
"Turns out..." a tiny smile appeared. "Life by the water isn't too bad."
You looked toward the ocean. "It grows on you."
"It does."
The room fell quiet again.
Then another question slipped free.
"So why didn't you stay there?"
Bucky's expression became perfectly serious.
"I'm not a fan of the local marine life."
You frowned.
"...Marine life?"
It took your brain a second. Then—
"You mean—"
"Alligators."
"You left an entire state because of alligators?"
"I saw one smile at me."
You stared.
"They... don't smile."
"They absolutely do."
"They don't."
"They literally do."
You laughed again, longer this time.
"You are making that up."
"I wish."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I'm telling you."
He held one hand out dramatically.
"Eight feet long."
Your brows furrowed with amusement. "You know they get bigger than that."
"I wasn't sticking around to measure."
You shook your head.
"So you traded alligators for hurricanes?"
"They're easier to reason with."
"Hurricanes?"
"They usually announce they're coming."
You laughed hard enough to shake your head.
"That's terrible logic."
"It hasn't failed me yet."
"No..." you smiled into your coffee. "I suppose it hasn't."
The warmth in the room settled deeper. The storm still raged outside, wind bent the sea grass nearly flat, rain blurred the horizon into watercolor streaks of gray and blue, the tide continued its endless conversation with the shore. Coming. Going. Taking. Returning. Neither of you spoke for a while, you simply watched.
The strange thing about grief was how loud it usually was. It demanded attention, filled every corner of your mind until there wasn't room for anything else. Yet somehow, sitting beside someone who wasn't trying to fix it, who wasn't pretending to understand every part of it, who wasn't offering hollow reassurances or carefully chosen condolences… it grew quieter. Not gone, just, less alone. You thought back to the endless what ifs that had occupied every waking moment since your mother's death.
If I'd called more.
If I'd visited sooner.
If I hadn't left.
Questions with no answers.Questions that only circled back to themselves like waves chasing the shoreline. You looked toward the ocean again. The tide was beginning to turn, pulling gently back from the beach, making room for the next wave. Your mother had always believed the sea had something to teach people willing to sit still long enough.
You'd spent years dismissing that as one of her charming little philosophies. But tonight, watching rain streak across the glass while a near stranger quietly shared your silence, you wondered if maybe she'd been right. Not because the ocean had answers, but because it never stopped moving no matter what it carried away, no matter what it brought back.
Eventually, the lights flickered once more as a strong gust of wind howled up against the side of the house.
Bucky sighed theatrically. "There goes your excuse to avoid fixing that porch."
You rolled your eyes.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The sarcasm."
"I was worried you'd started to miss it."
"I definitely hadn't."
"Liar."
You smiled into your mug. Maybe. Just maybe.
The storm finally broke three days later.
The first morning the sun returned, the entire town seemed to spill outside at once. Windows opened, porches filled, children raced toward the beach carrying towels nearly bigger than they were. The ocean glittered as though nothing had happened, as though it hadn't spent the better part of a week throwing itself against the shore.
You were halfway through your morning coffee when someone knocked. Three quick taps.
You opened the door to see Bucky stood there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
"Morning."
"Morning."
He nodded toward the beach.
"Wanna take a walk?"
The invitation hovered between you.
You should've said no. It would've been easier. Safer.
Instead you set your coffee down on the end table. "...Sure."
Just a walk, right? That's all. The thought came quickly. You're not making friends, you're just walking, there's a difference. Just finally taking in the sun after it was sorely missed over the past week. That's all. You repeated the same excuse the following afternoon when he asked again, and the afternoon after that. It's just coffee, just conversation, just company. Nothing permanent because so long as it stayed that way it couldn't hurt you, temporary things couldn't become something you lost. You clung to that logic with surprising determination.
The beach stretched wide beneath the afternoon sun. The tide had gone out, leaving smooth wet sand that reflected the sky like glass. Neither of you hurried, sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn't. Bucky seemed equally comfortable with both until he stopped suddenly, bent down and picked something from the sand.
"What?"
He held it out. A small piece of pale blue sea glass rested against his palm, its edges had been worn perfectly smooth.
"You know what this is?"
"Sea glass."
"I figured you'd know that much."
