summary: For months, Bucky has looked forward to one thing: seeing his favorite camgirl live. He never expected to find her poolside in a white bikini... or discover that she's been flirting with him all summer long.
word count: <3.7k
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, age gap, mutual pining, mutual obsession, voyeurism, mention of m and f masturbating, oral sex, face sitting, dirty talk, infidelity (reader has a boyfriend), porn with a little bit of plot, unprotected p in v. | english is ot my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes or mistypos.
a/n: This request has been sitting in my inbox for months now (I'm truly sorry for the delay) I had to do a minor adjustment to the original one, since I've never posted my guidelines, but after talking with the lovely person who submitted it we came to this agreement â¤ď¸ as always a big thank you for my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes and @buckysdecaflove for beta reading.
read in AO3
Bucky's alone in his department, laptop open on the bed, his door locked even though no one's coming over. It's become a routineâevery few nights, sometimes more, he finds himself here⌠waiting.
The notification pops up: StarryKitten is live.
He clicks immediately.
The stream loads, and there she is. No face, she never shows her faceâjust that perfect body in black lace, the camera angled to show everything from her neck down. She's on her knees on the bed, and even through the screen he can see how her skin would feel under his hands.
"Hi everyone," she says, and her voiceâfuck, her voice is what hooked him in the first place. Soft and breathy and just a little teasing. "Missed me?"
The chat explodes. He watches the usernames scroll by, all desperate and pathetic, and then he types his own message.
oldsoul17: Always.
She laughs, and he swears, he can hear the smile in it. "Well, aren't you sweet."
He's been watching for months now. He found her by accidentâlate night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through sites he probably shouldn't be on. And then there she was. Something about her pulled him in and wouldn't let go. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the little freckle on her left hip that the camera caught sometimes when she shifted positions.
He's spent more money than he cares to admit. Tips, private requests, custom videos. He's become one of her regulars, and she knows itâshe calls him out by the username he uses, thanks him specifically.
"I see you there, old soul," she says now, shifting onto her back. "That mean it's going to be a good night."
His hand is already on his belt.
She touches herself slowly, teasingly, and he follows every movement. He's memorized her body at this pointâthe curve of her waist, the way her hips roll, the little sounds she makes when she's getting close. He knows what she likes, what makes her gasp.
When she comes, he's right there with her, and afterward he sits there in the dark, heart pounding, feeling like a fucking creep.
He doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know her real name, her face, anything beyond what she shows on camera.
It's safer that way.
The July heat is brutal, but your dad's summer house has a pool, and you're taking full advantage. You're stretched out on a lounger in your new bikiniâwhite, high-cut, the kind that shows off your legs and draws the eye.
Bucky's here this weekend. Your dad invited him up, something about work and fishing. You've known him for yearsâhe's been your dad's friend and business associate since you were sixteenâbut lately, something's shifted.
The way he looks at you has changed.
You've noticed it over the past few months. The lingering glances, the way his eyes track you when you walk into a room. The way he stands just a little too close, lets his hand rest on your lower back a second too long when he passes behind you.
You've started testing it, wearing shorter dresses, leaning over in front of him to grab something, brushing against him in hallways⌠just to see.
He always reacts. A sharp inhale, a tightening of his jaw; but he never acts on it.
You're starting to wonder what it would take.
"You want something to drink?" your friend calls from the pool.
"I'm good!" you call back, adjusting your position on the longer. You tug at the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling them a little higher, and that's when you feel it.
Someone's staring.
You glance toward the patio, Bucky's standing there, frozen, beer in hand. But he's not looking at your face, his eyes are locked on your hip, on the small exposed stretch of skin where your freckle is visible. His face goes completely still. You watch his throat works as he swallows, his knuckles white around the bottle. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they finally drag up to meet yours, there's something in them that makes your stomach flip.
He looks almost⌠stricken.
Then he turns abruptly and walks back inside.
You sit there with your pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.
The afternoon drags on. Your friends eventually leave, pilling into cars with promises to meet up next week. Your parents head out for their dinner reservation, and Bucky claims he's not feeling well, that he'll just stay back and relax.
"Make yourself at home"your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder.
The door closes. The house goes quiet.
You're in the kitchen, still in your bikini with denim shorts pulled over it, bare feet on the cool tile. You're pouring yourself water when you sense him behind you.
You turn, leaning back against the counter. "Hey. Feeling better?"
Bucky's standing in the doorway, and the way he's looking at you it's different from before.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds restrained.
You take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You sure? You left pretty quick earlier."
"Just needed to cool off."
"It is hot," you agree, setting the glass down. You stretch, arching your back slightly, and you don't miss the way his eyes track the movement. "I might go for another swim later."
"You should put more clothes on."
The words come out harder than he probably meant. You tilt your head, playing innocent. "Why?"
"Becauseâ" He stops. "Because your parents will be back soon."
"Not for hours." You push off the counter, taking a few steps toward him. "It's just us."
You watch him fight it. Watch the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breathing change.
"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.
"What if I don't want to?"
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you do something recklessâyou reach up and adjust your bikini top, fingers grazing the tie at your neck, and his eyes follow the movement like he's starving.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath, turning away. "IâI'll be right back."
He disappears down the hall, and you hear a door close. The bathroom.
You bite your lip, because you know exactly what he's doing in there.
Bucky braces his hands on the sink, his head bowed, trying to breathe.
This was insane.
He knows that freckle. He's seen it dozens of times, hundreds, in videos and live streams and photos. Right there, just under the waistband of your left hip.
StarryKitten. You're the girl he's been watching for months, the one he's jerked off to more times than he can count, the one he's tipped thousands of dollars⌠you've been right here the whole time.
And you had no fucking idea he knows.
He's watched you parade around in those little outfits, leaning over in front of him, brushing up against him. You think you're just teasing your dad's friend. You don't know he's seen everything.
His cock is painfully hard against his jeans. He palms himself through the denim, groaning quietly. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of this house, drive back to the city, block your account and never think about this again.
But then he remembers the way you looked at him just now. The way you've stretched, arched your back, adjusted your bikini.
You want him.
Maybe not the way he wants youâyou don't know about the months of watching, the obsession, the desperate needâbut you want him.
He unbuckles his belt with shaking hands,.
Just once, just to take the edge off. Then he'll get his shit together.
He wraps his hand around himself and the relief is immediate. He braces against the sink with his other hand, eyes closed, and all he can see is you. In that white bikini, in those videos on your knees, on your back, touching yourself while saying his username.
"Fuck," he breathes.
It doesn't take long. He comes hard, biting back a groan, and in the aftermath he just stands there, forehead against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.
This can't happen.
But he knows deep down it's going to.
When Bucky comes back, his hair is damp like he splashed water on his face, and his eyes are darker than before.
"Better?" you ask innocently.
"No."
The honesty in his voice makes you shiver. You're standing in the living room now, the evening light slanting through the windows. The house feels huge and empty, but also full of possibilities.
"Your parents will be back soon," he says again, but it sounds less convincing this time.
"Two hours at least," you take a step closer. "Maybe three."
"You shouldâ" He stops, exhaling roughly. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Don't I?"
You close the distance between you, and you can see him fighting not to back up, not to run. You're close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"I see the way you look at me," you say softly. "I've seen it for months now."
His hands curl into fists. "You're my best friend's daughter."
"I'm also an adult."
"You have a boyfriend."
"Do you care?"
The question hangs between you. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the war happening behind them.
"I should," he says finally. "But no, I don't."
Your heart is pounding. "Then why are you holding back?"
"Because I'm trying to be the responsible one between us."
You reach up and untie your bikini top. It falls away, and his eyes drop immediately, his breathing going ragged.
"There's no need to be responsible here," you whisper.
And that's all it takes. His hands are on you in a second, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It's not gentleâit's months of build up tension breaking all at once, desperate and overwhelming. You kiss him back just as frantically, fingers tangling in his hair.
"We should go upstairs," you murmur against his lips.
He takes you to your room, and the second the door closes,he's on you again. His hands are everywhereâyour waist, your hips, sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. You're pulling at his shirt, desperate, and when it finally comes off you run your hands over his chest, his shoulders.
"I've wanted this for so long," he mutters, backing you toward the bed. "You have no fucking idea."
"Tell me," you breathe.
"Every time you walk into a room, every time you lean over in those little dresses, every time you brush against meâ" He groans, his hand sliding into your hair. "I've thought about bending you over and making you mine."
"Do it."
He pushes you back onto the bed, and you land with a gasp. He's over you in a second, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth on your neck.
"Do you know how perfect you are?" He murmurs against your skin. "How fucking gorgeous?"
His hands slide down to your shorts, and he makes quick work of the button and zipper. You lift your hips and he drags them off along with your bikini bottoms, and then you're completely bare beneath him.
"Christ," he breathes, his eyes raking over you. His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, he groans. "You're soaked."
"For you."
"Yeah?" He pushes one finger inside, and you arch into the touch. "All for me? Not for that little boyfriend of yours, huh?"
"YesâfuckâBuckyâ"
"That's it baby, say my name." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you're already trembling. "Does that little punk makes you feel this good?"
You just can shake your head while he works you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit, and you're already gasping and writhing beneath him. But before you can get too close, he pulls away.
"Not yet," he says, and there's something wicked in his smile. "I want to taste you first."
He moves down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hipâright over that freckle that started all of this. Then he's settling between your thighs and the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out.
He eats you out like a man starving, his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his tongue works over you, and the sounds he's makingâlow groans of appreciation, like you're the best thing he's ever tastedâare almost as overwhelming as the sensation itself.
"Buckyâoh my godâ"
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you, gorgeous. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You're already so close, the tension coiling tight in your belly, but then he pulls back. Before you can protest, he's moving up the bed, lying on his back.
"Come here," he says. "I want you to ride my face."
"But I can suffocate you!"
"Get up here, sweetheart, it wasn't a question."
The command in his voice makes you move without thinking. You straddle his chest, thighs shaking, and he grips your hips and pulls you forward until you're positioned right over his mouth.
"Perfect," he breathes, and then he's pulling you down.
The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and fucking into you, and his hands on your hips are guiding you to grind against him. You're gasping, one hand braced on the headboard, and the other tangled in his hair.
"FuckâBuckyâthat's so good."
He groans against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his grip tightens. He's relentless, working you higher and higher until you're shaking, until you can't hold back anymore.
"I'm gonnaâoh godâI'mâ"
"Come for me," he growls against you. "Come all over my face, kitten."
The nickname hits you like a shock. Your eyes fly open, but before you can process it, your orgasm crashes over you. You come with a cry, hips rolling against his mouth as he works you through it, licking up everything you give him.
When you finally slump forward, trembling, he eases you off and you collapse next to him on the bed, your chest heaving.
"Whatâ" you start, but your voice won't work. "Did you justâdid you call meâ"
He sits up, and when you see his faceâlips swollen, chin wetâyour stomach flips. "StarryKitten," he says, and his voice is pure gravel. "That's you, isn't it?"
Your heart stops. "How did youâ"
"This freckle." He reaches out, thumb brushing over the spot on your hip. "I've seen it before, dozens of times, in your videos."
Oh god. "You're oldsoul17," you whisper.
"Yeah," he moves over you again. "I've been watching you for months, baby, touching myself to your videos. Tipping you, messaging you⌠and the whole time, it was you."
You should be embarrassed. Mortified even, but instead heat floods through you. "Buckyâ"
"I've wanted you for so long," he mutters, his fingers rolling your nipple, making you arch into his touch. "Both versions of you. The girl who walks around here in those little dresses, teasing me. And the girl on my screen who makes the sweetest sounds when she comes."
His other hand finds your other breast, and he's playing with both now, watching your face as you writhe beneath him.
"I've watched you touch these," he says. "Watched you pinch and tease yourself. But I've always wanted to be the one doing it."
"Then do it," you breathe.
He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you cry out. His hand continues working the other, pinching and rolling, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. He switches sides, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and you're already getting wet again. But you need to touch him too.
You push at his shoulders, and he pulls back, confused. "Whatâ"
"My turn," you say, and push him onto his back.
"Babyâ"
"You've watched me," you say, moving down his body. "Now let me show you what I can do in person."
You settle between his thighs, and up close, he's even more impressive. Hard and thick, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, and the groan he lets out makes you clench.
"You don't have to do thisâ" he grits out, but his his jerk against your touch.
"I want to," you stroke him slowly, base to tip, and lean down to press a kiss to the head. "I want to taste you."
You take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue, and his hand immediately tangles in your hair.
"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that."
You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he's making are even better than you imagined. Low groans and muttered curses and your name over and over. You work him with your mouth and hand together, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes him grip your hair tighter, what makes his thighs tense. You pull off to lick along the underside, tracing the vein, and he nearly comes off the bed.
You take him deeper again, and his control starts to slip. His hips rock up slightly, and you relax your throat, letting him.
"Look at you," he groans, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. "So fucking perfect with your lips wrapped around me. I've imagined this, but nothing compares to the real thing."
You moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. You can feel him getting close, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and you double your efforts.
"I'm close, you don't have toâ"
But you want to. You want to taste him, feel him come apart because of you. You take him as deep as you can and swallow, and that's all it takes.
He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you take everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, you look up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face is of someone absolutely wrecked.
"Come here," he growls.
You crawl up his body, and he pulls you into a filthy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are on your breasts again immediately, kneading and teasing, and you're so turned on you're trembling.
"I need you inside me," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Buckyâ"
"Greedy girl," he mutters, but he's already hardening again. "Want more already?"
"Always."
He flips you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking and biting while his hand works the other. You're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
"Buckyâ fuckâI needâ"
"I know, I know sweet girl."
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against your neck.
"You feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight and wet."
He starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust makes your toes curl. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep and filthy while he fucks you into the mattress. One hand is braced by your head, but the other finds your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
"You're so perfect," he mutters against your lips. "My good girl, taking me so well."
"Faster, pleaseâ"
He shifts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You're gasping and moaning and he's talking you through it.
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear those sounds you make. I've heard them through my speakers for months, but thisâ" He thrusts harder, deeper. "This is so much better."
"Oh godâ pleaseâ"
"You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter." He pinches your nipple again, and you cry out. "You gonna come for me, kitten? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?"
"YesâyesâBucky"
"Come on, let me feel this perfect pussy squeeze me."
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You cry out, back arching, and he fucks you through it, his rhythm getting rougher, more desperate. The hand on your breast slides down to grip your hip, fingers pressing into that freckle that gave you away.
"You're so fucking perfect when you come." He mutters before burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, and the feeling of him spilling inside you sends another wave of pleasure through you.
After, you're tangled together in the sheets, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, still sensitive from all the attention, and every time you shift you feel the pleasant ache.
"Your parents," he says eventually. "They'll be back soon."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet."
Your stomach flips. "Good."
"This isn't a one-time thing," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're mine now." His hands slides from your breast down to your hip, over your freckle. "Secret. No one else gets to know. Not your boyfriend, not your parentsâŚ"
You should feel guilty. Your boyfriend, your parents, the risk. But all you feel is a thrill running through you.
"Okay," you whisper.
He kisses you again, slower this time. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again.
"Again?"
"I've waited months for this," he says before rolling you onto your back. "I'm not wasting a single second."
And he doesn't.
By the time you hear your parents' car I the driveway two hours later, you've come three more times, and you can barely walk straight. But you both know this is just the beginning.
hiii do you take request? if yes then iâd love to request a smutshot hehe. so i keep seeing edits of harry with the caption: congratulations to whoever gets to bounce on that đ and thought maybe they could be hanging out like her on his lap and sheâs ofc scrolling through his fandom twitter and tiktok and she likes his edits and comments and stuff and she shows him those and well one thing leads to another and they fuck and she rides him/ quite literally bounces on that hehehehe
i hope u take request, itâs actually my birthday on wednesday so this would be perfecttt
hi lovely! this is more of a long blurb but i wanted to get it done in time for your birthday. i hope you had/are having the best day ever!!! this one's for you, i hope you like it x
warnings: thirst comments, fingering, one mention of oral (f!receiving), sex on the couch, dirty talk, possessiveness, filthy and a little fluffy
The only sounds in Harry's living room are the television and the occasional soft laugh track drifting from the reruns of Friends he'd put on earlier. The two of you are freshly showered, skin warm and slightly dewy from the steam, utterly relaxed on your full day off together.
You're sitting on his lap on the massive sectional couch, your bare thighs pressed against the fabric of his grey sweats, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny black shorts and his oversized cream hoodie. It smells like him: a mix of laundry detergent, his passion fruit-scented shampoo, and that unmistakable scent of his cologne that always makes you feel safe.
The t-shirt Harry is wearing is thin and well-worn, stretched across his broad chest, and one of his tattooed arms is wrapped loosely around your waist, palm resting possessively on your hip beneath the hoodie. His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder, warm breath tickling your neck every time he exhales, while his other hand loosely holds the remote as he watches the screen with half-lidded, tired eyes.
Every so often his lips brush against the side of your neck or your shoulder in absentminded kisses, soft and gentle, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. His fingers occasionally trace small circles on your hip, squeezing softly whenever you shift in his lap.
The house is peaceful around you, the city lights twinkling faintly through the large windows, and for once there's nowhere else either of you need to be. You're mindlessly scrolling through TikTok on your phone, the bright screen casting a soft glow over both of you as you tilt it slightly so he can see whenever something funny or cute pops up. You show him a couple of dog videos that make him chuckle against your skin, his chest vibrating under you, and a silly edit of one of his old interviews that has you both grinning. He murmurs little comments in your ear, ''That's ridiculous,'' or ''God, I look tired there,'' his voice low and raspy, lips brushing your earlobe with every word.
You keep scrolling, laughing softly at the endless stream of edits and fan content that somehow always finds its way onto your feed. One particular video catches your eye immediately. The familiar chorus of Father Figure by George Michael starts playing as the clip loads: slow-motion footage of Harry on stage, his body moving under the lights, curls bouncing, that cocky little smirk on his face.
And right there in bold white text across the middle of the screen it reads: congratulations to whoever gets to bounce on that
You can't help the bright, surprised laugh that bubbles out of you. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you tilt the phone more fully toward Harry so he can see it properly. ''Oh my god, Harry. Look at this one,'' you say, voice full of amusement as you press play again and let the slow-motion clip replay, the thirsty caption impossible to miss.
Harry lets out a shy little laugh against your shoulder when the video plays, the sound warm and slightly embarrassed as he watches his own hips rolling seductively on the screen. ''Jesus,'' he mutters, his arm tightening around your waist. But you're already scrolling down to the comments, reading them out loud with a growing smirk on your face.
''His girlfriend is so fucking lucky, can't believe she gets to bounce on that every night,'' you read from the screen, grinning.
A few even tag your username directly, calling you the luckiest girl alive. You feel a possessive little thrill run through you, and Harry must sense it because his shy laugh turns into a cocky smirk that pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss to the side of your neck.
''Well,'' he murmurs, voice dropping to a soft drawl. His chin stays on your shoulder, breath hot against your ear as he reads a few more comments for himself. ''They're not wrong, are they, baby?'' You turn your head slightly, catching the arrogant glint in his green eyes.
The possessiveness flares hotter in your chest and you can't help yourself. ''Exactly. You're mine,'' you whisper, turning your head slightly to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw.
The words barely leave your mouth before Harry's grip on your waist turns firmer, pulling you tighter against his chest. A low, approving hum vibrates through his body and into your back.
''That's my girl,'' he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One of his hands slides down your stomach and slips under the waistband of your tiny shorts, fingers finding you already warm and slick. ''Fuck, you're soaked just from reading thirsty comments about my dick?''
You gasp softly as his long fingers glide through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. His other arm stays wrapped around you, holding you securely against his chest while he starts rocking your hips gently against his growing hardness. The friction is delicious, the soft fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide how quickly he's getting hard beneath you.
''All those girls wishing they could have me,'' he continues, voice rough and possessive in your ear, ''and here you are, sitting pretty on my lap with my hand in your shorts. And you fucking love it, don't you? You love that this cock is yours whenever you want it.''
His fingers dip lower, sliding one thick digit inside you slowly, then another, curling just right as he pumps them lazily. You moan quietly, head falling back against his shoulder, and Harry takes full advantage, attaching his mouth to your neck and sucking a mark there while his hips roll up to meet your movements. ''That's it, baby. Ride my fingers like you're gonna ride me later,â he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. ''Bet all those fans would lose their minds if they knew how filthy you get for me. How wet you are right now just thinking about bouncing on my cock. God, I fucking love you. Your pussy feels like heaven.''
The dirty words combined with the steady rhythm of his fingers have you whimpering, rolling your hips harder against his hand. Harry chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His free hand slips under your hoodie, palming your breast and pinching your nipple as his fingers stroke that spot inside of you. ''So fucking tight around my fingers, baby. Can't wait to feel you stretching around me.''
You turn around in his lap, maneuvering quickly so you're facing him properly, knees on either side of his thighs. It's a little clumsy, your legs tangling briefly in the process, but neither of you cares. The second you're turned around Harry's mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard and deep, tongue sliding against yours with urgent hunger.
His hands grab fistfuls of your ass, pulling you down against his hard cock as you make out messily, hot breaths mingling together. You grind down on him, hands buried in his curls, moaning into his mouth while he groans against yours, the kiss turning wet and filthy.
The kiss breaks only long enough for Harry to trail his mouth down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, open-mouthed and hungry, sucking lightly at your skin while his hands grip your ass firmly. He tugs your tiny shorts down your thighs with impatient fingers, groaning deeply when he feels just how soaked you are.
''Fuck, baby, you're dripping for me,'' he rasps, eyes dark as he pushes against your hips so you sit up on your knees, and dips his head like he wants to taste you right there on the couch.
His breath is hot against your abdomen, but you thread your fingers through his curls and gently tug him back up.
''Not yet,'' you whisper, voice breathy but determined. ''I need you inside me right now, H. Please.''
Harry's eyes flash with heat and he nods, kissing your ear softly. ''Yeah? Greedy tonight, aren't you?'' He nips at your earlobe. ''That's okay, love. I'll eat this pretty pussy so fucking good later tonight. Gonna have you sitting on my face for as long as you can take it, I promise.''
You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of his grey sweats and his boxers until his cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed. Harry groans as you wrap your hand around him, pumping him slowly a few times, feeling him throb in your palm.
He helps you shift, lining himself up at your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing your clit before he finally pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open so perfectly that you both moan loudly into the quiet living room.
''Shit, so tight,'' he breathes, forehead pressed to yours as you sink down onto him. Once he's fully seated inside you, you don't waste any time. You start moving, bouncing on his cock with steady, needy rolls of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Harry's hands stay on your hips, guiding you, helping you keep your balance while you ride him. ''That's it, baby. Bounce on it.''
You're still wearing his oversized hoodie, the hem falling around your thighs and occasionally blocking his view, so he gathers the fabric in one fist and holds it up against your stomach, eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing inside you again and again.
''Look at that,'' he murmurs, voice wrecked. ''So fucking pretty stretching around my cock. All mine.'' One of his hands slips under the hoodie, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as you ride him harder, grinding down deep on every bounce.
You squeeze around him deliberately on the next downstroke and Harry chokes out a broken moan, hips stuttering up into you. ''Do that again,'' he begs, voice hoarse. ''Fuck, squeeze me, baby. Just like that.''
''Yeah?'' you ask, a cocky little smile tugging at your lips even as pleasure makes your voice shake. You clench around him again, watching his eyes flutter and his head tip back against the couch. ''You like that? Knowing I'm the only one who makes you feel this good?''
Harry's grip on your hip tightens as he whimpers a desperate little yes, baby, thrusting up to meet your bounces. ''I'm all yours,'' he promises. ''No one else. Just you, riding me so fucking perfect. My good girl. I'm gonna make you my wife one day, you know that?''
When you start trembling, thighs burning and pleasure coiling tight in your belly, Harry brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles. ''Come on, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you falling apart.''
You shatter with a loud cry of his name, clenching hard around him as your orgasm crashes through you. Harry follows right behind, groaning deeply as he spills inside you, hips jerking up with every pulse. He keeps you on him through the aftershocks, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your neck as you both catch your breath.
Then Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his flushed face. He brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek.
''Congratulations, baby'' he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. ''Looks like you won the lottery.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! đ
summary. one stolen night with congressman barnes leaves you with more than memories: a positive test and a man who's determined to prove he's worth a second chance.
word count. 19.5k
warnings. age gap, accidental pregnancy, smut, MDNI, 18+, angst, bucky is an asshole for a second, pregnancy hormones, protected and unprotected pnv, pregnancy sex, oral (f receiving), no use of y/n.
notes. reader is said to have a blocked lactation duct and one of the treatment options is manual suction. itâs a little embellished for plot.
READ ON AO3
This is not your scene.
The chandelier must have cost a fortune just to hang there and look pretty. You know this because you spent the better part of your first ten minutes staring up at it with your mouth slightly open, trying to calculate how many months of your salary it would take to even come close.
You stopped at four years because it was getting depressing.
Sarah had promised you open bar and good food. She had failed to mention that youâd feel like a fraud the entire time.
âYou look fine,â Sarah had said this evening, watching you smooth down the front of your dress in the mirror of her condo.
You had gone back and forth for longer than youâd like to admit. The dress is nice. Itâs the kind of nice where youâd wear it to a birthday dinner, maybe a date somewhere with cloth napkins.
It is not, by any stretch, gala nice. The other women in this room are in floor-length gowns with jewellery that probably has names, and here you are in a midi dress off a sale rack.
âYouâre a guest of a congressmanâs daughter,â Sheâd reminded you, fixing her own earring. âNobodyâs gonna care.â
Nobody might care, but you sure do notice. Thereâs an ease to the way these people move around each other. Thereâs air kissing, the laughing at things that arenât funny, the way they hold their champagne glasses by the stem like itâs second nature.
You hold yours like youâre scared of dropping it, which you are, because youâre fairly certain the glasses alone are worth more than your monthly metro card.
Still. Free champagne.
That part, at least, Sarah had been right about. Youâve had two glasses and are working steadily on your third, which is making the whole scene considerably more bearable.
The food is also ungodly good. You had swiped four of the little crab toast thingies off a passing tray and felt zero shame about it. You were coming off a forty-eight hour shift two days ago. You deserved the crab toasts.
Sarah, for her part, has completely abandoned you. Her father is a congressman from Virginia and this is his world, so she knows everyone in a twenty foot radius of wherever she stands. It hadnât taken long before she was absorbed into a circle of people you didnât know.
Sheâd shot you an apologetic look over someoneâs shoulder, and youâd waved her off.
Youâre fine. Youâre a grown adult. You can stand by the tall cocktail table near the windows and people-watch by yourself like a normal person.
The problem with people-watching, as it turns out, is that occasionally the people watch back.
Heâs been drifting in your periphery for a few minutes now. You clocked him when he walked in, because heâs the kind of man you canât not clock when he walks into a room.
Easy forties, maybe pushing further than that, with dark hair and the kind of jaw that belongs on something carved out of stone. Heâs in a suit that fits him the way suits are supposed to fit, which is to say, perfectly. Thereâs a slight silver threading through the dark at his temples. His left arm is gloved, metal just barely visible at the cuff.
You know who he is, vaguely. Congressman James Barnes. Before that, the Winter Soldier. Youâve seen him on the news twice and found him credible both times, which is not something you say lightly.
Not that this is relevant. Youâre just noting that heâs across the room. Thatâs it. Just noting.
What is relevant, however, is the man currently sidling up next to you, because the man currently sidling up next to you has had considerably more of the open bar than you have, and he smells like it.
âLovely evening,â he says, in the way that people say things when they are not actually talking about the evening.
You give him the polite smile. The one that says I see you, and Iâm too tired to be rude. âIt is.â
âYou here with anyone?â
âMy friend,â you answer, with a pointed glance across the room in Sarahâs general direction. âSheâs just over there.â
He follows your gaze, disinterested, and then looks back at you. He introduces himself as something, and you honestly donât catch it because your brain has already filed him under do not engage. Heâs maybe mid-fifties, the kind of man who introduces himself at parties by his job title, and his eyes havenât quite been at eye level this whole conversation.
âWhat do you do?â
âIâm in medicine,â you say, keeping it deliberately vague. In your experience, the vague answer is the one that ends conversations faster.
It does not, in this case, end the conversation. In fact, it seems to invite more of it. His hand lands on the cocktail table next to yours, he leans in like youâd asked him to, and the smell gets considerably worse.
âBeautiful and smart,â he says. âThatâs dangerous.â
Gag.
âMm,â you say, which is not agreement, but which he takes as agreement.
His shoulder shifts incrementally closer to yours, and your brain is already doing the math. How do you extract yourself from this without making a scene, because making a scene at a congressmanâs fundraiser gala, at which you are a guest of a congressmanâs daughter, feels inadvisable at best and catastrophic at worst.
You canât exactly do what youâd do at a regular bar, which would be to simply say not interested and walk away, because this is not a regular bar and these are not regular people and youâre suddenly very aware that the champagne glass youâre holding probably costs two hundred dollars.
The man leans in further. âCan I get you a drink?â
âI have one,â you say, lifting your glass, which is clearly almost empty, which he also clearly notices.
âLet me get you another, then.â
And that is when, for the second time tonight, you make eye contact with Congressman Barnes. Heâs a little closer now, not by much though. Heâs watching the scene with an expression that you canât quite place. Itâs not pity, exactly. Not amusement either. Itâs more like someone who has correctly identified a problem and is turning over how to address it.
You do the only thing that seems sane to you in this moment. You hold his gaze, and your expression says, if you speak even one word of fluent English right now I will owe you forever.
He receives it. You can tell by the slight shift in his posture, the barely perceptible nod. Then heâs making his way over, like heâs just wandering and it happens to be in your direction.
âSorry,â he says, stopping at your side. Not to the drunk man. To you. Like heâs the one whoâs late. âGot caught up.â
His voice is ⌠nice. A lot different from TV.
The drunk man recalibrates visibly. He looks at Congressman Barnes, recognises him the same way you did. Thereâs that small double-take of oh, him, and suddenly the lean is gone, the arm is pulled back, the proximity becomes appropriate.
âCongressman,â the man says, in a completely different register than the one heâd been using on you. âDidnât realize you twoââ
âGood to see you.â Congressman Barnesâ voice is perfectly pleasant, perfectly even. He extends his hand and the drunk man shakes it, quietly excuses himself to the bar, which is where he should have stayed to begin with.
âThank you,â you say, once heâs out of earshot. âI really didnât want to make a thing of it.â
âI could tell.â His eyes are blue. A shade darker than youâd expected, up close. âHe giving you trouble for long?â
âLong enough.â You take a sip of your champagne to have something to do with your hands. âIâm not really sure of the etiquette for telling a middle-aged man to leave you alone at a formal event.â
âUsually just telling him works.â The corner of his mouth pulls up, barely. âBut I get it.â
He reaches past you for the appetizer that a passing server is offering, takes one of the small bruschetta thingies, and doesnât immediately move away.
You notice that. He doesnât immediately move away.
âYouâre Sarahâs friend,â he says. Itâs not really a question. âJacksonâs daughter.â
âYeah.â You blink. âHowâd youââ
âHe mentioned his daughter was bringing someone tonight.â A small lift of a shoulder. âI know Richard well. Heâs a good man.â
âHe is,â you agree, which is true, having met Sarahâs father a grand total of three times. âShe didnât warn me that good meantââ you gesture vaguely at the chandelier, the room, the twelve-piece orchestra, ââall this.â
His face looks like he found that funny, but he also looks like he doesnât want to give you the satisfaction. âFirst time at one of these?â
âThat obvious?â
âLittle bit. He doesnât say it unkindly. âYouâve been staring at the chandelier for the most part.â
Your face does something embarrassing. âI was doing math.â
âMath.â
âAbout how long it would take me to afford it. On my salary.â You stop yourself, because that is possibly the most un-gala thing you could have said, and he is a congressman, and you are already wearing the wrong dress. âWhich â never mind. Iâm a resident. I donât have the money for light fixtures.â
He does laugh at that, quietly, more of an exhale than a real laugh, but it counts. âWhat kind of medicine?â
âEmergency.â You set your now-empty glass down on the nearest surface. âIâm in my third year.â
âLong hours.â
âLong doesnât really cover it.â You glance sideways at him. Up, technically, because he has several inches on you and youâre in heels. âBut Iâm not going to complain at a gala. It seems rude.â
âYou can complain⌠I donât care.â
Something about the way he says it is disarming, and you werenât expecting that. Youâd expected⌠youâre not entirely sure what youâd expected. Polished, maybe.
The kind of conversation that sounds like a conversation but is really just two people exchanging pleasantries until someone finds a more useful person to talk to. Thatâs what galas are, as far as you can tell. This doesnât feel like that.
âHow long have you been doing this? The congressman thing.â
âSix momths.â He picks up a glass from a passing tray. Water, not champagne. You notice that too. âWhy?â
âI saw a clip of you once. About pharmaceutical pricing.â You pause, aware that this is maybe strange to bring up. âYou didnât let him deflect.â
He looks at you for a moment, and you canât quite tell what heâs thinking. His face is not an easy read. âMost people donât bring that up.â
âMost people here probably benefit from him deflecting.â
Another one of those almost-laughs. Youâre starting to like those unreasonably. âFair.â He turns slightly toward you, weight shifting, and itâs the kind of body language that says Iâm not going anywhere yet, which you are reading, as positive. Possibly incorrectly. âWhat made you go into emergency medicine?â
âI like knowing the answer fast.â It is the honest version. âOther specialties⌠you wait for labs, wait for imaging, wait for rounds. Emergency, you have to think right now, decide right now. I like that. Also Iâm bad at small talk, so at least in the ER nobody expects it from me.â
âYouâre not bad at it.â
âIâve been talking about chandeliers and my salary.â
âI liked it,â he says, like that settles it, and the frankness of it catches you off guard enough that you donât have an immediate response, which almost never happens to you.
You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The orchestra has transitioned to something slightly livelier and a few couples have migrated toward the cleared floor at the center of the room.
âCan I ask you something?â
âSure.â
âHow old are you?â The words come out before you can dress them up more politely, you wince slightly at the delivery. Youâre three champagnes deep and apparently thatâs what three champagnes does.
He doesnât look thrown by it. If anything, he looks like heâs deciding how to answer, which is its own answer. âForty-four or biologically a hundred and eight.â
You do the math without meaning to. The math is not small. âRight.â
âHow old are you? Just so weâre both working with the same information.â
âTwenty-eight.â
He doesnât look away from you. âSo⌠age change anything for you?â His voice is quiet enough that it doesnât carry anywhere.
Oh. We are going there straight. Okay.
The warmth that works its way up your neck is something, that even the air conditioning canât seem to help with. You look down at your empty glass and think about how Sarah is absolutely going to scream when you tell her about this tomorrow.
âThatâsââ you start.
And then Sarah materializes at your elbow like she has a sixth sense for inconvenient timing, slightly flushed and smelling like champagne and grabbing your arm with both hands. âThere you are! My dad wants to say hi, he knows youâre hereââ She clocks Congressman Barnes. Her eyes go very wide and then very carefully neutral, which is the least neutral expression youâve ever seen on a human face. âCongressman Barnes, hi, Iâm so sorry to interruptââ
âYouâre not,â he says easily, and he means it, you can tell, which is somehow worse than if he were being polite. He looks at you. âIt was good talking to you.â
âYeah.â Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. âIt was.â
He holds eye contact for exactly one beat longer. And then he nods, and turns, and Sarah is already dragging you in the opposite direction with her grip iron-tight on your wrist.
âOh my god,â she hisses, the second thereâs enough ambient noise to cover it. âOh my Godââ
âIt was just talking.â
âIt was not just talkingââ
âSarahââ
âHeâs so hot,â she says, almost mournful. âHeâs so hot and he was talking to only you for like twenty minutes and I need you to know that Bucky Barnes does not do thatââ
âBucky,â you say, and your stomach does a small stupid thing. âHis name is Bucky?â
She stares at you. âPlease tell me you got his number.â
You didnât.
You are, the longer you stand here being dragged toward Sarahâs father, increasingly annoyed about that.
You find him again by accident.
Thatâs the part youâll tell Sarah later. That it was an accident and she will not believe you, and she will be partially right not to.
Because when you excused yourself from the conversation with Sarahâs father after approximately nine minutes, you were not not looking for Congressman Barnes. You were getting another drink. Those are two different things that happened to involve the same direction.
The bar is less crowded, so thereâs an actual open stretch of marble counter to stand at. You order a club soda because your limit is three champagnes and you reached it. Youâre stirring it with the little cocktail straw and staring at the ice like it did something to you when someone stops next to you.
Not just anyone. You know before you look, from the proximity, from the particular way the air in the vicinity shifts.
âClub soda,â Bucky says, nodding at your glass. âSmart.â
âIâm a doctor⌠In theory.â
âIn theory?â
âI mean residency.â You glance up at him. Heâs looking straight ahead at the bar, not at you, and yet every part of you is acutely aware of him. âI know my limits.â
âThree glasses?â He sounds like he already knows.
âHowâd youâ Were you watching me?â
He doesnât answer immediately. He signals the bartender for something and then he turns his head to look at you. The look on his face is the least congressman-like look youâve seen from him all evening. Itâs quieter than that. More direct.
âYeah⌠I was.â
The bartender sets his glass down. You notice that itâs water again.
But Bucky doesnât reach for it yet. Heâs still looking at you.
You have been through four years of medical school and almost three years of residency, which means you have stood in front of attendings who looked at you like you were a problem they needed to solve, and you did not flinch.
You are flinching a little now. Just a little.
âYou didnât come find me,â you try to keep your voice even.
âYou were with Richard.â
âFor like eight minutes.â
Something moves across his face. Not quite a smile but in the neighborhood. âWere you counting?â
âIâm not answering that.â
He reaches for his water, finally, and takes a drink. You watch his jaw because youâre only human. Thereâs a scar that runs just beneath his jaw. You have the reflexive urge to ask how he got it, which is the emergency medicine in you, and also probably something else.
âI thought about asking for your number,â he says, and he says it the same way he says everything, like he just decided to set the thing down in front of you and see what you do with it.
âWhat stopped you?â
He considers you for a moment. âDidnât want to do it in front of Sarah. Felt like a thing that shouldnât have an audience.â
âThatâsââ you press your lips together. âThatâs actually reasonable.â
âI have my moments.â
The orchestra finishes something and starts something else, slower, and the lights in the ballroom dim imperceptibly.
You should go back. Sarah is probably wondering where you are. You have a club soda to finish and heels that are beginning to make their unhappiness known and a 6 AM shift on Wednesday that is always at the back of your mind.
His hand finds the bar just next to yours. The same way the drunk manâs hand had, earlier. Except nothing about it feels the same. Not even close.
âI have a suite upstairs⌠I stay here when Iâm in the city for these.â A pause. âIâm notâ thatâs notââ
âI know what youâre saying.â
He looks at you. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
His pinky finger moves. Just barely. Just enough to press against the side of your hand, the lightest possible contact, and you feel it everywhere. âTell me if Iâm reading this wrong.â
You look down at where his hand is next to yours. You look back up at him. And then you do the most impulsive thing you have done since you signed a lease on an apartment you couldnât afford because it had good light.
âYouâre not reading it wrong.â
He walks slightly behind you toward the elevator, which is not nothing. It is discrete, and you appreciate that without saying so. His hand presses briefly to the small of your back as you reach the elevator, guiding you left. Even through the fabric of your dress, the warmth of his palm is enough to make your brain go briefly offline.
The elevator ride is quiet. Itâs the kind of quiet thatâs loud.
Heâs not looking at you. Heâs looking at the floor numbers. Youâre doing the same. The back of his hand grazes yours and neither of you moves away, and by the sixth floor you have resigned yourself to the fact that you are going to be completely useless.
The suite is significant. Of course. You take approximately two seconds to register that the entryway alone is bigger than your apartmentâs living room before you stop looking at the suite.
He closes the door. Turns around. And the way he looks at you when itâs just the two of you, without a ballroom background, is different. Thereâs nothing measured about his eyes right now.
âHi,â you say stupidly, because your brain has officially handed in its notice.
âHi.â And then heâs crossing the room and his hands are on your face and heâs kissing you. It is hungry in a way that makes your knees register a complaint.
Both of your hands come up to grip the lapels of his jacket just to have somewhere to put them.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. His thumbs are at your jaw.
âOkay?â he asks.
âVery,â you manage.
He kisses you again, slower this time but no less certain, and his hands slide from your jaw to your waist. He walks you backward until your shoulders meet the wall. You make a soft sound against his mouth that you are immediately embarrassed by.
âDonât,â he says against your lips.
âDonât what?â
âDo that thing where you get embarrassed.â He pulls back to look at you, properly. âDonât.â
You open your mouth and close it. Heâs still in the full suit â jacket, tie, the whole shebang â and you are suddenly very, very aware of that.
His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress. Watching your face the whole time like heâs making absolutely sure. The zipper gives and you feel the fabric loosen across your back, cool air reaching your skin.
âArms up,â he says.
You raise your arms and he lifts the dress over your head, and sets it on the chair behind him like it matters, like heâs thinking about the fact that itâs the only dress you brought. Something about that short, practical gesture does more to you than it should.
And then he takes you in.
Itâs for a long moment. His eyes move over you and thereâs not a single thing performative about how he looks at you.
Itâs not the look of someone who is trying to make you feel good, itâs the look of someone who genuinely cannot help himself.
You are standing in front of a congressman in a four-hundred-dollar-a-night suite in a bralette from Target and underwear that does not match it, and you are acutely aware of this fact.
âThese donât match.â
Your face goes hot. âI wasnât exactly planning this.â
âNo?â
âI was planning on eating canapes and going home by ten.â Your voice comes out more defensive than you intend. âSo no, I didnâtâ I didnât put on a matching set, I justââ
âHey.â He says it gently, and his hand comes up to tip your chin. âIâm not complaining.â
âYou literally just pointed it outââ
âBecause itâs cute.â His thumb traces your jaw. âBecause youâre standing there looking like you canât decide whether to be embarrassed or annoyed, and itâsââ something moves through his expression, ââitâs really cute is all. And Iâm flatteredâ
You stare at him. âYouâre a congressman.â
âIâm aware.â
âYou give floor speeches.â
âAlso aware.â
âYou canât just⌠say things are cute.â
âSure I can.â Heâs guiding you back toward the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sit down. He doesnât follow you down. He just stands there, looks at you, still fully dressed, tie still knotted, and goes to his knees.
Oh.
Oh.
His hands slide up your calves, and he watches you watch him. Youâre gripping the duvet with both hands because he hasnât even done anything yet and you already feel like the floor dropped out.
âYou donât have toââ you start.
He looks up at you, and his eyes are very, very dark. âI want to.â
His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your legs with an efficiency that should not be as attractive as it is. Then his hands are on your inner thighs, pushing them apart. He looks at you one more time like heâs checking in, which he clearly is.
âGood?â
âPlease,â you say, which answers nothing and everything.
He lowers his head. The first press of his mouth to your cunt makes you bite down on your lip hard enough that you taste something. He takes his time with it. Thereâs nothing hurried here, nothing obligatory, he moves against you like he has absolutely nowhere else to be and no interest in being there anyway.
His tongue finds the bundle of nerves at your center and stays there, slow and devastating, and you have to press the back of your hand to your mouth to keep the sound in.
âDonât,â he says, again, pulling back just enough. His breath is warm against you and itâs its own kind of torture. âI want to hear you.â
âThere are other rooms on this floorââ
âThick walls,â he says, and then heâs back at it. You stop thinking about the other rooms.