You bumped his shoulder lightly. "I grew up here remember."
"Fair."
He rolled the tiny piece between his fingers.
"It starts as broken glass like a bottle."
You looked down at it. "Or a jar."
"Something somebody threw away." He skipped it lightly across his palm. "Spends years in the ocean. Moving through the waves and sand."
His thumb brushed over its smooth surface.
"And eventually..." he handed it to you. "...it transforms and becomes this."
You turned it over carefully as it caught the sunlight. Soft, translucent, and beautiful.
"It doesn't even look like glass anymore."
"Exactly."
You stared at it for a long moment. The ocean whispered around your ankles, a gull cried somewhere overhead.
"Is this your cryptic way of giving me advice?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "It's just glass."
There was a brief pause between you two before he bent down to pick up another piece, this one still jagged, the edges rough and not yet worn by the sea.
"Used to be something you loved, then it broke and you cast it out because it hurt you. But eventually it comes back, and after some time you realize how beautiful its become."
His words weren't lost on you, the ache in your chest that your mother left hasn't truly subsided nor do you think it ever will. Finally, you shook your head.
"I don't think people work that way."
Bucky looked at you.
"I think some do."
"I don't."
The words came quietly.
"I think..." you swallowed. "I think some things stay broken."
His gaze remained steady. "So do bottles."
You looked away.
"Bottles don't have to fight their way through everyday to get..." you searched for the word. "...fixed."
"I didn't say fixed."
You frowned.
He nodded toward the sea glass still resting in your palm.
"I said transformed."
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. Instead, you closed your fingers around the glass and handed it back to him.
"Well until I throw myself into the ocean and get thrashed around for a couple years I think I'll stay this way."
Bucky didn't argue, didn't insist otherwise. He simply smiled that quiet little smile of his.
"Keep it."
You looked up.
"What?"
"The sea glass."
He shrugged. "I found another."
"But that ones not smooth yet."
"I like it this way."
There was a strange thump in your chest as you slipped it into your pocket, something you didn't recognize until a few moment later as your heartbeat. Skipping a beat. You decided not to shed any more light on that as you continued your walk with him, the glass shifting lightly in your pocket with each step. You didn't take it because you believed him, even though a quiet part wanted to, but now somehow it felt wrong to throw it back.
A few mornings later, Bucky knocked on your front door again. When you answered, he looked oddly uncertain, something you hadn't seen before.
"I made something." He blurted out, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found as he held out a small bundle wrapped carefully in an old handkerchief.
You unfolded it slowly.
It's a necklace, simple leather cord, tiny knots woven carefully by hand and in the center the pale blue sea glass.
You looked up. "You made this?"
He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck with a shrug. "I had some extra cord."
Your thumb traced the smooth glass.
"I figured..." another shrug. "...it looked better around you than sitting in a drawer."
For a long moment, you couldn't find any words. Nobody had made you something in years. Not bought, but made. Something about that mattered more than you could explain.
"It's beautiful." You voice was quiet.
The compliment seemed to embarrass him.
"It'll probably fall apart eventually."
You laughed softly. "I'll take my chances."
He smiled. "So will I."
That night, after he'd gone home, the cottage felt different. Not less lonely, just less silent. There was a strange warmth to the air as you moved about. You changed into pajamas, made yourself tea all while the necklace rested against your collarbone, cool against your skin.
Your phone sat charging on the kitchen counter. Waiting. Seven voicemails, still. You stared at the notification for a long time. Then, before you could change your mind you pressed play. The speaker crackled softly.
Then—
"Hi, sweetheart."
Your mother's voice filled the quiet kitchen, bright and ordinary.
"Just wanted to remind you that the strawberries at the market are finally in season."
You laughed through the tears already gathering. Of course she called about strawberries.
"I know you'll probably forget to eat actual fruit if somebody doesn't remind you."
A pause. You could hear a grocery cart rolling somewhere in the background.
"Anyway..."
The familiar warmth in her voice wrapped around you.
"Call me when you get a chance."
Another pause.
"Love you."
The voicemail ended with the soft click of her hanging up.
That was it. No final wisdom, no hidden goodbye, no feeling that she'd somehow known. Just strawberries and groceries. A reminder to eat fruit on an ordinary Tuesday. Somehow, that hurt more than anything else. Because life hadn't ended with a grand farewell, it had ended in the middle of an ordinary conversation. Just another voicemail you'd planned to return after work.
You stood alone in the quiet kitchen, tears slipping silently down your face. The necklace rested over your heart. Outside, the tide continued its endless rhythm. Coming in. Going out. Borrowing. Returning. And for the first time since your mother's death, you allowed yourself to miss not just the moment she died—
But all of the beautifully ordinary moments she should have still been here to live.
SUMMARY: Bucky has done all that he can to keep his past as the Winter Soldier from your daughter, Becca. But, when Yelena slips up with one action figure, the truth begins to trickle out. Becca’s reaction is not at all what Bucky expected, and he becomes emotional over a life he never thought he’d have.
NOTES: Toddler daughter, uncle Bob and aunt Yelena, fluffy domestic Bucky, mentions of past violence/trauma, mostly fluff w/ hurt/comfort.
NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The smell of burnt toast and sweet vanilla was the first thing that greeted you when you opened your eyes. It was immediately followed by the soft, rhythmic patter of tiny feet against the hardwood floor outside the bedroom door.
You smiled, stretching your limbs beneath the heavy duvet. From the hallway, you could hear the muffled, deep-toned rumbles of Bucky’s voice attempting to hush your three-year-old daughter, Becca.
"Shh, Becs," Bucky murmured softly. "Mommy is still sleeping. Let’s let her rest, okay?"
"But I want to help make the big pancakes, Daddy!" Becca’s high-pitched voice carried clearly through the door, full of morning excitement.
He was always so careful with her, treating her as if she were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. It was a stark contrast to the strength he carried in his frame, a strength he constantly tried to downplay. For the past three years, Bucky had thrown himself into fatherhood with a desperate, beautiful intensity. He was determined to be nothing but a source of warmth and safety for the little girl who carried his bright blue eyes.
Yet, beneath that devotion lay an unspoken, rigid boundary that he refused to cross. Becca was never, under any circumstances, to find out about the Winter Soldier. You had told him a thousand times that it was alright, that she would love him regardless, but he remained steadfast. To Bucky, the shadow of who he used to be, in and out of Hydra’s control, was a monster that could taint his daughter’s innocent world.
Stepping into the kitchen, you found Bucky dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt as he expertly flipped a pancake. Becca sat securely on the kitchen counter, her small legs swinging back and forth.
"Look, Daddy! Mommy’s awake!" Becca squealed, pointing a sticky finger toward the doorway.
Bucky looked up, his eyes softening instantly as a genuine, relaxed grin broke across his face. "Morning, sweetheart," he said softly, leaning across the counter to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Did we wake you up? I swear I was trying to keep the monster under control."
"I'm not a monster, I'm a helper!" Becca protested, giggling as she pointed at the flour dust on his nose.
"You're a very messy helper," you laughed, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist from behind. You felt the slight tension that never truly left his shoulders, a silent reminder of the internal vigil he kept every single hour of the day.
"Pancakes are almost done," Bucky whispered, turning his head slightly to kiss your cheek. "Go sit down. I've got it under control."
The peaceful morning routine was delightfully disrupted around midday by a loud, familiar commotion at the front door. Yelena didn’t believe in knocking politely. Instead, she used her spare key to barge right in, carrying a massive cardboard box under one arm. Bob shuffled in behind her, looking slightly overwhelmed.
"Auntie Yelena! Uncle Bob!" Becca shrieked with delight, scrambling off the sofa and sprinting towards them with her arms outstretched.
"Ah, there is my favourite tiny diva!" Yelena announced proudly, catching Becca with a dramatic gasp and spinning the toddler around in the air before setting her down. "Bob, look how much she has grown since last week. It is ridiculous."
"She grows fast, Yelena," Bob said with a soft, sheepish wave, offering you and Bucky a warm smile. "Hello, everyone. Sorry to just drop in."
Bucky emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. A fond but slightly wary expression crossed his face as he greeted Bob with a firm nod and a pat on the shoulder. "You're always welcome, Bob. Yelena, however, needs to learn what a doorbell is."