Heâs good at this in the way that makes you forget your own name temporarily. His hands are on your hips, keeping you from squirming away when it gets to be too much, which it does, quickly, because he has apparently decided to be completely merciless about this.
You have your fingers in his hair now. His perfectly styled hair, which youâre currently ruining, but do not care. And you are saying his name at a volume that would embarrass you under any other circumstances.
âJamesââ you breathe, and then, when he does that specific thing with his tongue, laving at your entrance, ââGod, Bucky, pleaseââ
He makes a sound against you that you feel everywhere. His fingers find the slick of you, and he looks up at you from where he is, which should be illegal, the visual of this is going to live in your brain for years. âThis okay?â he murmurs.
âYes, please, yesââ
He sinks two fingers into you slowly, and your head drops back. He works them against your walls while his mouth moves on your clit and you grip his hair tighter and he doesnât tell you to let go.
The tension builds fast. Faster than youâd like, because youâd like this to never stop. When it breaks it breaks completely, your whole body pulls tight and then releases, the sound you make is completely beyond your control.
He works you through it. Every last second of it. His fingers slow but donât stop, his mouth gentles but stays, until youâre twitching away from the sensitivity and pressing weakly at his shoulder, and only then does he pull back.
He stands, and he looks⌠composed, almost, except for the flush at the collar of his very nice shirt, the slick in his beard and the way his hair is thoroughly destroyed.
Heâs still in the full suit. The tie is still knotted. You are lying on his hotel bed having just come completely apart and he looks like heâs about to chair a subcommittee meeting.
âThatâs unfair,â you say to the ceiling.
âWhat is?â
âYou.â You lift your head to look at him. âThe suit. All of that.â
Chuckling, he reaches up and loosens the tie, pulls it over his head, starts on the buttons of his shirt. You push yourself up to sitting, because if heâs going to do that, you are watching.
He shrugs out of the shirt and underneath is a white undershirt, and underneath the undershirt â well. You were not unprepared for the shoulders. You were unprepared for everything else.
âHi,â you say again. He should be tired of hearing it. He isnât.
He almost smiles. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, and comes up with his wallet, and from his walletâ
âYou just⌠carry that?â you ask.
âI was hoping,â he says.
Something about the admission makes your chest do a complicated thing. You reach for him as he comes down onto the bed, pulling him in. He braces his forearm by your head and kisses you and you can taste yourself on his mouth, which makes the complicated thing in your chest considerably worse.
âTell me if anythingâsââ
âI will⌠I trust you.â
He pulls back to look at you at that. Just for a second. Something moves through his eyes that you donât quite have a word for.
âOkay.â
He takes his time. He works you back up with his hands first, until youâre arching into him and your nails are at his back and the patience of it is making you slightly insane, and when he finally rolls the condom on and shifts over you and pushes inâ
The noise you make is entirely involuntary. Because heâs big. No, that would be an understatement.
âStill with me?â Right by your ear.
âMore than with you,â you get out, and he exhales a short laugh into your neck and then starts to move, and you stop being capable of full sentences.
Heâs thorough about it in a way that makes your brain melt clean out of your head. He learned what makes you gasp and then does that thing again. His hand slides under your ass and tilts your hips and hits something that makes you dig your nails in hard enough that he hisses.
âRight there,â you say, uselessly, since he clearly already knows.
âYeah?â
âDonât stopââ
He doesnât stop. He does exactly that, again, and youâre gripping his shoulders with both hands and talking without fully knowing what youâre saying.
Heâs got his face pressed to your temple and his breathing is not steady anymore, which is information you file away with tremendous satisfaction.
âYou feelââ he starts, and stops, like he doesnât finish that sentence with people often.
âTell me.â
He pulls back to look at your face. His hips donât slow. âPerfect,â he says, like itâs a simple fact.
Your whole body clenches around him at that and he groans. His rhythm shifts. Deeper, more insistent, and you have completely stopped worrying about the other rooms on this floor.
His thumb finds your clit and you cry out. He watches your face while he does it, and there is something about being looked at like that, while heâs inside you, while heâs taking you completely apart for the second timeâ
You come with your face buried in his neck and his name on your lips and his hand pressed flat to your lower back like heâs trying to keep you together while he undoes you.
He follows not long after with a groan against your temple, his whole body tensing.
Then heâs still, and the room is just the sound of both of you breathing.
He doesnât move immediately. He stays where he is, most of his weight on his forearm, his other hand moving to push your hair away from your face. Itâs a gentle thing, automatic, like he did it without thinking. Like it was just the natural next thing to do.
You stare up at the very expensive ceiling of the very expensive suite.
âI came here for canapes,â you say.
He laughs. A real one this tim. Not the almost-laugh from downstairs, an actual laugh, and it does something devastating to his face. âHowâd that work out?â
âBetter than expected.â
He presses his lips to your temple, and itâs soft. It lingers for a second, and when he pulls back heâs looking at you with that look again. The one you donât have a word for yet.
He gets up to deal with the condom, comes back with a glass of water that he sets on the nightstand next to you, and gets back into bed like he does this, like this is just a thing he does, take someone apart completely and then bring them water after.
Heâs pulled on his undershirt and his briefs and he looks unfairly good in both, and youâre in nothing, and neither of you seems to have a problem with this.
âBucky.â
âMm.â
âWhat actually made you come over? Downstairs. Earlier.â You turn your head to look at him. âBefore that drunken guy. You were watching me before that.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. Heâs on his back, looking at the ceiling, and his jaw shifts slightly the way it does when heâs thinking.
âYou were looking at the chandelier,â he says. âEveryone in that room was pretending they belonged there. You were just standing there, looking up, in the wrong dress. I liked that.â
You look at him for a long moment. âI got it on a sale,â you say.
âI like that too.â
You press your face into the pillow so he canât see you smiling, and he doesnât say anything about it, which is possibly the most considerate thing anyone has ever done for you.
Light is the first thing you register. Itâs not the thin, grey light that seeps through your blackout curtain at home. This is different, the kind that comes from curtains that cost more than they should and donât quite meet in the middle.
For a moment you donât know where you are, which is a feeling youâre familiar with from overnight call, that brief horrible second of complete disorientation before your brain catches up.
Then it catches up.
The sheets are softer than yours. The room is too quiet. And the other side of the bed, when you reach for it without opening your eyesâ
Empty.
You open your eyes anyway. On the off chance. The suite looks the same as it had last night except for the light, and the way the silence in it has a different quality now. A full kind of silence. The kind where someone has recently left.
His jacket is gone from the chair. Your dress is still on it, folded carefully over the back. So carefully, actually, that it takes you a second to really process the image. Heâd folded your dress before he left. Which means heâd been here, moving around the room, and youâd slept through it.
The glass of water heâd set on the nightstand is still there, half full or half empty or whatever. You stare at it for longer than you need to.
You didnât expect anything. Thatâs not entirely true; youâre a grown adult and you know the difference between what you expected and what youâd maybe hoped, and those two things are not the same thing, and itâs fine, it was one night, it was always going to be one night, you knew that going in.
Still. You look around the room. Almost wanting to find something. A note on hotel stationery, his business card under the water glass, anything.
Some small proof that it happened to him too, that you didnât imagine the careful way he pushed your hair back.
Nothing.
You check the bathroom. The bathroom is pristine and smells faintly like whatever heâd used from the amenity shelf, and there is no note on the mirror, no nothing.
Of course there isnât. Heâs a congressman. He has a schedule. He was probably on a 7 AM call somewhere, probably has a driver waiting downstairs, probably has twelve things on his agenda and last night was just one of them. Item six, maybe, between a donor dinner and a briefing.
You sit back on the bed. You pick up the glass of water and drink the rest of it.
Fine.
You find your underwear, the mismatched ones, and even now that makes your cheeks do something. And then your dress, and your heels, and you check your phone.
Three texts from Sarah that escalate in punctuation, one from your roommate asking if youâre alive. Nothing from a number you donât recognize.
Obviously.
The elevator ride down is considerably less charged than the one going up. The lobby is already busy, morning check-outs and businessmen with rolling luggage, and you walk through it in last nightâs dress and last nightâs heels with your chin up, because you are an emergency medicine resident and you have walked into much worse rooms than this.
The glass of water, though. Heâd gotten up and gotten you a glass of water and now he was just⌠gone. Without a word.
That part stings a little. Youâd be lying if you said otherwise.
Seventeen days later, you are standing in your kitchen at six in the morning counting backwards on your fingers, and the number you keep landing on is not the number you want.
Your period is late. Not a little late. Late enough that youâve noticed, which takes something, because your cycle has always run regular, every twenty-eight days, reliable enough that youâve never had to think about it.
You think about it now. Youâve been thinking about it for four days with increasing focus, telling yourself it was stress, it was the hours, it was the back-to-back overnight shifts that had wrecked your sleep, because thatâs what happens to residents, your hormones get strange when your cortisol stays high, it happens.
Except.
Except that two weeks before your missed period, which would put it at about a week after the gala, youâd had spotting. You had noted it the way you noted things and filed it under irregular and moved on, because youâd had a fourteen-hour shift and the last thing you wanted to do was think about your own body on top of everything else. Youâd thought mid-cycle spotting, stress, nothing.
And the fatigue. God, the fatigue had been something else, but again youâre a third year resident. Fatigue is the baseline. Fatigue is just Tuesday.
Except implantation spotting typically occurs six to twelve days after fertilization. Except you are standing in your kitchen doing obstetric math at six in the morning, and the number you keep landing on is seventeen days post-ovulation, which isâ
Thatâs too late for it to be stress.
You know this. You know this the way you know things you donât want to know yet, the way you knew a patientâs CT wasnât going to be clean before the radiologist called. You just know.
You get to the hospital forty minutes early, which is easy enough to explain away to anyone who asks. Youâre always early, everyone knows youâre always early.
You take a detour to the ground floor pharmacy. You stand in the family planning aisle for probably thirty seconds longer than a person who is confident about what theyâre grabbing would stand there.
You take one off the shelf and tuck it under your arm, and take the stairs up to the third floor resident bathroom, which has a lock that works and more importantly, privacy.
The instructions are not complicated. Youâre a doctor. You know what two lines mean.
You sit on the edge of the closed toilet lid you look at the water stain on the ceiling tile for the full three minutes.
Thereâs a crack in it that branches from the fixture in a way that looks like the course of the facial nerve in the middle ear. You have stared at this ceiling before during bad shifts, during the kind of nights where someone didnât make it and you had to go somewhere quiet for six minutes, and it has never felt quite like this.
You turn the test over.
Two lines.
Both of them dark. Two unambiguous, immediate, definitive lines.
You sit with that for a long moment. The tile. The test.
Youâre pregnant.
You are twenty-eight years old and you are a resident and you had a one-night stand with a congressman whose number you do not have and you are pregnant.
You turn the test face-down again. Pick it up. Put it in a cover at the bottom of your bag under your stethoscope, which feels insane but youâre not leaving it in the trash where someone could see it.
You look at yourself in the mirror. Your face looks the same as it always does. Thatâs somehow the strangest part.
You unlock the bathroom door. You have a shift to get to.
But one thing youâre sure about is that, you want this baby. Be it a maternal impulse, or whatever it is you donât have a name for it yet. You want this baby. You need this baby.
Two days of carrying it around inside you like a stone in your chest, and by the third morning youâve made the decision, or the decision makes you.
Either way, youâre sitting on your bathroom floor at midnight with your back against the tub and the thing is settled.
He needs to know. Whatever happens after that is not something you can fully think about yet, but the part where he doesnât know is no longer something you can live inside of.
The problem is getting to him.
You try the obvious thing first. His official website has a contact form. For constituents, it says, and you are technically not his constituent, but you fill it out anyway and it autoresponds within thirty seconds with something about being committed to responding within five to seven business days, and you close the laptop.
Five to seven business days.
His office number is listed publicly and you call it the next day on your lunch break. It rings three times before someone picks up.
âCongressman Barnesâ office, how can I help you?â
âHi.â You try to keep your voice level. âIâm â Iâm trying to reach Congressman Barnes. Itâs a personal matter.â
Thereâs a small pause on the other end. âThe Congressman has a full schedule. Can I take your name and a callback number? Please describe the nature of your inquiry.â
Right. The nature of your inquiry. âItâs â itâs a private matter. Iâd really need to speak with him directly.â
âMaâam, any personal correspondence for the Congressman goes through his office. If you can describeââ
âI know him personally.â You are aware of how this sounds. You are aware that people who call congressional offices claiming to know the congressman personally are, in fact, not people who know the congressman personally. âIâm not a â Iâm not a constituent with a complaint. Iâm a personal acquaintance and itâs urgent.â
âI understand,â the woman says, in the tone of someone who does not entirely believe you. âI can pass your information along and someone will follow up.â
Someone. Not him.
âOkay.â You give her your name and your number. You know with complete certainty that you will not hear back.
You dissociate for a minute after you hang up, and then you text Sarah.
You : Hey. Random question. Completely unrelated to anything. How hard would it be for you to get Barnesâ personal number from your dad
Three minutes of silence, which for Sarah is practically geological time.
Sarah: why
You: Sarah please.
Sarah: whyyyy
You: I'll explain later. Is it possible?
Sarah: my dad would notice if i asked. but his phoneâs usually just sitting on the counter when heâs in the shower soooo. give me 12 hours and a good reason
You: I promise I'll explain everything.
Sarah: oh this is GOOD. this is so good. okayy
You put your phone in your coat pocket and go back inside.
Sarah texts at eleven seventeen the following night, which means Richard Jackson apparently showers late, and the text is just a phone number and then:
Sarah: okay i need the full story. not a summary. the FULL story. what did you DO??????
You look at the number for a long time.
You: Thank you. Iâll explain everything soon I promise.
Sarah: are you okay??
You think about the test at the bottom of your bag. The ceiling tile with the crack in it. The empty side of the bed with the sheets still warm from him.
You: Yeah. I'm okay. Thank you Sarah.
You add the number to your phone. You just stare at the digits, and your chest is doing the complicated thing again, and you have no idea what youâre going to say when he picks up.
If he picks up.
The first time, it rings five times and goes to voicemail.
His voicemail. His actual voice, which you were not prepared for. You hang up before the beep because you donât know what youâd say and you canât practice it out loud yet. The words exist inside your head in a specific order that youâve rearranged a hundred times since eleven seventeen last night, and none of the arrangements feel right.
You set your phone face-down on your kitchen table. You make coffee you donât drink. You sit there for twenty minutes and then you pick your phone back up.
It rings three times. You are working out, specifically, how to begin. Not hi, too casual. Not hello, Congressman, too formal and possibly insane. Maybe just his name, just Bucky, like you have any right toâ
âHello.â
Just that. One word. And your heart does something it has absolutely no business doing.
âHi. This isâ Itâs â we met at the fundraiser, I mean the gala. About three weeks ago. Sarah Jacksonâs friend.â A pause, because you canât tell if any of this is registering. âThe one in the wrong dress.â
âI know who you are.â
Something in his voice. Something that is not nothing. You press your free hand flat to the kitchen table just to have something solid.
âOkay. Good. Hi.â
âHi.â And there it is, threaded through the single syllable â a smile. The same almost-smile from downstairs at the bar. âItâs good to hear from you.â
You close your eyes for a second. You had not let yourself think about whether it would be good or awkward or somewhere cold in between, because thinking about it felt like jinxing it.
âI need toââ The arrangements in your head are all wrong again. âIs there any chance we could meet? In person. I have something I need to tell you, and Iâd rather not do it over the phone.â
âIs everything alright?â
âYeah.â The word comes out before you can think about whether itâs true. âI just â itâs better in person. I think.â
âI can do tomorrow. I am free tomorrow.â
âTomorrow works.â Your voice is admirably steady, and you are giving yourself full credit for that. âWhereverâs easiest for you.â
âThereâs a place on 54th. Briar something â Briar & Co. You know it?â
âIâll find it.â
âTwo oâclock?â
âTwo oâclock,â you confirm. And then neither of you say anything for a second, and you donât know who should end this.
âItâs good to hear from you,â he says again. Quieter this time, like maybe heâs saying it more to himself than to you.
You donât know what to say to that. âRight. See you tomorrow.â
You hang up.
You sit back down at your kitchen table, look at your untouched coffee going cold. You breathe in and out very carefully for a minute, and you do not let yourself think about what it meant that he said it twice.
Youâre not going to do that. Youâre going to be a reasonable adult who goes to work and eats lunch and sleeps normal amounts, and tomorrow you are going to sit across from Bucky Barnes in a coffee shop and say the thing that needs to be said.
That is the plan.
Youâre three minutes late. When you push through the glass door and scan the room you find him immediately, because heâs not a man that takes effort to find.
Heâs already there. Of course heâs already there, heâs probably never been late to a thing in his life.
He looks like something out of a campaign ad, which is annoying, because you are in your off-duty jeans and the overcoat youâve had since forever.
Heâs at a corner table, which is a thing you file away and heâs got a coffee in front of him already.
He looks up before you reach him. Like he sensed it.
You pull out the chair across from him, sit down and unwrap your scarf. The whole time heâs watching you with an expression you cannot read, which is the same as before, which should not feel as familiar as it does.
âFinally,â he says.
You blink. âAm I late? I thought I was only â what time is it?â
âYouâre not late.â The corner of his mouth pulls into a smile. âIâve just beenâ Never mind.â
He said finally like he was waiting for you. But he wasnât waiting long. Does that mean he meant that you finally called? But how would you call if he didnât leave a number?
No. Nope. Youâre not going there.
You look down at the menu you donât need and tell yourself firmly that it doesnât mean anything, that he is a politician and politicians are good at making people feel like the only person in the room, it is literally a professional skill.
Youâve rehearsed this. Youâve rehearsed it on the subway here, in the shower last night. You had a version that started with some context, that built up gradually, that eased both of you into it. That version is somewhere on the sidewalk because you donât have access to it right now.
âI have to tell you something.â
He sets his cup down. âOkay.â
âItâsââ You press your hands flat to your thighs under the table. âItâs not a small thing.â
âOkay.â The steadiness of it is almost its own problem.
Just say it. Say the thing. Spit it out.
You have said hard things before. You have sat across from people and told them their person wasnât coming home, you have held those conversations together with nothing but your hands and your voice, you can say six words to one man in a coffee shop on 54th Street.
âIâm pregnant.â The words land flat on the table between you. âItâs yours. Itâs from â from the gala. That night.â
Silence. Absolute deafening silence.
Not the kind that means heâs gathering himself to respond, or the kind that means he missed it. You can tell from his face that he didnât miss it. Itâs a longer silence. The kind you have to sit with no idea whatâs on the other side.
You watch his face. You had run through versions of this moment in your head. Thereâs shock, the obvious thing, or anger, or some careful measured political blankness.
But it isnât quite any of those. His jaw is tight and his eyes are on you and he is⌠not here, quite. Heâs somewhere slightly behind his eyes, somewhere you donât have access to.
âBucky,â you say, because the silence is going somewhere you donât like.
He comes back. Just slightly. His hand around his coffee cup tightens and releases.
âAre you sure itâs mine?â
You hear the words. You take a second to make sure you heard them correctly.
âI wore a condom,â he says, and his voice has changed. Itâs careful, like heâs walking on ice. âI just â I want to be sure that weâreââ
âYes.â The word comes out sharp, which you didnât mean, or maybe you did. âYes, itâs yours. Iâm sure.â You make yourself hold his gaze. âI havenât slept with anyone else.â
Something shifts in his expression. You canât tell if itâs belief or the beginning of it or something else entirely.
âWe can do a paternity test,â you say, and your voice is admirably level and you hate that you have to say this, you hate that youâre sitting here offering this like itâs a reasonable next step. âIf you want confirmation. Thatâs â thatâs available to you. I understand.â
Then you both speak at the same time.
âI didnât come here asking for anything,â you say.
âWhat do you want?â he asks.
If only youâd spoken a moment sooner.
Four words. Theyâre not unkind, exactly. But they land cold, because of what they assume, maybe, or because of what they donât. What do you want.
As if the only reason youâd be here is because you want something from him specifically, as if this is a transaction heâs being presented with rather than a fact of his life, as if youâd spent three weeks carrying this alone and called his number and rearranged the words a hundred different ways just to want something.
You feel it move through your chest before you can stop it.
âNothing⌠I donât want anything.â
You can clearly see his face change. âThatâs not what Iââ
âI have to go.â You reach for your scarf. Your hands are steady and youâre glad for it. âI shouldnât have â I thought you should know. That was the only reason. Iâm sorry for wasting your time.â
âThatâs notâheyââ Heâs half out of his seat. âThatâs not what I meantââ
âItâs fine.â You stand. You loop your scarf once around your neck and your body is doing the automatic things while your brain is somewhere else entirely, somewhere a little removed and glassy. âIâll be in touch about next steps. Whatever you want to do. If you want the test, justââ You stop yourself before you finish the sentence because your voice is doing something you donât want it to do. âIâll be in touch.â
And then youâre walking. Through the small tables, out through the glass door that lets in a rush of cold air that you are grateful for because it hits your face and gives you something to feel that isnât this.
The sidewalk is busy, you merge into it and walk because walking is something you can do. Youâre not going anywhere in particular. Youâre just walking.
âHey.â His voice is behind you. Close. âJust â stop.â
You donât stop immediately. You take two more steps, which is honest.
âPlease.â His hand closes around your arm, just above your elbow. Thereâs barely any pressure in his grip, but you stop because âpleaseâ is not a word he uses easily, youâve already gathered that, and the way he said it is not a politicianâs please.
Heâs standing there without his coat. He left it inside, apparently, didnât stop to grab it. He looks like a person, suddenly. Not a congressman anymore.
âThat came out wrong.â
âItâs fine.â Itâs something you have said twice now, which is increasingly not true.
âItâs not.â He runs a hand through his hair. The same dark hair youâd pulled at in a hotel suite three weeks ago, but you cannot think about that right now. âI panicked. I said something stupid and it came out wrong and Iâ Iâm sorry.â
âYou asked me what I want,â you keep your voice low. âLike I was â like this was something I came to negotiate.â
âI ââ
âIâve been sitting with this for two weeks by myself.â You hadnât meant to say that part, hadnât meant to let him know, but there it is. âTwo weeks of figuring out how to even find your number, two weeks ofââ You stop. You are not going to do this on 54th Street, you are absolutely not. âIâm not asking you for anything. I just thought you deserved to know.â
Heâs looking at you with an expression that you canât name and have never seen on him before. Something stripped of the careful management, the controlled stillness.
âYouâre right. Iâm sorry.â
The wind picks up and he doesnât even flinch at it, no coat, and you look at him and you are⌠tired. You are so, so tired, and you donât have the energy to hold onto any of this out here on the street.
âI have to get back. I have a shift.â
âCan weâ Can we try this again? Somewhere. When youâre ready.â He holds your gaze. âIâd like to do that right. If youâll let me.â
You look at him for a long moment. The sweater. The cold. The line of his jaw that youâd had your hand against on a different night in a different context. The fact that the two things are the same person is almost too much to hold at once.
âIâll think about it.â
It is not a yes. It is not quite a no. He seems to understand this, because he doesnât push.
You turn and donât look back. You get half a block when your phone buzzes in your pocket.
Bucky: Iâm sorry. I mean it.
The phone is an inconvenience right now. Itâs him.
You stare at it for two full rings.
Then you pick up, because you are apparently a person who does that.
âHey.â The same voice that said Iâm sorry on a windy sidewalk six hours ago, except now itâs evening and youâve been on your feet since noon and you have considerably less patience available than you did then.
âIâm in the middle of a shift,â you say, instead of hello.
âI know, I justâ Have you eaten?â
You open your mouth. Close it. Look up at the ceiling for a moment, which is a habit youâre developing, apparently. Ceilings when you need a second to not say the first thing that comes to mind. âBucky.â
âItâs a simple question.â
âIt is not a simple question, it is aââ You lower your voice because a nurse just walked past and you do not need this. âCan you just not, please? Iâm working.â
âHave you eaten?â he repeats, like he didnât hear the second half of what you said, or heard it and decided it wasnât load-bearing.
âI had lunch.â
âItâs 8 PM, Iâm not asking about lunchââ
âIâm a resident. Having lunch is a privilege.â You hear an ambulance. âGotta go.â
âIâll ââ
You donât let him finish.
At eleven thirty, one of the nurses at the front desk â Maya â stops you in the hallway with an expression that is doing something specific.
âThereâs a guy at the front desk.â
ââŚOkay.â
âHe brought food.â She pauses. âA lot of food.â
You look at her. She looks back at you with the energy of someone who has decided this is the best thing that has happened on this shift and possibly this month. âHeâs veryââ She searches for the word.
âMaya.â
âHeâs asking for you specifically.â
You close your eyes for exactly one second. Then you go to the front desk.
Thereâs a paper bag on the desk in front of Bucky and heâs talking to the security guard with the easy manner of a man who talks to people for a living.
When he sees you coming, his expression shifts into something that is not quite relief but is in the direction of it.
âYou didnât have to do this,â you say, before he can say anything.
âIââ
You donât let him finish. âIâm working.â
âIâm not staying.â He nods at the bag. âItâs just food. You said you hadnât eaten.â
You look at the bag. You look at him. Maya, behind you, is doing an absolutely terrible job of pretending to type something. âYou didnât have to drive here.â You keep your voice quiet enough that it stays between the two of you. âIâm fine. I can take care of myself.â
âThatâs not why Iâm here.â
âThen why are you here?â
His jaw does the tight-release thing. âBecause after you left I felt like an ass⌠and I need you to know that Iâm sorry. Not over a text. In person.â He pushes the bag slightly toward you. âAnd because you said you hadnât eaten.â
You stare at the bag. Thai food, from the smell of it, something with lemongrass. Your stomach, which has been ignoring you all evening, suddenly has opinions.
âThis doesnât fix what you said.â
âIâm not trying to fix it. Iâm trying toââ He stops himself, and you can see him editing, which is strange to watch on a man who normally seems to say the exact amount he means to. âIâm showing you Iâm sorry. Thatâs all.â
The energy to process this is something you donât possess now. You pick up the bag. Itâs heavier than it looked. âThank you.â It comes out stiff and you donât have the bandwidth to soften it. âYou should go home.â
âRight.â
âI mean it. You donât have to â this isnât something you have to do. Standing in hospital lobbies with Thai food isnât gonna be your thing, okay? Weâre notâ thatâs not what this is.â
Heâs quiet for a second. âOkay.â
âOkay.â
âGet some food in you.â
âI was going to,â you say, which is not strictly true, and he seems to know it. But he doesnât say so, which you are choosing to be grateful for.
He nods once, and walks back toward the entrance. You watch him go for exactly two seconds before you make yourself turn around and go back to work.
Maya spins her chair to face you the moment youâre within range. You point at her before she can speak.
âDonât.â
âI wasnâtââ
âMaya.â
âHeâs soââ
âI will give you a terrible evaluation.â
She turns back to her computer, failing entirely to hide her smile, and you take the bag to the break room and eat the whole thing. Itâs very good, which you resent.
Six hours later, at ten past two, you come out of the hospital into the cold. Your brain is running on fumes, and the black car in the far corner of the parking lot does not immediately register.
Then the door opens.
âYou have got to be kidding me,â you say, to no one in particular. To the night. To whatever version of your life this is.
He gets out slowly, like he hasnât spent six hours in a parking lot. Heâs in the same coat and he looks it. A little, around the eyes.
âBucky.â Your voice comes out flatter than you intend.
âIââ
Thereâs a pattern developing here, the way you donât let him finish talking. âYouâve been here this whole time.â
âI fell asleep for a bit.â
âIn your car. In the hospital parking lot. Why?â
He stops a few feet from you. His face looks tired in a way it hadnât the other night, something honest about it. âI wanted to make sure you got home okay.â
âI do that everyday⌠Iâve been doing that everyday for almost three years.â
âRight.â
âThen whyââ You stop. Youâre too tired for this. The cold is getting into your coat and your feet hurt and you are twenty-eight years old and you do not have the reserves for whatever this is. âGo home, Bucky. Please. Get some actual sleep.â
âLet me drive you.â
âI have my car.â
âYouâve been on your feet forââ
âI have my car.â You hitch your bag up on your shoulder. âThank you for the food. I mean that. But you canât justâ sit outside my hospital all night, thatâs notâ you canât do that.â
Heâs looking at you with that expression again. The unreadable one that isnât quite unreadable anymore, or maybe youâre just too tired to not see it. âI handled it badly yesterday⌠or today â I donât know â I said something that I would take back if I could.â
âI know. You said that.â
âIâm saying it again.â
âBuckyââ
âI need you to understand that Iâm notâ Iâm not the guy who says something like that and means it. What I said, the way it sounded. I need you to know thatâs notâ that isnât who I am.â
You look at him for a long moment. The parking lot is quiet. A couple of birds somewhere. A car turning out onto the street.
âI know.â Because you do, or you think you do, or youâd like to. âI just need you to give me some room to figure outââ You gesture vaguely between you. âAll of this. Okay? I canât think straight when youâre standing in my parking lot.â
Something moves through his expression at that. He looks down at the ground and then back at you, and the corner of his mouth shifts. âOkay. Iâll go.â
âThank you.â
He holds eye contact a beat. âDrive safe.â
âYou too,â you say, which is automatic, which is ridiculous, and you turn before your face can do anything about it.
You think about him walking to his car in an empty parking lot, and you think about him falling asleep in there, and you donât do anything with that. You file it somewhere.
You go home. You sleep for nine hours straight. Itâs the best youâve slept in three weeks.
He calls two days later.
Youâre off shift, sitting on your couch with an unopened anatomy refresher on the cushion next to you because youâd told yourself you were going to be productive and had instead been staring at nowhere in particular.
You pick up on the second ring. âHi.â His voice is the same, which isnât entirely a good thing to your composure.
âHi.â
âHow are you feeling?â
âFine. Tired, but thatâsâ thatâs normal.â
âOh?â
âThe fatigue is normal first trimester. The nausea Iâve been managing, mostly⌠Iâm not telling you this to update you, Iâm justâ you asked.â
âIâm glad you told me.â His voice is quiet. Careful in a way that doesnât feel like walking on ice anymore, more like heâs choosing things with intention. âI want to know how youâre doing.â
When you donât say anything, he continues. âI want to come to your appointment.â
You close your eyes. âBucky.â
âHear me outââ
âYou donât have to do that.â
âI â I want to.â
âYou said that in the parking lot too, about the food, and I told youââ
âThis is different. This isâ this matters. I want to be there. I know I gave you every reason to tell me to stay out of it. What I said at the coffee shopâ I know. But Iâm asking you to let meâ Iâm asking⌠pleaseâ
For some reason, you think about the hotel room. The folded dress. The empty bed. The water glass. You think about a parking lot at two past midnight and a man who fell asleep in his car because he wanted to make sure you got home safe.
âItâs at my hospital⌠next Tuesday. Eleven.â
âEleven,â he repeats.
âAnd if you say anythingââ You hadnât meant to go there, but youâre going there. âIf you say anything like what you said on that day, I will walk out. And thatâll be it. I mean that.â
âThatâs fair.â Without hesitation. Like he expected it and meant to agree to it.
âIâm serious, Bucky.â
âI know you are. I know.â
You nod, even though he canât see it. âOkay. Tuesday.â
âOkay⌠Thank you.â
You donât say youâre welcome. You donât say anything for a second.
âGet some sleep,â he says. Itâs like the water glass. The automatic thing, the thing that comes out before he decides whether to say it.
âYou too.â This time it doesnât feel ridiculous.
You hang up and open the textbook on whim. You read four pages before you fall asleep on the couch with the lamp still on.
Heâs standing at your door at ten thirty with peonies.
Actual peonies, fat and pale pink, the kind that look like someone made a decision.
You open the door in your coat already because youâd been about to leave, keys in hand, and the two of you look at each other for a second in the doorway.
âHow do you know where I live?â
âSarah.â
Of course. You make a mental note to have a word with Sarah, except Sarah will laugh at you and you both know it.
You look at the flowers and then at him and he has the decency to look slightly uncertain, which is the most uncertain youâve seen him look, and it does something small and involuntary to your chest.
âYou didnât have toââ
He just holds them out, without saying anything.
You take them because leaving them in his hands would be strange. They smell like something expensive and vaguely like outside, and you stand there for a second not knowing what to do with them.
You turn back into the apartment and find a glass in the cabinet and fill it with water, which is not a vase but it will have to do.
Setting them on the counter, you look at them. White and pink against your very normal kitchen, and something about the image makes you feel things you donât have the time or inclination to examine.
The waiting room at the OB practice is warm and aggressively neutral, the kind of beige that has been carefully selected to be soothing. It achieves the opposite.
You sign in at the front. Bucky sits beside you, and he doesnât make small talk, which youâre grateful for. Heâs looking at something on his phone with the focused stillness of a person who is trying to be unobtrusive, and you watch the fish tank in the corner for lack of anything else to do with your eyes.
Your name gets called and you both stand. Thereâs a second, while walking towards the exam room, where youâre very aware of him behind you and you donât know what to do about that.
The room is what it always is. Exam table with the paper that crinkles, the blood pressure cuff on the wall, the small screen angled toward the bed. You hop up on the table without being asked.
The nurse takes your vitals and says the doctor will be in shortly. Then itâs just the two of you in the room.
Bucky takes the chair in the corner.
âYou can sit closer,â you say, because the chair in the corner feels like heâs been sent there. âYou donât have to be all the way over there.â
He moves the chair, just enough, and sits back down.
âHow are you feeling?â he asks. Same question as the phone call, except in person it is different.
âOkay. A little nauseous this morning but it passed.â You look at your hands. âI have to go back on in the afternoon so Iâm hoping the appointment doesnât run long.â
âI can have you back by one.â
âYou donât have toââ
âI want to.â Right. Thatâs his line.
You donât argue with it this time.
Dr. Reyes comes in five minutes later and doesnât react to Buckyâs presence in any visible way, which you appreciate, because youâd anticipated some version of arenât you. Congressman Barnes or Winter Soldier.
You did not want to deal with that today.
Sheâs warm and efficient in the way of someone who has done this enough times, and she goes through the questions with you and you answer them like the doctor you are. Last menstrual period, no significant history. Bucky stays quiet in his chair and you donât look at him.
Then Dr. Reyes reaches for the gel.
âThisâll be cold,â she says, and you nod. She picks up the transducer and you are doing the thing you planned to do. Stay clinical.
Except your resident-brain has never been on this end of a transabdominal ultrasound before and it turns out those are two different things.
The screen fills with the grey static of it. Dr. Reyes adjusts the angle, andâ
There.
The flicker. Fast and insistent, one hundred and fifty beats per minute or close to it, the cardiac activity clear enough on the doppler even before she turns the sound on, but then she does turn the sound on.
Itâs the sound that gets you.
Youâve heard fetal heart tones a hundred times. A thousand times. Youâve stood in rooms while other women heard this for the first time and youâve read the chart and noted the rate and moved on, because it was clinical, because it was data.
Except right now your body is doing something entirely outside of your control, something warm moving through your chest without asking permission, and you press your lips together and breathe.
âStrong heartbeat,â Dr. Reyes says, with the particular quiet of someone who knows what this moment is. âRight around a hundred and fifty-four. Looking good.â
You nod. Your throat is doing something it shouldnât.
From the chair beside you, you hear Bucky exhale. Like heâd been holding something and set it down.
You turn your head and look at him.
Heâs looking at the screen, not at you, and his jaw is tight and his hands are braced against his knee. His expression is⌠soft. You know because itâs the same on your own face.
âCan Iââ His voice comes out different than youâve heard it. Rougher. He clears his throat. âCan I get a copy of that? The image.â
Dr. Reyes glances between you, and you nod. âOf course,â she says.
He looks at you then. Quick, like heâs checking whether that was okay. When you nod, he immediately turns back to the screen.
Dr. Reyes does the measurements. Everything is how it should be, and she gives you the due date. Mid-July. Which youâd already calculated, but hearing it out loud is its own thing.
She goes through the first trimester expectations with you and you listen to all of it with the clinical half of your brain taking notes while the other half is somewhere else, somewhere watching the flicker on the screen and not knowing quite what to do with itself.
When she hands you the printout of the image, you put it in your bag. She hands one to Bucky too, without being asked again, and he takes it with both hands and looks at it for a second before sliding it into his inside coat pocket. Like itâs something he doesnât want to bend.
He drives you back. You sit in the passenger seat and watch the city go by.
Neither of you speaks for a while, which is fine. Which is easy, actually, and you resent that a little.
Youâd like to be uncomfortable. Discomfort is useful.
âThank you. For letting me be there.â Heâs the one to break the silence.
âYou asked,â you say. Which is true, but not the full answer, and you both know it.
He doesnât push.
In front of your building, he puts it in park. âDo you need anything? For the apartment, or groceries, or I could pick stuff upââ
âIâm okay.â Youâre already half out of the seat.
âPrenatal vitamins, orââ
âBucky.â You pause with one foot on the curb. âI have prenatal vitamins. I ordered them the morning after I tested. Iâm a doctor. I know what I need.â
He has a hand on the steering wheel and heâs looking at you, and thereâs something in his face that isnât quite hurt and isnât quite frustration. More like a person who wants to do something and doesnât know how.
âI know you do.â
âIâm notââ Thereâs a version of this that comes out wrong, and you navigate around it. âIâm not keeping you out of it. Thatâs not what this is. I justâ I donât need you to manage things. Okay?â You look at him. âIâll call you when thereâs something to call you about.â
Heâs quiet for a second. âOkay.â
âThe heartbeat. That was⌠yeah. It was good.â You donât know why you said that, only you didnât want that to be the last thing you told him.
Youâre already inside your place by the time you hear his car pull away.
The peonies are still in the glass on your counter when you get back in, and you stand there looking at them.
You are a person who has her prenatal vitamins already ordered and her charting caught up and her shifts covered, and you are also a person who left a one-night standâs flowers in a water glass because they were too nice to throw out.
You said no three times.
The first time was on the phone, two days after the appointment, when he called with what heâd clearly prepared as a reasonable proposition. He delivered in the tone of someone who has won arguments in rooms full of people who didnât want to lose.
His apartment was twelve minutes from your hospital by cab. Your commute was forty, on a good day. The first trimester fatigue was going to get worse before it got better. He had a spare bedroom. It was just practical.
The second time was a week after that, in person, when heâd swung by your hospital on his way from somewhere official to somewhere else official. Heâd shown up in your break room with a coffee you hadnât asked for and had the conversation again.
He laid it out like he was briefing someone. The proximity to your hospital, the fact that his building had a doorman and a parking garage and an elevator, the fact that your building had none of those things and three flights of stairs that were already becoming a thing you noticed at the end of a long shift.
The third time was on a Tuesday when youâd gotten home at midnight and stood at the bottom of your stairs for longer than youâd like to admit before making yourself go up them.
Youâd texted Sarah about it not entirely meaning to, and Sarah had apparently mentioned it to her father, and her father had apparently mentioned it to Bucky. Your phone had rung at twelve fifteen.
How does news travel so fast?
The fourth time you said no it was because youâd run out of actual reasons and had to fall back on principle, which he received with the patience of someone who understood the difference and was content to wait.
That patience, somehow, was the thing that wore you down. Not the logic of it.
Heâd just set the option on the table and waited with his hands in his pockets while you turned it over and found fewer and fewer things wrong with it.
That time youâd said, âFine. A month. Weâll see how it goes.â
His apartment is on the fourteenth floor of a building that has a lobby with actual plants in it and a doorman named Gerald who learned your name on the second day and now says âgood morningâ like he means it.
The spare bedroom has a window that faces east, which you hadnât expected to care about. But find that you do, when the morning light comes in early and clean.
The first few days felt like moving around a furniture arrangement that hadnât fully settled. Two people with established routines in one space, both of you figuring out the other.
You learned that he woke up early, always, and that the coffee was made before you came out of your room.
You learned that he watched the news in the living room in the evenings with the sound low and that he didnât talk during it. Which suited you fine because you had charts to finish.
You learned that he stocked the fridge with things youâd mentioned offhand once, twice, in passing.
The ginger tea appeared on the third day, on the shelf above your coffee mug. You hadnât said you needed it. But youâd been slightly more nauseous every morning and apparently heâd noticed, because there it was, three boxes of it, like it had always been there.
Youâre fourteen weeks now. Which means youâd started to show in the way that is noticeable if you know what youâre looking for, the small firm curve of it below your navel that your regular clothes are beginning to politely argue with.
Looking down at it in the mirror still does something to you that you donât have a clean word for.
Bucky doesnât comment on it. That might be the thing you appreciate most.
What he does is quietly rearrange things. The stuff on the highest shelves moved down without discussion. A non-slip mat appeared in the shower.
He started being in the kitchen when you came home late, putting something together, and there was always enough for two.
Youâd tried to protest the first time and heâd handed you a bowl of whatever it was and said âsit down, eatâ, and something about the directness of it had short-circuited your objection.
The dynamic between you had shifted in a way that was hard to articulate. He made you laugh twice last week, genuinely. Once about something on the news and once about something Gerald had said in the lobby. Youâd felt the laugh leave your body and thought afterward, with some surprise, that you hadnât been performing it.
You still felt the thing from the coffee shop, underneath. You didnât think youâd stop feeling that for a while. It is something that wonât stop hurting when you think of it often, and you think of it often.
Tuesday morning, youâre off until noon.
Off, for a resident, means you slept until eight instead of five and only have emails to deal with instead of a full shift, but still.
You come out of your room in your robe and your thick socks, hair in the kind of chaos that only nine hours of actual sleep can produce, and youâre running through the schedule of the day in your head when you turn the corner into the kitchen and stop.
Bucky is at the stove.
In a towel.
Just a towel. White, knotted at his hip, his hair still damp against the back of his neck. He clearly just stepped out of the shower and heâs got the skillet on and heâs doing something with eggs, fully concentrated on it.
You should say something. You should announce yourself, the way a normal person would, and give you both a second to reorient.
You donât.
Youâve seen him in suits, casuals at home, youâve seen him in the sweater from the coffee shop, youâve seen him in the dark of a hotel room. But this is different in a way that your body is entirely on board with and your brain is slightly behind on.
Heâs solid, broad across the back and tapered down, and the towel sits low on his hips and the morning light in the kitchen is doing things youâd like it to stop doing.
His left arm, the metal one, catches the light differently than his right, the lines of it tracing the shape of a shoulder, a forearm, fingers curled around the handle of the pan.
Youâve always been a normal amount of attracted to him. Youâve been telling yourself that it was circumstantial. Hormones, proximity, those things. And that it would settle down, because that was the sensible thing for it to do.
It is not settling down.
You press your lips together and look at the ceiling briefly and remind yourself that you are a grown adult in her first trimester who is going to behave appropriately. The first trimester is notoriously unkind when it comes to this, your body does not always know whatâs good for it.
âMorning,â you say.
He turns around. To his credit, he doesnât look particularly thrown. A little caught, maybe, but he rolls with it. âHey. Sorry⌠I was running late, I figured Iâd just start breakfast before Iââ He gestures vaguely at himself with the spatula, which you choose not to find charming. âDidnât hear you get up.â
âItâs fine,â you say, and you get yourself to the coffee maker and give yourself something to do with your hands. âWhat time is it?â
âEight-forty.â He turns back to the eggs. âI wouldâve had it ready before you got up usually. Woke up late.â
âYou know you donât have to make me breakfast every single day.â
He shifts the pan off the heat. âI was making eggs anyway. Seemed wasteful not to.â
You look at his back. His very⌠whatever. You pour your coffee. âAre you going to put clothes on?â
âYeah, Iâ are the eggs okay first or should Iââ
âThe eggs are fine,â you say, which possibly comes out with slightly more feeling than the eggs require, and you turn and look very deliberately at your mug.