"Doorbells are for boring people," Yelena shrugged, setting the large box down on the coffee table with a heavy thud. "Look what I have brought for the little one. I was in the toy shop in London, and they have a whole section for the New Avengers. The selection was very bad until I found the vintage section."
"Yelena, what did you buy?" you asked, a faint note of caution in your voice as she began rummaging through the box.
"Only the best," Yelena said, pulling out a wooden bow and arrow set. "Here, for targeting practice."
"Maybe we keep the arrows away from the television," Bob gently suggested, taking the toy from her hands with a worried mutter about safety.
Yelena rolled her eyes affectionately at Bob before digging deeper into the box. Her face lit up as she pulled out a sleek, modern action figure dressed in dark tactical gear with a distinct, shining silver arm. "They had a special anniversary release of the historical figures. I thought, why should the star-spangled captain get all the glory when the moody one does all the heavy lifting?"
Bucky frozen instantly. The dishcloth slipped from his fingers onto the counter as his entire body went rigid, his eyes locking onto the plastic figure in Yelena's hand. It was a highly detailed Winter Soldier action figure, complete with the masked face, the tactical harness, and the red star emblazoned on the metallic left shoulder.
You felt a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest, looking from Bucky’s pale, struck face to Yelena. She was completely oblivious to the silent panic she had just initiated. She truly didn’t realise that Bucky kept this entire chapter of his life a strict secret from his daughter. To Yelena, their pasts were just something they lived with, an objective fact of their existence rather than a source of deep, suffocating shame.
Before you or Bucky could intervene, Yelena knelt down to Becca’s eye level and handed the toy directly to the toddler, giving her a bright, encouraging nod. "Here you go, little Becca, a proper warrior to protect your dollhouse from the boring civilian toys."
"Yelena, wait—" Bucky’s voice was barely a choked whisper, but it was too late.
Becca took the action figure, her small hands gripping the plastic tightly as she turned it over. She studied the silver arm that caught the midday sunlight streaming through the living room window.
Bucky looked as though he had stopped breathing entirely. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the kitchen counter as he prepared himself for the worst. His mind was undoubtedly racing with the fear that his daughter would look at the toy, look at him, and see a monster.
Becca traced the tiny painted red star with her index finger, her brow furrowing in deep concentration as she compared the toy to the man standing frozen across the room. She looked up at Bucky, her eyes wide with a sudden, pure realisation, and then looked back down at the figure in her hands. A massive, gap-toothed grin spread across her face.
"Mommy, look!" Becca chirped, her voice echoing clearly in the sudden, tense silence of the flat as she held the toy up high. "Wow, this superhero looks just like daddy! He has a shiny arm and everything!"
The silence that followed was absolute, but the tension in the room instantly shifted from suffocating fear to a profound, heavy emotion that seemed to knock the breath right out of Bucky's lungs.
Yelena blinked, finally picking up on the strange atmosphere. She looked between Bucky and Becca with a sudden realisation of her own. "Oh," she murmured, her voice dropping its usual teasing edge. "I did not think..."
Bob awkwardly cleared his throat, offering a soft, sympathetic smile to Bucky. "It's a very good likeness," he offered gently.
Bucky stood completely still, his eyes wide and glossy as he stared at his daughter, his mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out. The word 'superhero' hung in the air, vibrating with an innocent weight that shattered every single wall Bucky had built up over the last three years. Becca didn't see a brainwashed assassin. She just saw her dad, the man who made her pancakes, immortalised as a protector of the world.
Seeing her father’s shocked silence, Becca toddled across the room, her small shoes squeaking against the floor. She pressed the plastic figure against Bucky's leg, looking up at him with absolute adoration.
"Are you going to fly later, Daddy? Superheroes can fly, right?" she asked earnestly, her voice full of the unshakeable faith that only a three-year-old could possess.
Bucky slowly sank to his knees, his movements mechanical as he brought himself down to her level. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked into her bright, innocent face. He carefully reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
"No, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice completely thick with unshed tears when he finally managed to speak. "Daddy doesn't fly. I just stay right here with you."
"That's okay," Becca said authoritatively, patting his knee comfortingly. "Superheroes need to stay home for dinner anyway."
Becca seemed entirely satisfied with this answer, turning back to Yelena to show off her new favourite toy, completely unaware of the tectonic shift she had just caused in her father's soul.