He dishes the eggs onto two plates, sets yours on the counter in front of you with a piece of toast that has appeared from somewhere.
Then he takes himself and his towel situation to his room.
You sit at the kitchen counter and stare at your eggs and feel extremely normal about everything.
Hormones. First trimester. Completely explicable.
You eat your eggs. Theyâre good. Theyâre always good, which is its own kind of inconvenience.
He comes back in grey sweatpants and a t-shirt with his damp hair and sits across the counter from you with his own plate.
The thing about Bucky Barnes in grey sweatpants is that it is somehow worse than the towel because you cannot blame it on anything. You cannot say you were caught off guard.
He is just sitting there in normal clothes eating scrambled eggs and looking at his phone. This is just your morning now. This is what your mornings are.
âYou have the afternoon appointment Friday?â he asks, not looking up from his phone.
âTwo oâclock.â
He nods. Puts his phone down. Picks up his coffee. âI can drive you.â
âI can get there.â
âI want to be there.â
You consider pointing out that he says that a lot. You decide not to. âOkay.â
The scrubs have been sitting in the bottom of your bag for three weeks. The dark navy set, the ones youâd bought in your first year when you finally had enough shifts under your belt to feel like they were earned.
Youâd packed them when you left your apartment and told yourself it was practical, that youâd need them before the end of your residency, that theyâd still fit by then.
Today is the final week. Last stretch before your exams, before whatever comes after, and youâd woken up this morning with the particular weight of an ending sitting on your chest. The bittersweet kind, the kind that doesnât fully resolve into either sad or glad and just sits there asking you to feel both.
Youâd thought about your locker at the hospital, the mug you kept in the break room, the nurses who knew your name and your coffee order and the specific way you liked your charts organized. Youâd thought about who youâd been when you started, which felt like another personâs life viewed through glass.
The scrubs had seemed right. Nostalgic. The way you might put on an old sweater, or drive past your childhood home. Just to remember what it felt like.
That was the theory.
In practice, youâre standing in front your mirror at eight in the morning and the scrub top is bunched at your midsection, stuck there, going neither up nor down.
Your stomach has done what stomachs do at nineteen weeks. It is present, unmistakably, the firm round curve of it that youâd spent weeks watching appear like something surfacing through water.
The scrub top, which had been fitted-ish even before, has no interest in accommodating it. The fabric is straining across your chest in a way that would be funny in a different context, because your chest has also done what chests do, which is become something you are still getting used to seeing in mirrors.
The whole picture is that the scrub is basically a crop top, currently. The bottom six inches of your stomach are exposed. It will not go down.
You already know. You knew the moment you got it over your arms.
Still. Something cracks anyway.
Itâs not rational. Youâre a doctor, you understand whatâs happening to your body better than most people get to. Youâd read the weekly summaries without sentimentality. Youâd taken your vitamins and gone to your appointments and been, all things considered, fairly functional about the whole thing.
But thereâs something about the scrubs specifically that you hadnât accounted for. Three years of who you were, and they donât fit. You cannot explain why that particular fact is the one that finds the crack, except that it does. And your eyes are burning before youâve fully registered that theyâre going to.
You pull at the hem once more anyway. Just to try. It doesnât move.
âHeyââ Bucky, in the hallway, knocking twice before he pushes the door slightly open. He does that, announces himself before the door, which youâd noticed in the first week and filed away as a thing you appreciated without saying so. âBreakfast isââ He stops.
Youâre not crying. Youâre at the stage just before, the one where your face is doing something you canât control and your eyes are bright and your throat has that specific tightness. And youâre wearing a scrub top bunched up to your ribcage with your stomach completely exposed and your bra visible and your hands still fisted in the fabric.
He comes into your room properly, and stands behind you. You look at him in the mirror. He looks at you.
âThe scrubs donât fit.â Your voice comes out steadier than you expected.
âYeah,â he says. Like heâs agreeing with whatever the real sentence is underneath the one you said.
âI know they werenât going to.â You let go of the hem. âI donât know why I thoughtââ You press your lips together. The burning behind your eyes is doing what it wants to regardless, and you look up at the ceiling briefly and breathe.
âItâs the last week,â you say, after a second.
Bucky doesnât say anything right away. Your eyes meet in the mirror and thereâs nothing in his face that looks like he doesnât understand.
âI know.â
The simplicity of it helps more than anything elaborate would have. You breathe again and feel the tightness in your throat ease a fraction.
His hands find the hem of the scrub top, and he looks at your face in the mirror first. When you give the smallest nod, he eases it up and over and off.
You stand there in your bra and maternity leggings.
In the mirror, his eyes make a trip south that he doesnât intend you to catch. Quick and involuntary and immediately corrected, back to your face. But you caught it. The fraction of a second where they landed, where they stayed, before he pulled them back up.
You donât say anything.
Youâd spent weeks rearranging your sense of your own body, cataloguing the changes the way you would with a patient.
Maintaining the clinical distance had always been your competence.
But clinical distance has a way of not applying when someoneâs eyes do what his just did.
This is not the hungry look from a hotel room. This is the helpless half-second kind. The involuntary kind. The honest kind, the kind a person canât manufacture.
The fact that it was involuntary is the part that does something.
âBreakfast is probably cold,â you say, because you have to say something and the other things arenât available yet.
âI can reheat it.â
âYou donât have toââ
âIâll reheat it.â
You look at yourself in the mirror. You donât look like yourself in the way youâve always expected to look like yourself.
And you canât tell yet whether thatâs loss or just change, whether thereâs even a meaningful difference between those two things.
âBuckyâŚ. Thank you.â For the way heâd come in and just stood there and let the thing be what it was without trying to fix it or reframe it or promise you it would be fine.
The anatomy scan is at twenty weeks, which you know from the part of your brain that has been doing obstetric math since the positive test.
It is the one where they can tell you. If you want to know. If you ask.
You hadnât decided, going in.
Bucky hadnât asked whether you were going to find out, which youâd appreciated. Heâd just shown up, same as always, jacket and the particular stillness that he brought into medical spaces with him.
The scan takes twenty minutes. You lie on your back with the transducer moving over your stomach while Dr. Reyes takes her measurements and narrates in the calm voice she has.
Bucky sits in the chair and watches the screen.
The anatomy is normal. All of itâthe cardiac chambers, the spine, the cerebellum, the face. You listen to Dr. Reyes confirm each structure and your brain files it the way it always does, methodical.
Underneath the methodology there is something that is not methodology. something that has been building since the first scan, something that you have been calling various things and none of them have been entirely right.
âDo you want to know the sex?â Dr. Reyes asks.
You look at the ceiling. Then you look at Bucky.
He looks back at you. His expression says itâs up to you, the same way it said that about the apartment, about the appointments, about all of it.
Heâd been very careful, the whole time, not to lean on decisions that were yours to make. Youâd noticed. Youâd been noticing for months.
âYeah.â
Dr. Reyes smiles, and moves the transducer.
A girl.
You hadnât had a preference, or youâd told yourself you hadnât, but when she said it you understood something, likeâoh. Oh, of course. Of course itâs her.
You donât cry in the office. You make it to the elevator.
Its the sudden, quick kind. Two breaths worth, your hand pressed to your mouth, and then it passes.
Youâre left standing in an elevator with your eyes bright, and Bucky is beside you looking at your face with the expression that isnât unreadable anymore.
âSorry,â you say, which is stupid, crying is a completely normal response toâ
âDonât.â He puts his arm around your shoulder and you let him.
By the time youâre in the lobby youâre fine, or close enough.
âA girl,â you say out loud, just to hear it.
âA girl.â Something in his voice makes you look at his face, and whatâs there stops you. Heâs looking straight ahead, jaw working slightly, and he looks like a man who has just understood the full size of something and is very quietly being changed by it.
His arm comes down from your shoulder but his hand finds yours briefly, just for a moment.
The first kick happens on a Thursday evening at twenty-three weeks.
Youâre on the couch. Youâve been on the couch for an hour, which has become a thing you do now. Come home and decompose horizontally for a while before you can face anything requiring vertical effort.
Bucky is somewhere in his officr and youâre watching something on the television that youâre not fully watching.
Itâs not what youâd expected. It isnât a kick exactly, itâs more like something â someone really â turning over. A rolling flutter from the inside, unmistakable once it happens, unmistakable in the way that means youâd know it anywhere forever.
You go completely still.
It happens again. Clearer this time. More definite.
âBucky.â You donât mean to say it at volume. It just comes out.
Following footsteps, you see him. He reads your face immediately and crouches beside the couch without asking âwhatâs wrongâ, because whatever your face is doing right now clearly isnât wrong.
âSheâs moving.â
His eyes go to your hands on your stomach. âNow?â
âJust now. Sheââ It happens again, and your face does something youâre completely not in control of. âThere.â
He looks up at you and then at your stomach and then at you again. âCan I?â
âYeah.â You take his hand and put it where yours is, your palm over the back of his.
For a moment nothing happens, and you think maybe itâs stopped, and thenâ
His face.
Youâve catalogued Buckyâs expressions for months. You know the almost-smile and the real one and the careful one and the behind-the-eyes one, but this is none of them.
This is something you havenât seen before and canât name, something stripped entirely of everything else, just⌠pure. Open in a way his face almost never is. His eyes are bright and he is looking at your stomach like it is the most astonishing thing he has ever encountered.
âThatâs her.â His voice is not steady.
âThatâs her.â
He doesnât move his hand. You donât move yours. The kick comes again. The two of you stay like that on the couch, with his hand under yours, her making herself known between you.
There are things between you still. Not resolved, the coffee shop, his words you seem to canât get past.
But right now itâs quiet.
âSheâs strong,â he eventually says. A little undone. Trying not to show it and not quite succeeding, which you love. Which you note, quietly, that you love.
He looks up at you and something passes between you that doesnât need words, something that would have been impossible five months ago.
His thumb moves slightly on your stomach, a small unconscious thing, a hello from the outside. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes and feel her move again.
Today you notice that your left breast is tender in a specific way. Your colostrum has been leaking for the better part of five days.
Now thereâs this localised tenderness. You press two fingers against it, and find the spot immediately.
Blocked duct. Clean and obvious. Youâd diagnosed it in approximately four seconds.
The knowing doesnât make it hurt less.
You get in the shower and let the hot water run directly on it, and you work at the tissue the way you know. Gentle, firm strokes toward the nipple, drained before it blocks further.
It helps a little. Enough to get dressed and eat breakfast and tell yourself it would resolve on its own by afternoon, which it might, which blocked ducts sometimes do when caught early.
By afternoon it hasnât resolved.
By evening itâs worse.
Bucky makes dinner and breakfast and lunch. Itâs something he took it upon himself, and no matter what you did, he insisted he wanted to. You decided that was the least he could do, since youâre already growing a whole human.
Youâre on the couch when he brings you your plate, but donât really eat it, which he notices. Because Bucky notices things. That is one of the more inconvenient facts about living with him.
âYouâre not eating.â An observation.
âIâm eating.â You take a bite to demonstrate.
He sits down on his end of the couch, his own plate, and looks at you in the way he looks at things when heâs decided something. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothingâs wrong. Iâm fine.â
âYouâve been holding your left side since you sat down.â
You look at him. You hadnât realized you were doing that. Your hand is braced just below your ribs on the left, the pressure of it a reflex you hadnât consciously authorized. You move it to your lap.
âIâm fine.â
âOkay.â He eats a bite of his dinner. âWhatâs wrong?â
The repetition startles a short laugh out of you. âBucky.â
âIâve got time.â
You look at your plate. The thing about the past several months is that youâd stopped performing fine quite so much. You still did it sometimes. Habit, mostly.
But the effort of maintaining it in the face of someone who was going to sit there and wait it out had started to feel like more work than just saying the thing.
âBlocked duct.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means one of the milk ducts is⌠blockedâ
âYouâre⌠producing?â
âYeah, for like five days. Itâs normal. Donât worry.â
âNormal? Youâre in pain.â
âThe milk part is normal. The blocked part is not normal even after delivery.â
âSo, what do we do? Whatâs the treatment?â
Of course. Of course thatâs the immediate question. You set your fork down. âWarm compress, massage, expression. In that order.â
âHave you tried all of that?â
âYes.â
âAnd?â
âAnd itâs⌠helping. Some. Not fully resolved.â
Heâs quiet for a second, and you can hear him thinking, which is a thing youâve learned to recognize. âDo you want me toâ I could help with the massage. If thatâsâ if it would help.â
Something happens to your body that you are immediately and completely dismissive of. You are thirty-eight weeks pregnant and you are sitting on a couch across from the man who is the father of your child and who is also just a person asking a practical question.
Your bodyâs response to that question is frankly embarrassing and entirely the fault of the third trimester hormonal profile.
âIâm fine,â you say, for the third time, which even you can tell is getting less convincing.
âYou said that.â He puts his plate on the coffee table. âWhat else is there?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âFor the duct. If massage doesnât work, what else is there?â
Your face does something you are not responsible for. You think about how to answer this question, which should be simple, which is a medical question with a factual answer, and yet.
âSuction.â
âA pump?â Heâs already standing with his not even half finished place. âIâll go buy oneââ
âItâs not the pump.â The words come out before youâve decided to say them. You look at him.
He looks back at you.
âTell me what it is.â His voice is even.
You hold his gaze for a second. There are thirty-eight weeks of something between the two of you, not all of it clean, most of it good, and you are in pain that has a solution that you are not asking for.
âManual suction would be equally effective than the pump. Itâs also direct. You donât have toâ I donât need you to do anything. Itâll resolve.â
Heâs very still. âWill it?â
âProbably.â
âProbably,â he echoes.
âYes.â
Heâs looking at you with the expression that isnât unreadable anymore, hasnât been for a while, the one that means heâs made a decision and is waiting to see if youâll come to the same one. âYouâre in pain.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâve said that four times and eaten approximately one bite of dinner.â His voice is quiet and not unkind and leaves absolutely no room. âYouâre in pain, and thereâs something that would help, and youâre sitting there not asking for it. So Iâm asking. Do you want me to help?â
âItâs notâ This isnâtââ
âI know what it is and what it isnât. Iâm asking if you want me to help.â
The honesty of the question, the way heâs asking plainly if you want him to, does something to the knot of your refusal, loosens it.
âOkay.â
The bedroom lamp is on low, which youâre grateful for. Youâre sitting against the headboard in just your tank top because bra is compression and compression makes the pain worse.
Bucky is sitting beside you. Youâve walked him through it in the voice you use for medical explanations. Impersonal, methodical, this is the direction of drainage, this much is the pressure weâre aiming for. Heâd listened the way he listens to everything, completely, without interrupting.
âTell me if Iâm doing it wrong.â
âYouâre not.â Youâd watched his hands and the technique was right, working from the periphery inward the way youâd told him.
The heat of it was immediate, the specific relief of pressure moving in the right direction, and you let your head fall back against the headboard and breathe through it.
It hurts. It hurts in the way that relief sometimes hurts, the way that unkinking something thatâs been kinked for too long. You press your lips together and exhale.
âStill okay?â he asks.
âYes.â Your voice is not entirely steady. âKeep going.â
The blocked duct is stubborn in the way they get when theyâve been compressing for a day. The massage alone was never going to be enough, youâd known that, youâd known it since Wednesday morning and done it anyway because asking was harder.
But his hands are warmer than yours, the pressure more sustained, and the way his fingers glide over your swollen skin sends an unexpected shiver through you, the warmth pooling not just in relief but in a deeper, aching need between your thighs.
When his mouth closes over the nipple, the sensation is overwhelming at first.
The sound you make is entirely involuntary and you press your hand to your own mouth immediately.
His hand stills on your ribs. He doesnât stop. The suction is careful and rhythmic and nothing about the way heâs doing this is anything other than what it is.
Yet your body does not seem to fully understand the assignment. The wet heat of his mouth envelops you, his tongue pressing softly against the sensitive peak as he draws gently, each pull sending a spark of unwelcome arousal straight to your core, making you clench involuntarily around nothing.
You tell yourself youâre not turned on by him relieving your pain. Youâre wrong.
Just for a fleeting moment, you wonder, if it's affecting him too. If the intimate act of tasting you, feeling your body respond under his lips, is stirring something in him the way it's unraveling you.
With continued suction, the colostrum releases slowly, the hard cord of tissue beginning to soften under his hand. You feel the pressure shifting, the acute point of pain diffusing.
And your eyes fill without your permission, the specific relief of it after a day of something that just quietly hurt and hurt and hurt.
âThere.â Your voice breaks on it, just slightly.
He pulls back. Looks at your face. And then without discussion he puts his arm around you and pulls you into his side carefully. His hand finds the top of your bump in the way he does sometimes without thinking and you let him.
âYouâre okay,â he says into your hair. âIâve got you. Youâre okay.â
You breathe. The ache is fading and you are okay.
But the lingering warmth of his mouth on your skin, the ghost of his breath against your nipple, has left you throbbing with need.
Thereâs this heat in you that has nothing to do with pain or hurt or blocked ducts. And everything to do with him and his proximity. You donât think you can blame it on your hormones anymore.
Youâre focused on not doing anything more. Because you donât know how he feels. Just because heâd offered to help doesnât mean heâs into this. Into you.
âWhy didnât you call me?â
You donât know what he is talking about.
You lift your head a little. âWhat?â
His hand moves slightly on your back, a small motion, like heâs deciding how to continue. âThe morning after the gala.â Heâs not looking at you directly. âI had an early call. I had to be out by 5.30. I didnât want to wake you.â
That morning comes rushing back like it was yesterday. The empty side. The folded dress on the chair. The glass of water.
âI left my number on the hotel notepad, by the lamp. I thoughtâ I thought youâd call.â
âWhatââ
âLeft side of the lamp. I figured maybe you didnât want to. And then weeks went by and I thoughtââ He doesnât finish that sentence. He doesnât have to. âAnd then you called. And I picked up and heard your voice and I thought, okay. Okay, she called.â
If only youâd looked properly.
You close your eyes. Your brain does the math. How close youâd been to something, how much the last eight months might have looked different⌠if only youâd looked properly.
âAnd then the coffee shop. I said somethingâ I said something I would take back ten times over if I could. The look on your face.â He finally glances down at you, and his expression is the honest one, the one stripped of the management. âIâd been thinking about you for weeks, and then there you were, telling me something that big, and I panicked and I said the worst possible thing, and Iâve beenââ
âBuckyâŚâ
âIâve been trying to show you that Iâm not that⌠Since then. That â that isnât who I am.â
âI know.â You mean it fully. âI know.â
His hand hasnât stopped moving on your back and youâve gone completely loose against his side.
You turn your face slightly into his shoulder. He smells like the same thing he always smells like.
Something clean, something his.
You look up. Heâs looking down. At you.
âI looked, I searched⌠I â I am so sorry, Bucky.â
He shakes his head, âyou have nothing to be sorry about.â His voice is a whisper, gently wiping something off your face, only then do you realise youâd been crying.
Later if you thought about it, you could not have said who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was just the proximity and the angle and months and months of near misses.
But his mouth is on yours and it is nothing like the hotel room. Nothing at all like that.
That had been hunger and dark and mutual want in its simplest form, and this is something else, something that has been earned in increments. When you kiss him back you feel the whole weight of it.
His hand comes up to your jaw, the right one, and he kisses you the way he does things when he means them. Slow. Sure. Like he is not going anywhere and wants you to know it. This time thereâs no tears.
When you pull back, his thumb is on your cheek and your foreheads are together and youâre both breathing.
âHi,â you say, which is what you always seem to say when he takes you off guard.
Something changes in his expression. Soft and a little helpless and very, very him. âHi.â
You kiss him again, slower, and his hand slides from your jaw to your neck, and when you shift against him you feel him go still.
âI donât want toââ He pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is flushed, and heâs trying to be responsible about something and finding it difficult. His eyes go briefly, helplessly, to your stomach, and then back to your face. âI donât want to hurt her.â
You look at him. Something warm and fond moves through you, which is perhaps not the most practical emotion for this particular moment, but there it is.
âSex is not contraindicated,â you say.
His brow furrows slightly. âHow do youââ
âBucky.â
âI justââ
âItâs actively encouraged in the two weeks before the due date.â You hold his gaze. âProstaglandins in semen help with cervical ripening. And orgasm stimulates uterine contractility, whichââ
âOkay.â
ââcan help initiate labour at term, which is whyââ
âOkay.â Heâs slightly flushed. âI get it.â
âDo you? Because I can explain the mechanismââ
âHow do you know that?â He asks with the expression of a man who has already realized the answer.
You cock your eyebrow.
âRight. Youâre a doctor.â He looks like heâs genuinely embarrassed, with the kind of blush you have never seen on him before in eight months of looking at his face. âSorry.â
You press your lips together so you donât smile too much, because this is not the moment for I told you so, except that it is a little. âItâs okay.â
âI justâI didnât want toââ
âI know.â You put your hand on his jaw, the same way youâd put it on his jaw in a hotel room eight months ago in a completely different life. âI know. Sheâs safe. Iâm safe. Okay?â
This is different from the hotel room in every way that matters.
âYouâre beautiful.â He says it simply, like itâs the truth.
âIâm enormous.â
âYeah.â He says it like those are the same sentence. Like enormous is included in beautiful, like the distinction doesnât exist.
You pull his shirt over his head and he lets you, and then his hands find your tank top and he eases it off fully. His eyes move over you the way theyâd moved that day in the mirror, except now there is nothing to look away from, and he doesnât.
âTell me what feels good. Tell me what doesnât.â
âYouâre going to make me talk the whole time?â
âIâm going to make you talk when I need to know something.â His mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, and his voice is warm against your skin. âWhich will be often.â
Your hands find his hair and you hold on.
His hands learn it the way youâd watch him learn anything else. With attention, nothing half-done.
He finds your hip, your thigh, and his fingers trail up the inside of it with the unhurried patience of a man who is not going anywhere. When they reach the apex of your thighs and slip between your folds, finding you slick and swollen, he exhales slowly against your neck.
âJesus.â
âI told you it wasââ
âNot the physiology⌠Justâ you.â His fingers part you gently, circling your clit with soft strokes, and your grip on his hair tightens. âThis.â
You stop talking.
His fingers are gentle in a way that is its own undoing. Heâs learning, finding the places that make your breath change and staying there, pressing and rubbing with just enough pressure to send heat pooling low in your belly.
Youâre on your side, which is where heâd guided you with the easy practicality of someone whoâd done their research and wasnât going to make a thing of it.
His chest is warm against your back and his hand is over your hip and everything about the angle lets his fingers delve deeper, one sliding inside you while his thumb works your clit.
He keeps going until your thighs are shaking and youâre saying his name with your face pressed to the pillow and when his fingers slow, you make an undignified sound
âDonât stopââ
âIâm not stopping,â he says into your shoulder. âJust changing.â
He shifts, settling behind you, and you feel the warm blunt pressure of his cock at your entrance, the head nudging against your wetness.
He pauses there. His hand is on your hip, his mouth is at your temple. âOkay?â
âYes⌠Please.â
He pushes in slowly. All the way slow, inch by inch, stretching you, giving you time to feel every ridge and vein as he fills you completely. You exhale through it and he stays still when heâs fully seated, buried to the hilt. You feel his chest chest rising and falling against your back. âOkay?â he asks again.
âMore than okay,â you manage, which makes him exhale a short, warm laugh against your neck.
He moves. The kind of pace that builds rather than rushes, his cock sliding out almost to the tip before thrusting back in. His hand on your hip holds you in place, and you feel every movement everywhere, the particular fullness of him inside you, pressing against that sensitive spot with each stroke, the particular closeness of his body wrapped around yours.
His hand slides from your hip to your stomach and just rests there and something about that, the fact that he thought to do that, his palm warm and open on the curve of your belly while his cock moves inside you, does something to you that is beyond physical.
âBucky.â Itâs not a request for anything, just his name in your mouth, just needing to say it.
âIâm here.â His arm tightens around you. âIâve got you.â
His other hand finds your clit again, fingers slick with your arousal, rubbing in tight, slow circles that match the rhythm of his hips. You feel the tension building in slow long waves, nothing like the urgent snap of the hotel room, this is the accumulative kind, the kind that climbs and climbs, your walls clenching around him with each thrusts.
His mouth is at your ear and heâs saying your name, just your name.
When you come, you come with his name on your lips and his arms around you and his hand on your belly.
It moves through you like something warm breaking loose from somewhere it had been held for a long time, your body pulsing around his cock, drawing him deeper. You feel it in your chest as much as anywhere else.
His hips stutter and slow and he presses his face into your neck and follows you, spills inside you. His arm fully wraps around you, and then everything is still.
You lie there with his heartbeat at your back, fast still and slowing.
This time thereâs no condom to dispose. But he does move, and comes back with a washcloth and a glass of water. A glass of water, again.
His hands are soft and his touch gentle when he cleans you, wiping away the mix of your release and his from between your thighs.
After a while, after heâs made you drink half a glass of water, and youâre settled into him, his hand moves on your stomach. âHey,â he says. To her. Like a hello.
You press your hand over his.
Something moves under your palms and you realise itâs a hello back from the inside.
my masterlist !
extras. if this flops, iâll cry. also why was this so long lmao đ
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a floristâs life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.2k
note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)
The tournament grounds were quieter now.
The crowd that had packed the stands since dawn -merchants, nobility, smallfolk who'd bartered half a week's wages for a decent vantage point- had dissolved into the taverns and banquet halls of the city, chasing warm ale and the joy of retelling someone else's violence over a good meal.
The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.
He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.
The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.
It didn't feel like much of anything.
Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.
The banquet, he thought, scowling.
Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.
Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.
So he just kept walking.
The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.
Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.
A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.
"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."
"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."
"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.
They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.
The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.
Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.
"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."
"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.
"Close enough."
It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.
The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.
"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"
"I'm not going to the feast."
A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"
"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.
The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"
"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."
He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"
The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.
"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."
"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."
He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.
"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"
"I've had worse."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."
Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."
The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."
"Appreciated."
----
His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.
This had its advantages.
He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.
Right.
He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.
The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.
Almost.
He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.
The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.
The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.
The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.
There.
What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.
He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.
The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.
Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.
Glory didn't buy roofing.
He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.
He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.
He had no use for adornments. He wasnât fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.
The war had seen to that.
He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.
A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.
He stared at it.
Red stars on grey and black.
His colors.
He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.
Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.
Just to see if it fits.
It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness⌠and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.
The ruby flared.
Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.
The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.
What-
He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.
The room tilted.
No. The room disappeared.
The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.
All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.
His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.
He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.
The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.
Then nothing.
----
She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.
The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.
Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.
The lock stuck.
She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.
The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.
The front of the shop was an obstacle course.
Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didnât have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.
Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.
She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.
The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.
More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.
The light swung once, twice, and settled.
She saw the legs first.
Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.
Her breath stopped.
For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.
There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.
He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.
She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.
He wasn't moving.
His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.
So. Not dead.
She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.
Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.
So how-?
Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.
She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.
His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldnât describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.
The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.
Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.
Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.
She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.
His face was-
Well.
A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.
Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.
A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.
The beard was a few days past deliberate.
And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.
It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.
She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.
Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.
Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.
Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.
Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.
Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.
Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.
Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.
Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.
She looked down at him again.
At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.
At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.
The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.
He still wasn't moving.
She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.
The line hummed and returned a busy signal.
Dammit.
She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.
Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.
She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.
Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-
The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.
Her breath caught.
She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.
He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.
She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.
For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.
His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.
Then his eyes found her.
A nice pair of steel blue eyes.
That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.
She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-
Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.
She didn't account for his reflexes.
One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.
He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.
His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.
When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.
Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.
She could count his eyelashes.
The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.
He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.
Get off get off get off-
She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-
And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:
husband!congressman!bucky x wife!diplomat!reader
⤡ matt murdock x reader
summary: one week. that's what you agree to. one week for bucky barnes to prove that your marriage can still work. it should be simple. it never is.
because bucky starts taking up space in your life like he never left, and matt murdock never quite takes up enough. you already know how this should end. the divorce papers have been sitting in your drawer for two months, waiting. but you kept his side of the closet clear. you never put anything on his nightstand. and that, more than anything, is what gives you away.
warnings/tags: SMUT, p in v, semi-public sex, fingering, praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), manhandling, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit kink, pussy pronouns, dacryphilia, soft dom!bucky, love triangle (no cheating), second chance romance, idiots in love, avoidant!matt, possessive!bucky, bucky being an emotionally repressed idiot, he's also kind of manipulative at one point but reader chews him out for it trust me, divorce babes, bucky grovelling til his knees are shredded, mutual pining, lots of yummy angst, hurt/comfort, alpine mention, bucky actually works on himself, a man who yearns is a man who earns, 18+ MDNI
word count: 28.8k (i think i went crazy writing this)
from maddie: hello and welcome back to yappers anonymous (i mean it, there's so much dialogue in here). anyway, i'm really sorry for taking so long on this. but it's finally here, and i hope the word count makes up for the delay. i have really struggled with writers block while writing this, and i lowkey kind of hate it. but i really really hope you guys don't <3
p.s. i realise the first part was set in december but i couldn't physically write about christmas in april/may so imagine that part one was set in early december and that's why there's no mention of christmas lol
masterlist | series masterpost
The last guest leaves at half past midnight, and then there are no more excuses.
For the past two hours since leaving your office and slipping back into the ballroom like you hadn't just comprehensively undermined eight months of careful separation, you'd had the party. The party, with its noise and its obligations and its endless, mercifully absorbing requirement that you be on. All of it demanding just enough of your attention to make thinking about anything else logistically impossible. It had been, if nothing else, somewhere to put your face.Â
But now the guests are gone, the house has exhaled down to its bones, and the silence left behind is the kind that doesn't stay empty for long. You can already feel the thoughts beginning to squirm back in at the edges, insistently, like they've been waiting all evening with a numbered ticket and now it's finally their turn.
The whole room is still dressed and gleaming for an evening that was, by every external measure, a resounding success. But you are currently conducting a very focused internal audit of every decision you have made since approximately nine o'clock this evening.
The audit is not going well.
Returning to the party with your husbandâex-husbandâBucky, on your arm like you hadn't just left a significant proportion of your dignity scattered on your desk had been one thing. The way the evening had gone after was quite another.Â
Bucky had been insufferable, obviously. Warm in the particular way that reads as devoted husband from twelve feet away but as I have won something and we both know it in closer proximity. His arm became a fixed and immovable constant around your waist, metal hand pressing at the small of your back with the patient, territorial certainty of a man who has decided something and seen no reason to discuss it.
Matt had gone. You'd felt his absence around ten minutes in. The particular negative space of someone who has quietly removed themselves without making it anyone's problem. The only remnant of his presence was his champagne flute left half-finished on a windowsill you'd passed on the way to the speeches. You'd stared at it for a moment longer than you should have.
Bucky had noticed your mind drifting, of course. His thumb smoothed over your back - just a small, deliberate pressure that meant I see exactly where you're looking, and I'm still here. Stay. And you had, because the alternative was making a scene at your own event. And also becauseâwell.
Because somewhere between the dinner and the second round of speeches, something had started happening that you hadn't authorised and couldn't entirely stop. You'd caught Bucky's eye over a comment from the Belgian ambassador and he gave you that faint, private smile in return - the shared language you developed years ago.Â
At one point heâd dipped his head to your ear to murmur something dry about one of the ministers, and youâd had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing. Bucky had looked down at you with those soft eyes he does when he's not thinking carefully enough about his own expression, and you'd looked away first. You were even finishing each other's sentences again without realising.
And by the time the last round of handshakes came, you'd stopped noticing the weight of his hand on your back and started noticing the absence of it when it left. If you clutched at straws, maybe you could convince yourself that this was just eight months of having nobody to lean into. That, and the fact your body had always been significantly stupider than your brain where Bucky Barnes was concerned. But truth of it was quieter and more inconvenient than any rationalisation you could construct: it had felt, humiliatingly, like home.
The audit is really not going well.Â
âMadam Ambassador.â
Thomas, your chief of staff, materialises at the foot of the stairs. Silent, eternal, and entirely too perceptive. A man who has worked in diplomatic residences long enough to have seen everything and professionally forgotten most of it.
âThe last of the staff will be finished within the hour,â he offers. âWill there be anything else tonight?â
You open your mouth.
âThat'll be all, Thomas, thank you.â
Bucky's voice comes from somewhere behind your left shoulder, easy and warm in the way of a man who has slipped right back into the domestic machinery of your shared life.
Thomas nods, unperturbed. âVery good, Congressman Barnes. Wonderful to have you back, sir. I've had your things brought up.â
Of course he has.
Because why wouldn't he? Congressman Barnes is visiting his wife, and that is a thing that happens, and the residence's household operates on the reasonable assumptions, none of which were consulted past you.
âGreat, thanks Thomas.â You reply, and your voice comes out perfectly steady, which feels like a small miracle. âGoodnight.â
Thomas retreats. And then it is just the two of you, on the landing, in this enormous, beautiful house, at the end of the most profoundly strange evening of what has already been a profoundly strange year. Neither of you speaks for just a beat too long.
âRight,â Bucky says finally.
âRight,â you agree.
You head upstairs, and he follows, and the house closes around you both like it was always going to.
ââ â˘Â  â âď¸ Ëăťđď¸ âšÂ
The master bedroom is on the first floor, east wing, overlooking the gardens.
It's your favourite room in the house;Â twelve foot ceilings, original cornicing, sash windows that rattle faintly when the wind comes off the park. It even has an original, working fireplace and enough space that the four poster doesn't overwhelm it, which is saying something.
You have not, in the past eight months, shared it with anyone
The door closes behind you both with a soft, decisive click.
You set your clutch down on the dressing table. He's already shrugging off his jacket, moving through the room with the ease of a man whose muscle memory never got the memo that he left.
Like a man who has lived here. Like the months of absence were a minor administrative detail rather than anything worth adjusting for. Like a man who has decided - and this is the thing about Bucky, this has always been the thing - that simply resuming works better than discussing. That if he just continues, the awkward conversation about feelings never has to be raised.
He reaches up to loosen his tie, that automatic gesture you have watched a thousand times, and then just⌠stops.
The pause is small. Almost nothing. His hands still at his collar and there's the briefest flicker of something in his expression that looks almost like recalibration. Like a man who has been operating on instinct for the last several hours and has only just now checked in with his frontal lobe to ask if instinct is advisable right now.
You watch him start to process the situation in real time. The room. The two sides of the turned down bed. His coat already laid on his chair. His suitcase placed next to his left side of the bed, because your chief of staff doesn't forget anything, ever, including what side of the bed the Congressman sleeps on.
Buckyâs tongue drags briefly over his teeth. Then he looks up and meets your eyes in the mirror, and the silence that follows has the particular quality of two people clearly thinking about the same three or four things and not willing to be the first to name any of them.
âI can take the couch,â he offers carefully. Gesturing vaguely at the small sofa by the fireplace that is, objectively, six inches shorter than he is.
âDon't be ridiculous, you'll be folded in half,â you object. âI'll take it.â
âYou won't fit either,â he points out.
âAt least I'm smaller than you.â
âWell," Bucky sighs flatly, âI'm not letting my wife sleep on a fucking loveseat.â
There it is again. Wife. The word he keeps wielding like a claim, like it still means what it used to. And it still lands the same. You hate that it does.
You hate the warm, stupid, entirely unwelcome thing it does somewhere behind your sternum. Because he's being impossible - he's been impossible all evening - and yet here he is, immovable on the subject of your comfort even while being the singular architect of your discomfort.Â
âSeparated wife,â you correct, sharper than you intend, but one of you has to keep score here and it's clearly not going to be him.
He tilts his head, slow and deliberate, his eyes doing that thing where they get very still and very blue and very focused on your face.
âDidn't seem very separated a few hours ago when you were coming on myââ
âDon't.â You hold up a hand. âDo not finish that sentence in my bedroom.â
"Our bedroom,â he replies, and the audacity of it nearly makes you laugh.
âYou haven't lived here in eight months,â you scoff.
âYeah, well.â He looks around the room with something that might be fondness or might be smugness or might be both. âDoesn't seem to have changed much.â
And that's the problem, isn't it? Because he's right. You haven't changed anything. His nightstand is bare but still his; you've never put anything on it, never colonized that space. Even the closet still has the section you'd never quite gotten around to re-purposing, like some part of you had been keeping it warm. Keeping it ready.
The thought makes you feel pathetic and furious in equal measure.
âWell it's my bedroom now, and I'm telling you not toââ You stop yourself, jaw tight, because getting into this right now, at nearly one in the morning with him half-undressed, is absolutely not happening. âYou know what? Fine. We're both adults. We can share a bed again without making it a thing.â
âI wasn't making it a thing.â
âYou were absolutely making it a thing.â
âI was making an observationââ
âYou were being an ass.â
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. âYeah, well. You married an ass.â
âSeparated from an ass,â you correct sharply, moving toward your dresser with more force than necessary.
The muscle in his jaw strains. Pops, like he's physically holding something back, biting down on whatever else he was about to say.
âFine.â He reaches up, resuming the work on his tie, fingers pulling the silk loose with deliberate, practised movements. âWe'll be adults about it.â
âFine,â you echo.
You yank open your pyjama drawer with more violence than it deserves, pulling out the silk set you'd bought months ago in a fit of reclamation. Expensive, modest, and nothing like the worn t-shirts you used to steal from him.
âGreat.â The tie slides free. He starts on the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements slow and methodical. You catch yourself watching his fingers work the buttons with that same deft precision they had a few hours ago when they were working you open instead. Christ.
âFine.â And the second it leaves your mouth you know you've made a tactical error, becauseâ
âYou already said fine.â
There it is.
âWell I'm saying it again.â You turn toward the bathroom. âBecause we're being adults about this. Mature, reasonable adults who can share a sleeping space without any complications,â you finish firmly.
âRight. No complications.â His voice is dry, but not quite enough to hide the edge underneath. Something that sounds dangerously close to hurt. âWe're real good at uncomplicated, you and me.â
You don't bother with a response. Just gather your things and head for the bathroom with all the dignity of a woman who is, essentially, fleeing. There's no other word for it. You're running away from your own husband in your own bedroom, and you both know it.
âI'm taking the bathroom first before I smother you with a pillow,â you announce.
âSee, that doesn't sound very aduââ
You slam the bathroom door before he can finish that sentence, and the lock clicks with a satisfaction that's entirely petty and entirely warranted. Behind the door, you hear him huff a laugh. Something that might be fondness disguised as frustration and that particular stubborn amusement he gets when you're both being impossible.Â
He always claims not to get off on your verbal sparring. You know he's always lying.
Leaning back against the door, you finally let yourself breathe. Your reflection stares back from the mirror, still perfect from three hours of performance.
Except it's not really, is it? Because underneath the dress, you're still wearing the evidence of what you let him do. What you begged him to do.
You reach behind yourself for the zipper, fingers searching low on your back for the tab. The dress is one of those gorgeous, backless nightmares designed by someone who clearly never considered that women might need to undress themselves. Your fingers catch the zip and you pull, but it only moves an inch before jamming.
âCome on,â you mutter, twisting your arm lower. Your shoulder protests. The zip grudges down another half-inch before catching completely on some invisible fold of silk.
You try the other arm. Same failure, different angle.
âFuck.â
You stare at your reflection. At the reality of your options, which is that you have exactly one and it's terrible.Â
âBucky?â You call, quieter than intended, opening the door just enough to suggest he's being granted entry, however reluctantly.
A pause, and for a moment you're not sure he heard you. âYeah?âtry
âI need help with my zip. It's stuck.â
You hear him cross the bedroom before the door opens the rest of the way, but he doesnât step in immediately. Thereâs a pause, like heâs giving you the chance to change your mind, and then he crosses the threshold.
âTurn around.â Itâs not quite an order, but your body responds to it anyway before your brain has the chance to argue. You pivot, presenting your back to him, fingers braced lightly against the edge of the counter.
You feel him step in behind you, close enough that the heat of him registers before anything else does. Your breath stutters, traitorous, and you fix your eyes on your reflection. His hands come into view in the mirror a second later. One settles lightly at your waist, just enough to still the fabric, the other finding the zipper with careful fingers.
His breath grazes the back of your neck as the zip finally gives and slides down, and every nerve ending along your spine lights up. His hands still for just a moment, a beat that lasts slightly longer than it should, and the bathroom is very quiet. For a second, it feels dangerously like the easiest thing in the world to lean back that last inch. To close the distance without naming it. To let instinct run the show again, just for a moment.
But then his fingers flex, and he lets go. He steps back, and the air between you is breathable again.
âGot it.â He clears his throat.
âThank you.â
âYeah, of course.â he replies, slightly unsteady, and then he's gone.
You stare at the closed bathroom door for a moment longer before finally forcing yourself to move.
The shower is too cold once you turn it on and step beneath it. But you linger under the spray anyway, letting it work down your shoulders, washing the evidence of the evening - of him - away until the water runs clear. At least your IUD means this is the extent of the cleanup. But sooner than you'd like the heat fades, the old pipes protesting. Damn old house.
You towel off. Perform your entire nighttime routine with robotic habit, because anything else means thinking, and thinking is dangerous right now. Toner. Serum. Moisturiser. You find a loose thread on your sleeve and fiddle with it. You reorganise nothing on the counter and call it tidying.
Eventually, you run out of tasks.
The bedroom is waiting on the other side of the door.
Bucky's sitting on his side of the bed - when did you start thinking of it as his side again? - in nothing but his boxer briefs, scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a man who is absolutely not reading anything.
He's kept himself in shape. Of course he has. Super soldier serum aside, Bucky's always been disciplined about training.But thereâs more weight on him than last time you saw him - broader through the shoulders, softer in some areas. It suits him unfairly well. Fills him out in a way that makes him look less like a weapon and more like a man whoâs taking care of himself.Â
The thought makes something warm bloom in your chest, and your gaze lingers long enough to catch on the scars at his left shoulder, where metal meets flesh. The scars there are unchanged, a familiar map youâd once known by touch rather than sight.
He looks up when you emerge, and his gaze tracks over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
âBathroom's yours,â you manage.
He slips into the bathroom without another word. You climb into bed, trying to stay as far to your side as physically possible. You shift. Adjust the pillow. Shift again. Can't find the position you normally sleep in, and youâre still awake when Bucky reemerges.
The mattress dips under his weight. You do your best impression of a woman who is already asleep, which would be more convincing if he hadnât spent the better part of three years sleeping next to you. If he didn't know exactly how your breathing changes when sleep actually takes you. He doesn't call you on it. Just settles back against the pillows with a soft exhale that says he knows exactly what you're doing.
The residence settles around you both. The old Georgian silence, where the radiators tick, the pipes groan, and the old timber relaxes.Â
You can hear him breathing. Feel the heat radiating off his body across the sheets, your whole right side hyper-aware of it. The bed that felt cavernously large when you slept alone suddenly feels impossibly small. Every nerve insisting on registering his presence with an enthusiasm you find deeply unhelpful.
âWe should probably talk,â he states, though thereâs not real conviction behind it.
âI'm tired, Bucky.â
A pause. You can practically hear him deciding whether to push.
âYeah,â he concedes, something resigned in his voice. âMe too.â
He reaches over and turns off his bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The bed shifts as he settles onto his side, facing away from you. And then it's just the sound of his breathing, evening out into an easy slumber.