Yelena, realising her blunder but seeing the beautifully unexpected outcome, quietly gathered the rest of the toys. She gave you a softened, apologetic look as she signaled to Bob that it was time to leave. "We will go find some lunch now," she said softly, her usual bravado replaced by genuine care. "Goodbye, little Becca. Take care of your superhero."
"Bye, Auntie Yelena! Bye, Uncle Bob!" Becca waved, already distracted by her new game. Bob gave Bucky a supportive squeeze on the shoulder on his way out, and within a few minutes, the front door clicked shut behind them.
For the rest of the afternoon, Bucky was unusually quiet. His eyes never left Becca as she played on the living room rug, orchestrating a complex game where the Winter Soldier action figure saved a group of plastic farm animals from a plush monster.
"Look, Daddy! He saved the cow!" Becca shouted happily, holding the silver-armed figure in the air.
"He did a good job, sweetie," Bucky replied, his voice a little tight but filled with immense warmth.
Every time she made the toy strike a heroic pose, Bucky’s chest would heave with a silent, shaky breath. A mixture of profound relief and overwhelming emotion washed over him. You stayed close to him on the sofa, resting your hand in his, letting him process the incredible truth that his daughter's love was unconditional.
By the time evening arrived, Becca was thoroughly exhausted from her heroic adventures. Her eyelids dropped as you gave her a warm bath and changed her into her favourite pyjamas.
"Can Daddy tuck me in?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she held the action figure tightly against her chest.
"Of course he can, sweetheart," you said smoothly, kissing her forehead before calling Bucky into the room.
Bucky carried her to bed, holding her a little tighter than usual. He rocked her gently in the dim light of her nursery whilst she mumbled softly about superheroes and shiny arms until her eyes finally closed for sleep.
He stayed by her crib for a long time after she fell asleep, just watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. His metal hand rested gently on the wooden rail, no longer hidden away beneath layers of clothing as it often was, but completely accepted in the open air.
When he finally stepped out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, the weight of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once. His shoulders sagged as he walked back into the living room where you were waiting for him on the sofa.
The room was illuminated only by the soft glow of a single floor lamp, casting long, warm shadows across the space. Bucky walked over and sank down beside you, his entire body suddenly trembling.
"Bucky?" you asked softly, reaching out for him.
Without a word, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large arms wrapping around you with a desperate, clinging grip as the first sob broke through his chest. It was a low, agonising sound, the release of decades of tightly coiled pain, shame, and fear that he had carried alone for far too long.
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, running your fingers through his hair. "I've got you," you murmured softly against his ear as he wept openly, his tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. "It's okay, let it all out."
He was crying with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his broad frame shaking with the sheer magnitude of the relief that had washed over him. He gripped the back of your shirt as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
"She called me a superhero," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked and raw with emotion as he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red and swimming with tears that ran down his stubbled cheeks. "She looked right at it, she saw the arm, and she didn't run away. She wasn't scared of me."
"I told you she wouldn't be," you said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek with your thumb. "She loves her dad."
He shook his head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "I spent so many years being a monster. Being the thing that people screamed at when they saw me coming. I never thought... I never thought I'd get to have this."
"You deserve this, Buck. More than anyone," you whispered, holding his face in both of your hands.
"A normal life," he wept softly, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to yours for a brief, emotional moment. "A home. A little girl who looks at me and thinks I'm a protector, not a killer. I didn't think it was possible."
You reminded him, firmly and lovingly, that Becca was right. He was a hero for fighting his way back to his humanity, and he deserved every single ounce of the love and peace he had found in this home. Bucky let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he held you close, finally letting go of the ghost of the Winter Soldier, safe in the knowledge that to the person who mattered most in the world, he was simply her hero.
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Hi, I’m Luka, I’ll be 28 this week, I have 9 stuffed animals. I sleep hugging one, but 6 stays in my bed all the time. It’s okay if you need this, it’s okay to sleep with your plushies even if you’re an adult. They help us for different reasons and in different situations. If anyone says something mean about it… Well, that’s a shitty person, don’t listen to them, alright? It’s everything okay, sweetie.
Now grab your plushie and go to sleep. I’ll grab mine too. Night night ♡
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