Which is something. Because for a long time, sleep was a thing Bucky Barnes did badly. Youâd learnt that slowly, through observation, the way you did most things about him in the early months. Through the careful cataloguing of details he wouldn't offer freely. The nightmares. The insomnia. The tense stillness that only came from someone forcing themselves to lie motionless, hoping you wouldnât notice. Which you always did, and pretended you hadnât.Â
Because pressing would've sent him retreating behind walls you were only just beginning to see past. So you'd just held him tighter and let him figure out you weren't going anywhere.
Over time his body learnt yours. Your warmth. Your weight beside him. The rhythm of your heartbeat. Something in him that had been braced for decades finally started to let go. He'd started reaching for you in his sleep without waking. Started sleeping past five a.m., then six. Once, memorably, past nine, and he'd surfaced so bewildered by his own rested state that heâd just stared at you like youâd performed some kind of miracle.Â
It's particularly memorable, your heart unhelpfully supplies, because itâs the exact moment you knew you were in love with him.
He used to say you were the only place he didn't have to be on guard.
Used to.
You'd worried about that, those first few months after you separated. Whether he was sleeping at all in that sterile DC apartment. Whether the nightmares had crept back in without you there. Whether he lay awake at three a.m, every muscle held just a little too tight, waiting for something that never quite came. You'd tried not to feel guilty about it. Failed, mostly.
Beside you, Bucky makes a small sound and shifts.
It's drowsy, unconscious, seeking you out in a way his waking self wouldnât authorize. His body curves toward yours, closing the distance between you with the same inevitability as a plant tipping toward sunlight. Itâs like his nervous system runs through a quick inventory - familiar warmth, familiar scent, familiar body - and just defaults back to you like coming home.Â
Which is deeply inconvenient knowledge to possess while you're actively trying to remember all the very good reasons you separated in the first place.
His face has even softened in that devastating way where it sheds the mask and just looks like Bucky. The real one. The version that doesnât belong to the Congressman, or the ex-assassin. The one that youâve probably spent more time with than anyone else alive.
You are absolutely not thinking about how much you've missed that face. You are not.
Instead, you think about Matt.
The thing is, you don't know exactly what you owe Matt, which is in itself a fairly damning summary of where you'd arrived. Two months. Easy, fun, uncomplicated in the way that things are when neither person is asking too much or offering too much and the arrangement suits them both. You'd liked him. You do like him. He's brilliant and funny and present, in the straightforward way that had felt so startling after months of press releases and assistant-mediated contact.
But he hadn't committed. Neither had you. That had been the point, or at least the operating premise.
So, the question of guilt.
Do you owe Matt anything that would make tonight a transgression? You'd not made promises. The terms, such as they were, had been deliberately unspecified, which had felt like freedom at the time and feels significantly more complicated now.
And, of course, thereâs no way he hadnât heard everything.
That is the part you keep arriving at and then shying away from like a horse refusing a jump, because there is no version of that in which you come off well. Matt Murdock, who can hear a heartbeat from across a room, absolutely heard every single thing that happened in your office tonight. Every word. Every sound. Every moment of two people who were supposed to be separated doing a fairly comprehensive impression of the opposite.
He'd left without saying anything. You don't know whether that makes it better or worse. You suspect worse.
You're going to have to talk to him. You're going to have to talk to him, and you're going to have to figure out what tonight was, and what the past eight months of separation actually mean in practice versus on paper.Â
You're going to have to stand in front of Matt and have some version of a conversation you cannot currently outline because every time you try to construct the opening sentence your brain just goes quiet and offers you nothing except a replay of Bucky's mouth hot against your throat, and the rough edge of his voice when he called you his pretty wife.
Next to you, Buckyâs forehead comes to rest against your shoulder - tucked against you like something that simply found its way back to where it was always going to end up. Your chest does something you'd really rather it didn't.
You look at the ceiling for a long time, listening to your husband breathe, and try not to think about how natural this feels.
How terrifying that is. How much you've missed it. How angry you are that you've missed it.Â
Eventually, because the ceiling has offered no solutions and your body has been quietly conspiring with Bucky's for the past twenty minutes, you drift off next to him.
ââ â˘Â â âď¸ Ëăťđď¸ âš
You reach for him before you're properly awake.
Your hand finds cold sheets, and the humiliation of that is enough to finish the job of waking you up completely.
For a moment you just lie there, staring at the indent in his pillow, at the covers thrown back on his side. Processing the faint sense of abandonment that has absolutely no right to exist given that you spent half the night wishing he'd spontaneously relocate to a different continent.
The shower in the en-suite isn't running. The dressing room is quiet. He's not here. You lie there for a moment, taking stock of the specific variety of idiot you are. Then you get up.
Twenty minutes later you're dressed and heading downstairs with the grim determination of a woman about to reclaim her life and her sanity. The sound of voices reach you before you make it to the breakfast room. Two of them - your aide's quick, efficient register, and underneath it, lower, Bucky's.Â
You stop in the doorway.
Bucky's sitting at the table looking unfairly well-rested, already dressed in one of his perfectly tailored suits. Your aide - Caroline - sits across from him, laptop open, notepad beside it, wearing the expression of someone who has been efficiently charmed into full co-operation and hasn't quite noticed yet. Papers between them. His handwriting on some of them.
When you walk into the room, they both look up. Caroline smiles, bright and professional. Bucky's smile is slower, warmer, with an edge of something that makes your spine stiffen on instinct.
âGood morning, sweetheart,â he greets, and you immediately donât trust his tone. âSleep well?â
You manage a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. âFine, thank you.â
âMorning,â your aide adds brightly, already turning the laptop toward you. âPerfect timing actuallââ
âWhat is all this?â you interject, a little sharper than you intend, crossing to the coffee pot because you need something to do with your hands.
âJust some press co-ordination,â Bucky shrugs, like itâs obvious. Like obviously your time belongs to him whenever he's in town. âWe thought it made sense, while I'm here. The Times have been wanting a piece for a while, and with the summit coverage still running there's a window to get some good visibility.â
Your aide nods with the enthusiasm of someone utterly oblivious to the tension crystallizing in the air. âIt's perfect actually, I've already reached out to a few contacts. We've got the charity reception Friday, a lunch Thursday that Lord Johnsonâs been requesting for months, then the Atlantic Council meeting on Wednesday - that'll be good for photos if you both attend together - then tomorrowâ.â
âWait.â You set your cup down carefully. âWednesdays I meet with our legal counsel.â
There's a small pause. Your aide's fingers hover over the keyboard.Â
âMr. Murdock?â Caroline glances at her notes. âThatâs been pushed back,â she says, slightly carefully.Â
You look at her. âTo when?â
âThese press things have tight windows,â Bucky interjects smoothly, with an expression of such reasonable, considered sympathy that you could scream. âVisibility with the right people, good for both our offices. You know how it is.â The faintest tilt of his head. âI'm sure Murdock will understand that these things take priority.â
There is a very specific register that Bucky uses when he has already made a decision and is presenting it as a collaborative discussion, and this is unmistakably it.
âEspecially,â he continues, and you have to bite your cheek so you donât say something youâll regret, âgiven the transatlantic tensions recently. It's important we present a unified front. As husband and wife.â
The words land exactly how he means them to. A reminder. A claim. You know exactly what heâs doing because heâs not even trying to be subtle.Â
He's monopolised your entire week, filled every available slot with joint appearances. Between your existing obligations and everything he's just loaded into your schedule, there isn't a single free hour left for the meeting with Matt that you both know isn't really about legal counsel.
âAnd tomorrow,â Caroline ploughs on, bless her completely oblivious soul, âyou'd originally blocked out for paperwork, but the round-table is invitation-only and they specifically requested both of you, soââ
âSo you've just... rewritten my entire week.â You hear yourself say. Your smile is so tight it might shatter.
âOptimized.â Bucky corrects gently.Â
His eyes meet yours across the table, and the look in them is pure, undiluted victory. And the worst part? He's not even wrong. These are important events. You should attend them together. From any objective standpoint, his logic is flawless. Any attempt at protesting would make you look like you're prioritizing the wrong things.
Which is exactly what makes it so infuriating.
âWill there be anything else?â you ask, voice perfectly professional. âI have a meeting Iâm already running late for.â
âI think that covers it,â Caroline says brightly. âOh, the German Ambassador's office called about scheduling aââ
âSend me the details,â you interrupt. âI'll review them later.â
You pick up a croissant from the breakfast spread. Turn to leave.
âSweetheart?â
You stop. Take deep breath. Don't turn around. âYes?â
âI was thinking we could have lunch later. Just the two of us. Prep ourselves for the busy week ahead.â
The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
You turn back, smile still in place. âSounds perfect, why donât you come by my office later?â
âAbsolutely.â His smile widens. âIt's a date.â
You leave the residence before you turn your private separation into a very public spectacle involving thrown pastries, taking your fury with you to the embassy where it promptly gets buried under the weight of your actual job.
The morning is a blur of meetings that run long and emails that multiply faster than you can answer them. Trade briefings that should take thirty minutes stretch to fifty. Security updates that require your signature on six different documents. A conference call with State that goes in circles for forty minutes before anyone agrees on anything. Your assistant has brought you coffee twice, and both cups have gone cold on your desk untouched.
You're mid-sentence in a response to the German Ambassador's office when there's a knock at your door.
âCome in,â you call, not looking up, assuming it's another briefing packet or someone from the communications team.
The door opens. You register the footsteps, the soft tap of a cane, before the voice.
âBusy morning?â
Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Matt's standing in the doorway, one hand on his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. He's in one of his perfectly tailored suits, expression pleasant and unreadable in that way he does when he's being very deliberate about not showing what he's actually thinking.
Fuck.
This would've been significantly easier with some advance notice. A text, or an email, or a calendar invite titled âDiscuss Why You Disappeared Into Your Office With Your Supposed Ex-Husbandâ. Anything that would've given you more than zero seconds to figure out what the hell you're supposed to say right now.Â
You've walked into treaty negotiations with less anxiety. Those at least came with agendas. Preparation time. The basic courtesy of knowing they were happening before you were actively in them.
âMatt.â Your brain scrambles for words, or literally anything useful. âHi. I didn'tâI wasn't expectingââ
âNoticed your calendar got significantly fuller since yesterday,â he observes mildly, tilting his head. There's no accusation in his tone, but you hear the question underneath it anyway. âLot of joint appearances suddenly.â
Heat crawls up your neck. You're aware, abruptly, of how you must look - harried, distracted, still half-focused on the email you were writing. âYes,â you manage. âI'm sorry. I wanted toâI meant to call, I just haven't had a second toââ
âIt's fine.â He steps into the office properly, and your heart kicks harder in your chest, whether itâs dread or want, youâre not entirely sure. âIt's your lunch break now though, isn't it? We could grab something. Talk about last night.â
Oh god. Suddenly the conference call that went in circles for forty minutes seems appealing by comparison.
âMatt,â you start, but you don't even know where that sentence is going. Because what can you even say? My husband is systematically cutting you out of my life and I'm clearly too much of a coward to stop him?
âI'm notââ He stops, and there's a light sigh as his head tilts slightly, lips pressing together in that particular way he does when he's choosing his words carefully. âI'm not trying to make this difficult. I just think we should probably talk about where things stand. Clear the air.â
You're scrambling now, trying to find words that don't make this exponentially worse. âIt's complicated.â
âIs it?â There's an edge to his voice now, however faint. âOr is it actually pretty straightforward and we're both just avoiding saying it out loud?â
You're trying to formulate something that resembles an answer when you hear the distinct cadence of footsteps youâd recognise anywhere, coming down the hall towards your office.
âThere you are, sweetheart.â
Your stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.
Bucky appears in the doorway, looking between you and Matt with an expression of polite surprise that would be convincing if you didn't know him well enough to see the calculation behind it.
âOh, Murdock,â he greets, as though he's only just noticed Matt standing there. âDidn't realise you were stopping by.â
âCongressman Barnes,â Matt turns slightly, angling toward Bucky's voice. âJust thought I'd see if the Ambassador was free for lunch, because it seems like her schedule's quite full.â
âYeah, it's a busy week,â Bucky agrees easily, stepping into the office properly now. Not quite crowding, but definitely occupying space between you both. âWe've got lunch plans actually. Lots to catch up on - isn't that right, doll?â
You're still sitting at your desk, frozen, watching this happen like you're observing it from outside your own body. The air in the office has gone thick and uncomfortable, the silence stretching just a beat too long.
Matt's expression hasn't changed, but you can see the slight tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens fractionally on his cane;Â he knows exactly what's happening here
âRight,â you manage finally. âYes. We'reâitâs a working lunch. Coordinating the rest of the week.â
âA working lunch,â Matt repeats, and you can't tell if there's an edge to it or if your guilt is adding subtext that isnât there.
âYou know how it is,â Bucky adds. âJust making sure we're aligned before all the joint appearances. Tedious stuff, really.â
Buckyâs still smiling. Matt's still standing there. You're still trying to remember how to breathe normally.
âOf course,â Matt says after a moment. âI should let you both get to it then.â
âWe could reschedule,â you start, but the words feel hollow even as you're saying them. âLater this week, maybeââ
âYour calendar looked pretty full,â Matt interrupts. âBut sure. Have your people call my people.â
The formality of it stings more than it should. Like he's already pulling back, already creating space between you that wasn't there before.
âMattââ
âIt's fine.â he assures, though it doesnât sound fine. It sounds like a door closing. Or maybe you're imagining that too - there's nothing in his voice you can parse clearly. âReally, Enjoy your lunch.â
You want to say something else. Want to explain, or apologise, or do literally anything to make this less excruciating. But the words stick in your throat, and Matt's already shifting toward the door into the hallway, and Bucky's just standing there, absolutely not trying to hide his satisfaction.
âReady to go?â Bucky asks.
âI just need to freshen up before we go,â you announce abruptly. âGive me two minutes. I'll meet you downstairs.â
It's a transparent excuse and you both know it. But you need air. You need thirty seconds where you're not feeling like youâre being pulled apart at the seams. You grab your bag and slip out after Matt, turning the opposite direction toward the bathrooms, leaving Bucky alone in your office. Which is possibly the worst decision you could have made, you realise, but you can't exactly turn around now.
Behind you, Bucky watches you disappear around the corner. Waits patiently until your heels clicking fades down the corridor. Then he moves.Â
Matt's halfway down the corridor when Bucky catches up.
âMurdock.â
Matt stops mid-stride. There's a fractional hesitation where his shoulders stiffen before he turns. His expression has shed whatever careful pleasantness he'd been wearing in your office. What's left is cooler. Bucky stops a respectful distance away, hands loose at his sides. Everything about his posture says this is just two professionals having a friendly discussion.
âI think we should talk,â he begins. âBriefly.â
Matt's expression doesn't change. âAbout?â
âAbout boundaries.â Bucky asserts, though his tone is reasonable - almost apologetic, even. Like this is an awkward position heâs been forced into rather than something heâs orchestrating. âLook, I'm going to be direct here. My wife and I are working through things. Trying to figure out what we want going forward. And I thinkâWell, I think it would be easier if we had some space to do that without other complications.â
Matt tilts his head slightly, and there's something almost amused in the gesture. âAnd by complications you mean me.â
âIâm not trying to be a dick about this, I'm just asking you to back off for a while. Let us have the space we need as we get back to where we were.â It comes out steady, but Buckyâs heart rate betrays him. That telltale spike that means heâs not being entirely truthful. Matt catalogues the lie for what it is. âIt's been a difficult few months, but we're in a good place now.â
âAnd she's aware of this? The working things out?â
Bucky's jaw tightens. âWe're on the same page about what matters.â
âWow,â Matt scoffs softly, something almost amused pulling at the corner of his mouth. âThatâs what youâre telling yourself?â
Bucky goes still, but Matt hears the minute hitch in his breathing anyway. The slight shift in his heartbeat as he re-calibrates, trying to decide whether Matt actually knows something or if heâs bluffing.
When Bucky speaks again, thereâs bite to his tone, the pleasantness veneer starting to crack around the edges.
âMy relationship with my wife isn't really your concern.âÂ
âIt is when Iâve been sleeping with her the past two months.â
Buckyâs mouth pulls into something mean immediately, his expression hardening as the last scraps of diplomacy finally burn off. Any pretence of this being a civil conversation is entirely gone.
âAnd yet those two months didnât seem to mean much last night, did they? I hadnât even been back three hours, that must sting a little.â
The barb lands. Matt's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait.
âYou know, if push her into something she doesn't actually wantââ
âI know my wife.â
âDo you?â Matt asks, and there's just enough lift in it to make it a real question but not quite enough warmth to make it a polite one. âBecause despite what you think, two months ago she didn't seem like someone who was waiting around for you to come back.â
Bucky's hands flex. âMeaning?â
âMeaning she built a life here without you in it,â Matt states, matter of fact. âAnd sleeping with her and monopolising her calendar doesnât undo that, no matter how much you want it to.â
That lands differently. Bucky's mouth presses into a thin line, mouth tightening as he tries to find his footing again. Tries to figure out how to wrestle the conversation back under his control. But Matt's already turning away, done with whatever this was.
âNext time you want to have a conversation about boundaries, Congressman,â he tosses back over his shoulder, âmaybe try having it with her first.â
Then he's gone, footsteps receding down the hallway, leaving Bucky standing alone with the distinct feeling that he didn't win that exchange nearly as cleanly as he'd intended.Â
He stands there for a moment, trying to sort through what just happened. Matt's parting shot sits uncomfortably in his chest, because thatâs what heâs trying to fix, isnât it? Except maybe Murdock has a point about the method.
He straightens his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back. Whatever. He has lunch with his wife, and Matt Murdock can go back to whatever law firm he crawled out of.Â
Bucky makes it down to the entrance hall,checking his phone more out of habit than any real interest in the messages accumulating there. When he hears your footsteps on the stairs, he looks up, and something in his chest loosens slightly. At least he has this. This week. That has to count for something.
He straightens as you approach, and there's something careful in the way his eyes track over your face, like he's bracing for whatever mood you're bringing down those stairs with you.
âReady?â He asks, aiming for casual but it doesn't quite land.
âDo I have a choice?â The question comes with a raised brow. You donât slow down as you reach him, just brush past toward the door.
âYou always have a choice.â He falls into step beside you, hands sliding into his pockets.
âFunny,â you return, pushing through the door without waiting for him to open it. âDoesn't feel like it this week.â
Wisely, he chooses not to argue. Instead, he follows you out into the grey London afternoon, the kind of day where the sky can't decide if it wants to commit to rain or just make everyone miserable with the threat of it.Â
The walk is silent - not the comfortable kind. Bucky keeps his hands in his pockets because if he doesn't, they'll instinctively search for your waist or the small of your back or some other familiar place they've been gravitating toward for years. And that Velcro instinct to maintain contact feels entirely unhelpful given the current temperature between you.
The restaurant Bucky chose is one of those discreet places where ministers go to have conversations they'd rather not have overheard. The kind with enough distance from other diners that you could have an argument without making it everyone's business. Not that you're planning to argue. You're planning to get through this lunch, get through this week, and then figure out what the hell your life is supposed to look like when your ex-husband stops playing whatever game this is.
You both settle into your seats. Pick up menus you don't really look at. You order a salad you won't finish, and he gets something with chicken. The waiter retreats, and you're left with the silence again, which is starting to feel like a third presence in your relationship. Bucky's doing that thing where he looks like he's about to say something, then doesn't, his jaw working slightly like he's testing out sentences in his head before committing to them out loud.
âJust say it,â you offer eventually, unfolding your napkin with more attention than the action requires.
His eyes snap up, sheepish. âSay what?â
âWhatever it is you've been composing since we sat down.â
He huffs a breath that might be amusement. Looks down at his water glass, turning it slightly on the table, before looking back up at you through his lashes with that rare, almost boyish uncertainty. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than you're expecting.
âI know you're pissed about the calendar.â
âObservant.â The word comes out flat, edged with sarcasm. âWhat gave it away? The part where I barely spoke to you on the walk over, or the part where I'm sitting here looking like I'd rather be anywhere else?â
His mouth twitches, but he doesn't smile. âI should've asked first.â
âYes. You shouldâve.â
âI didn't think you'd say yes if I asked.â
The honesty of it catches you off guard. You look up, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite parse. Like he's trying to gauge how much damage control he needs to do, but it's coming off more hesitant than calculated.
âWould you have?â he presses.
âWe'll never know now, will we?â
The waiter arrives with water. You both fall silent until he leaves. Bucky exhales through his nose. His fingers drum once against the table before going still, like he's physically stopping himself from fidgeting.
âLook, I know I've beenââ He stops. Starts again. âThe past year has been shit. And I know that's on me.â
You weren't expecting that. You were expecting deflection, or charm, or strategic redirection. Not this.Â
âI let the distance grow,â he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. âGot buried in DC and the constant fucking politics of it all. And somewhere in there I stopped picking up the phone. Stopped making time. Started letting my assistant filter everything because it was easier than dealing with how far apart we'd gotten.â
âYou suggested the separation,â you point out, voice flat. âYou're the one who said no strings, no hard feelings.â
âI know.â
âYou made it impossible for me to reach you and then acted like the distance was mutual.â
âI know,â he repeats, and there's something tighter in his voice now. âAnd I'm not saying that was fair. It wasn't. It was cowardly. But I'm here now.â
âFor a week.â You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. âAnd you got here by hijacking my calendar instead of just asking me to talk.â
âWe're talking now.â
You sigh, or maybe it's closer to an exhale of pure exasperation. Your gaze lifts to the ceiling for a brief moment like you're asking for divine patience.
âBuckyââ
âOkay,â he concedes, hands lifting briefly in surrender before he shifts forward, elbows coming to rest on the table. âI know monopolizing your schedule was a shit way to go about it, but I miss you.â He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. âI miss us. I miss you being the first person I want to tell things to. And I want to prove that we can still do this. That I can be here, when it matters.â
The words settle in the space between you, complicated and messy and not nearly enough to fix everything that's broken. It's nowhere near enough.
You want to stay angry. Want to hold onto the fury that's been building since this morning, or since last night, or over the past year, really. But there's something in his voice that sounds like actual regret, and you're so tired of being angry all the time. It's more than he's said in months, and that matters more than it should.
âSo this is what, exactly?â you ask, trying to stay firm. âAn audition? A demonstration?â
âIt's me trying.â Itâs a simple confession, like heâs run out of polished answers, and this is all he has left.
The food arrives. You both go quiet while the waiter sets down plates and refills water and does all the small choreographed movements of service. Once he's gone, you pick up your fork without any real intention of eating.
âYou hijacked my week, Bucky. You coordinated with my staff behind my back and filled my schedule so I couldn'tââ You stop yourself before you finish that sentence, but he finishes it anyway.
âSo you couldn't see Murdock.â
âSo I couldn't make my own choices,â you correct sharply.
He has the grace to look slightly abashed. Slightly. âFair enough.â
âIs it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the same pattern. You can't just show up and expectââ
âThat's notâ" He stops. His jaw works. âOkay. Maybe. But just let me show you I can be present. That we still work as a team.â His voice is steady now, certain. âThe rest of it, we can figure that out. Just give me this week, please.â
You should say no. You should tell him that orchestrating your life without your consent isn't how you rebuild trust. That half-apologies that donât actually contain an apology don't undo eight months of distance. That you can't just paper over everything with joint appearances and pretty words.
But he's looking at you so earnestly that it makes you hesitate. And the treacherous truth is that you're tired. Tired of being angry, tired of navigating this alone, tired of lying in that too-big bed and pretending you don't notice the empty space beside you.
And it would be so much easier to just... let this be easy.
âOne week,â you hear yourself say.
Something in his face softens. His posture shifts, only slightly, but you catch it. Relief, maybe. Or victory. Hard to tell which. âYeah?â
âOne week of actually showing up. And then we talk. Really talk. About all of it.â You hold his gaze. âAnd I mean everything, Bucky. The separation, the distance, why we're even doing this. No more avoiding the hard conversations.â
âDeal.â
The silence that follows is different. Still weighted, but less hostile. More like you're both feeling your way toward something that used to be natural and isn't anymore.
âSo,â Bucky says, moving food around his plate. âHow bad is Lord Johnson actually going to be on Thursday?â
Despite yourself, you almost laugh. âUnbearable. He's going to lecture you about trade policy superiority while asking for concessions.â
âSo exactly like last time.â
âMhm,â you agree, finally taking a bite of your salad. âExcept now he's also upset about the tariffs, so add that to his list of grievances. Plus he's developed this tendency to touch people when he talks. Very hands-on.â
Bucky's eyebrow raises, fork pausing halfway to his mouth. âShould I be worried?â
âAbout Lord Johnson making a move?â You can't quite keep the smirk off your face. âI think your virtue's safe.â
âI meant about him pawing at you for two hours.â
There's an edge of possession in his tone that should irritate you. Instead it does something warm and stupid in your chest. You take another bite, buying yourself a moment. âI can handle Lord Johnson.â
âI know you can.â He pauses. âDoesn't mean you should have to.â
You shrug. âIf he tries it with me, I'm elbowing him in the ribs.â
âI'll back you up. You sneezed, he was unfortunately in the blast radius, these things happen.â
You take a sip of water to cover the fact that you're almost smiling. This is the problem. This is exactly the problem. Two minutes of actual honesty and you're already slipping back into familiar patterns, already falling back into the easy rhythm of banter and knowing looks.
âMorrison might be at the Atlantic Council thing tomorrow,â you mention, trying to redirect to safer ground.
Bucky groans. âHe's going to corner me about the infrastructure bill again.â
âProbably. He's been insufferable about it since the committee hearing.â
âWell, I've gotten very good at the diplomatic non-answer.â His mouth curves slightly. âTake it under advisement, appreciate the input, look forward to continued dialogueââ
âYou learnt that from me.â You point your fork at him accusingly, though there's no real heat in it.
âI learnt most of the useful stuff from you.â He says it like it's simple fact, but something in his expression has gone softer.
The admission sits there between you, heavier than it should be. You look down at your plate, suddenly very focused on rearranging lettuce.
âYou really think this will work?â you ask quietly, not looking up. âThis week?â
âI think when we're together, we're still good at this. The partnership part. That has to count for something.â
It's not an answer to the bigger question. But maybe it's the only answer either of you has right now.
You eat in silence for a moment, but it's different now. Less hostile. Almost comfortable. Your phone buzzes. You glance down, itâs another email from Caroline about tomorrow's schedule. When you look back up, Bucky's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
You eye him suspiciously. âWhat?âÂ
âNothing. Just...â He shakes his head slightly, but he's almost smiling. âI missed this.â
âYeah,â you admit, quieter than you mean to. âMe too.â
And you have, you realise. Not just him - though that's there too, complicated and inconvenient as it is - but this. The ease of being with someone who knows you well enough that you don't have to explain every reference or thought. Who can read your expressions without words. Who makes you laugh even when you're furious with them.
It doesn't fix anything. Doesn't undo the eight months or the separation or the fact that you still haven't actually addressed any of the reasons you split in the first place. But for right now, sitting across from your husband in a quiet corner of a restaurant where nobody's watching, it feels like maybe, just maybe, you can remember why you married him in the first place.
Even if that's exactly the problem.
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The week unfolds with a momentum you can't quite control, each day bleeding into the next in a blur of meetings that run too smoothly, dinners where the conversations flow too easily, and nights where he sleeps in your bed like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
By Wednesday you're laughing at his jokes again without the bitter edge. By Thursday his hand at your waist feels less like a claim and more like an anchor. The Times runs their profile on your relationship - âA Political Partnership That Worksâ - pulling photos from the week's events. You're flipping through them absently when the pattern registers. Different events, different rooms, different contexts. But in every frame, Buckyâs eyes are always fixed on you.
Oh.
You save the photos to your phone, which is its own kind of problem.
Matt's name sits in your contacts with no new messages. Of course, you're not keeping score of his silence against Bucky's constant presence. That would imply thereâs a competition between them. Which there definitely isnât.
To be fair, Caroline did mention his office called about rescheduling. You said you'd handle it. You didnât.
Matt hadnât chased the issue after that. Which is, objectively, the respectful thing to do. Matt never demands more than you freely offer him, which had once felt refreshingly uncomplicated. Lately, though, youâre starting to wonder if thereâs a difference between being understanding and simply never fighting for a place in someoneâs life.
Maybe Matt only knows how to want you in situations where wanting you remains easy.
By Friday morning you're walking back from the Canadian delegation breakfast, Bucky's telling some story that has you laughing hard enough that your sides hurt, and for a dangerous moment you forget about the separation. About the ocean's width of distance - literal and otherwise - that usually sits between you. That Sunday he leaves and you have to figure out what any of this actually meant.
But that's fine. You're exceptional at compartmentalizing. You've had years of practice at keeping different parts of your life in separate boxes that never touch. The fact that the boxes are getting harder to keep closed is something you'll worry about later.
Or at least, it should be, because right now you have a meeting that got squeezed into your calendar this morning that you need to prep for. But you can't seem to focus on the sparse notes that Caroline left you because your brain keeps drifting back to the way Buckyâs hand found yours under the table this morning and you let it stay there.
A knock at the door pulls you from the spiral.
âCome in,â you call, straightening slightly in your chair, trying to look like you've been doing something productive instead of staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.
The door opens, and the distinctive tap of a cane against tile makes your stomach twist before you even look up.
Matt's standing in your doorway. Again. Appearing when youâre utterly unprepared to see him. Again. And youâre going to have to push him away. Again.
If the universe is trying to teach you something by replaying this week until you stop making catastrophically bad decisions, the lesson is lost on you.
âMatt.â You're already half-standing, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. âI'm so sorry, I have a meeting inââ you glance at your screen, at the calendar slot that's starting right now, ââI can't, I have toââ
âI know,â he interrupts, and there's something almost amused in his expression as he steps into the office properly. âI'm your meeting.â
Your eyebrow raises slowly. âYou faked a meeting to see me?â
âWell, since your husband's been so thorough about cutting me out of your calendar all week,â he returns smoothly, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, âit seemed like the only way in.â
There's a joke there, light and easy, but underneath it there's definitely an edge. A deserved one, maybe. The guilt that's been sitting low in your stomach all week flares hot and immediate. âMatt, I should have called. I meant to, I justâthe week got away from me, and I didnât mean to disappearââ
âYou didn't disappear,â Matt corrects mildly. âYou've been very visible, actually. Hard to miss when you're in three different political newsletters looking very much like the devoted political wife.â
The observation lands with enough weight that you have to look away. Matt moves closer, leaning against the edge of your desk with his arms crossed loosely, head tilted in that particular way that means he's cataloguing everything youâre not saying. Your elevated heart rate. The shallow breathing you can't quite control. The tension wound so tight in your shoulders you might snap.
âI know I should'veââ
âShould've what?â He interrupts again, but his voices stays gentle. âCalled the man you've been sleeping with while your husband's in town making sure everyone knows you're still married?â His mouth quirks slightly. âCan't imagine why that would feel awkward.â
The last part comes with just enough wry humour to take some of the sting out of it. An acknowledgement that yes, this situation is absurd, and yes, you're both aware of it.
âYou didn't call either,â you point out, and it comes out more wounded than you intend.
âNo, I didn't,â he admits easily. âDidn't want to crowd you when Bucky's been taking up so much real estate in your schedule. Thought maybe you needed space to figure things out.â His mouth curves, voice going warmer. âBesides, seemed only fair to give him a shot, sweetheart. I had you to myself for two months.â
It should feel mature, the way he keeps placing the choice back in your hands. But standing here now, watching him deliberately leave the distance between you intact, you canât quite ignore the small, ugly part of yourself that wants someone to fight a little harder for you than that.
So you close the distance yourself, drawn by the same gravitational pull that's been there since the first time he walked into your office three months ago. Once again doing the reaching. The pattern recognition occurring here is frankly humiliating.
Your hands find his chest, feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under his shirt.
âI haven't figured anything out,â you admit quietly, because you suppose he deserves the honesty. âAbout what this week means, or what I want, or any of it.â
âNo?â There's something almost teasing in the question. âThe Times seemed pretty convinced you and Barnes are a political power couple for the ages.â
âThe Times doesn't know we're separated.â
âClearly.â His hand comes up, fingers finding your jaw with unerring accuracy, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a touch that's devastatingly familiar. âThough after this week, I'm starting to wonder if you remember that either.â
The words should sting. Maybe they do. But mostly what you're aware of is his proximity, the heat of his palm against your face, the way your body has started leaning into him without conscious permission.
âMattââ
âSorry, Iâm not trying to make you feel guilty.â His thumb traces lower, following the line of your jaw. âThatâs not what this is.â
âThen what is this?â
âThis,â he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, "is me reminding you that you have options.â
âI've missed you,â you whisper against his lips.
His free hand comes up to your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip through your dress. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
You should stop this. Should step back and have the actual conversation about this week and where you stand and all the things you've been avoiding. Should deal with the compartments that are failing to stay separate instead of making everything more complicated.
But his mouth is right there.
You kiss him before you can think better of it, before the guilt can claw its way up your throat and ruin the moment. He makes a soft sound against your mouth, surprise giving way to hunger as he kisses you back.
It's different than kissing Bucky. Matt is all control and precision, reading your body like Braille, every touch deliberate. Where Bucky takes, Matt asks - the tilt of his head a question, the press of his tongue a request. You grant it. Grant all of it. Pour five days of frustration and confusion into the kiss until you're both breathing hard.
âMissed this too,â you gasp between kisses, and he laughs against your mouth.
âJust this?â
âMissed you being a smartass,â you correct, tugging him closer by his tie. âMissed your hands on meâgod, I just missedââ
He lifts you then, strong hands gripping your thighs as he spins you both and sets you on the edge of your desk. Papers scatter. You don't care. Your legs open, allowing him to step into the space between your thighs.
âMissed having a conversation that didn't involve diplomatic immunity,â you continue, breathless, as his mouth trails down your neck. âMissed not being scheduled within an inch of my life.â
His teeth graze your pulse point. âSounds exhausting.â
âIt is.â Your head tips back, fingers threading through his hair. âIt'sâfuck, Mattââ
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. The drag of his palms against your stockings makes you shiver.
Your hands find his lapels, pulling him desperately closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and for a moment you forget about Bucky and the separation and every complicated thing you've been avoiding.
âYou should've booked a longer meeting,â you manage, and it comes out almost playful despite the heat pooling low in your belly.
Matt's smile is absolutely wicked. âPlease,â he murmurs against your mouth. âI don't need long to make you come, sweetheart. Just need your legs open and the door locked.â
Heat floods through you at the promise in his voice, your thighs clenching involuntarily. Before you can even respond, his hands are sliding under your ass, lifting you in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, gasping into his mouth as he turns and walks you backward.
You don't break the kiss. Can't. Your fingers are in his hair, tugging probably too hard, and he makes this gorgeous rough sound against your mouth that vibrates straight through you. His mouth is hot and demanding against yours, tongue sliding past your lips to taste you properly, and you make a sound into his mouth that's embarrassingly needy.
Your back hits the door hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, the solid wood catching you with enough force that you gasp into his mouth. Matt pins you there immediately, hips rolling forward, and you can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing right where you're aching. Your hand scrabbles blindly behind you for the lock, fingers clumsy with want, and when it finally clicks he groans like the sound itself did something to him.
âFuck yes,â he breathes against your mouth, and his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher . When his fingers brush the inside of your thigh you shudder, hips canting forward, seeking more contact. âBeen thinking about this all week. Thinking about getting you alone, getting my hands on youââ
His fingers find the edge of your underwear, slipping just beneath the lace to trace along the seam where it meets your thigh. The touch is light, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world and knows it's driving you insane. You gasp, hips grinding forward, trying to direct his hand where you actually need it, and your head drops back against the door. He laughs softly against your throat.
âGod, you're impatient,â he teases, teeth grazing your pulse point. âAlready trying to fuck yourself on my hand.â
âShut up,â you whine, but there's no heat in it, just desperate need.
âWhy?â His mouth trails to your jaw, leave wet kisses behind. âI like knowing you want me. Like hearing your pulse race when I touch you hereââ His finger traces up the centre of your underwear, dragging slowly through the damp fabric from your entrance all the way up to your clit. The pressure is perfect and not nearly enough, and you can feel how wet you are, how the lace clings to you. ââand feeling you stop breathing when Iââ
His fingers finally slip beneath the lace, and the second he actually touches you, feels how wet and slick you are, he makes this broken sound against your mouth that's half-groan, half-curse. Then he's kissing you again, mouth crashing back to yours. Tongue pushing past your lips deeper, harder, needier. Losing that earlier control. His fingers slide through the mess you've made and your hips jerk forward into his hand.
âFuck,â he breathes against your lips, fingers parting your folds and sliding through the wetness, spreading it deliberately before finding your clit. He circles it with your own slick, and you can feel how soaked you are, how easily his fingers move, and the wet sound of it makes your face flush hot. âYou're fucking soaked for me.â
He's not wrong. You are soaked, aching, need clawing under your skin with an urgency that borders on painful. Whether it's because of him or because you've spent five days with Bucky's hand at your waist and his body in your bed, that constant simmering tension winding you tighter and tighter with nowhere for it to go, you genuinely don't know.
Don't want to know.
Your hips roll forward, trying to get more pressure, more friction, more anything. âThen stop teasing and do something about it.â
He laughs, the sound rough and a little desperate. âYes ma'am.â
His fingers slide lower, one pressing inside you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your head thunk back against the door. You bite down on your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, hyper-aware that you're in your office in the middle of the day with your staff just outside.
âMattââ His name escapes your lips anyway, louder than you intend.
"Shh," he breathes against your lips, but he's smiling, adding another finger and curling them just right. "Sweetheart, you're gonna get us caught."
âYour fault,â you gasp, barely above a whisper, hips rocking to meet the thrust of his fingers.
âFair point.â His forehead presses to yours, breathing ragged. âBut you still need to be quiet for me. Can you do that?â
Nodding, you try to stop the moan building in your throat as his fingers work deeper, finding that spot that makes your thighs shake. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt, breath coming in shallow, restrained gasps. But then he curls them again, harder, and the sound that escapes you is too loud, too obvious. His mouth is on yours immediately, swallowing the moan before it can carry.
He kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as his fingers work faster, his thumb finding your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building fast and sharp. You're making these small, desperate noises into his mouth that you can't control, and he seems determined to catch every single one, kissing you harder each time his fingers make you gasp.
âMattâpleaseâI needââ you whisper between kisses, the words breaking apart.
âI know,â he murmurs back, and there's something soft in it even as his fingers work you closer to the edge. âNeed to come. Need to stop thinking for five minutes.â His thumb circles your clit with perfect pressure and you gasp into his mouth. âNeed it to be easy for once, yeah? Just this. Just us. Nothing complicated.â
Yes. God, yes. That's exactly what you need. To not think. To just feel something that isn't guilt or confusion or the weight of every choice you've made this week.
âMore,â you gasp.
âSo greedy sweetheart.â His thumb finds your clit, circling in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. âWhat am I gonna do with you?â
âFuck me would be a good start.â
He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. âLove when you get bossy.â
His fingers slide out of you and the whimper that escapes you is pathetic, your hips moving forward involuntarily, trying to chase what you just lost.But your hands are already moving, shaking as they reach for his belt. You yank at it, fingers fumbling with the buckle in your desperation to get him undone.
You need him inside you, need it with an urgency that's making your hands clumsy and your breathing erratic.
âCondom?â you gasp out, finally getting his belt undone and working on the button of his slacks.
âWallet, back pocket.âÂ
A breath of relief punches out of you. âFuckâgood boy,â you tease, pulling him into a kiss.
Matt makes this wrecked sound into your mouth, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and his hand cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you gasp against his lips.
âCareful,â he warns, but there's no heat in it, just desperate want. âKeep talking like that and this is gonna be over way too fast.â
You reach around, palm sliding over his ass as you fish out his wallet. The leather is warm from his body heat, and your fingers are still trembling as you flip it open and grab the condom. You tear the foil packet open with your teeth, spitting the scrap of wrapper aside, and then your hand is wrapping around his cock. He's thick and hard in your palm, already leaking, and the groan that tears out of him is absolutely obscene.
âCan't have that,â you murmur, rolling the latex down his length slowly despite how badly you're shaking. You stroke him once, twice, feeling every thick inch, and your thumb swipes over the head. He shudders, fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise.
âSweetheart,â he grits out, and it sounds like a plea. His hips buck forward into your grip. âPlease.â
âPlease what?â You're being mean now, hand still working him while he's trying to hold himself together.
âPlease let me fuck you before I lose my fucking mind.â
You guide the swollen head of his cock to your entrance and you both go still for half a second, just breathing against each other's mouths. Then he's pushing inside you in one long, smooth slide and the stretch steals every thought from your head. It's almost too much, the thick press of him, and you're making these small desperate sounds you can't control.
âFuck,â Matt breathes, the words vibrating against your throat where his mouth has landed. You can feel him shaking with the effort of holding still as he lets you adjust to the stretch of him. âYou feelâgod, you're so wet I can feel it dripping down myââ
You cut him off with a kiss, messy and graceless, and start rolling your hips experimentally. His cock drags against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. The angle is perfect like this, him pinning you to the door, and each roll of your hips takes him deeper. He meets your rhythm, hands gripping your ass to hold you steady as he thrusts up into you, and you have to bite down on his shoulder to muffle the moan that tears out of you.
Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
âThat's it,â he groans, setting a rhythm that's slow but deep, each thrust deliberate and devastating. âTake what you need, sweetheart.â
You can barely form words, too focused on the stretch of him filling you, the way your needy cunt is already clenching around him, desperate to pull him deeper. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking you fill your quiet office as you both pant into each other's mouths, drowning in the sensation of each other. The thick drag of his cock inside you, the press of his body against yours, the heat of your skin under his hands.Â
Your hand slides between your bodies, seeking more. When your fingers find your clit, it's swollen and sensitive, and just that first brush of contact makes you mewl into his mouth. You're so worked up, so desperate, that even your own touch feels like too much and not enough at the same time. You circle it carefully at first, testing, but the spike of pleasure that shoots through you makes your hips jerk and your walls clench around his cock.
âYou sound so pretty like this,â Matt pants against your neck, hips snapping forward. âSo fucking pretty when you stop overthinking and just let go.â
Your response is incoherent, something between a moan and his name. The pleasure is building fast, coiling tighter with each thrust, each drag of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenches around him, greedy, desperate, chasing the release that's right there.
âThat's it, sweetheart,â he encourages, rhythm getting rougher. âCan feel you getting close. Feel you squeezing my cock. You gonna come for me? Gonna let me feel it?â
You're circling your clit in time with his thrusts and it's almost too much sensation, pleasure coiling tighter in your belly. He shifts slightly and the new angle makes you see stars, a whimper escaping before you can bite it back.
âYesâfuckâMattââ
âThere?â he asks breathlessly, doing it again, and when you nod frantically he keeps hitting that exact spot. Every thrust drives him deeper and pushes your hand harder against yourself, and you're whimpering with each roll of your hips.
âI can hear it,â Matt groans into your mouth. âCan hear how close you areâyour heart's racing, your breathing, you're right thereâplease, sweetheart, need to feel youââ
It crashes over you sudden and overwhelming, pleasure ripping through you in waves. You come with a broken cry that Matt catches with his mouth, your cunt clamping down on his cock so hard you're practically strangling it. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking as the pleasure tears through you in brutal waves. Your fingers are still on your clit, working yourself through it, and you're making these high desperate sounds into his mouth that you can't control.
âFuckâoh fuckââ Matt groans, fucking you through it, prolonging it until you're gasping and oversensitive. âSo fucking perfectââ
He buries himself deep with a final hard thrust and comes with a groan of your name, cock pulsing as he spills into the condom. You can feel every throb, every twitch as he empties himself, and it sends another aftershock through you that makes you clench around him all over again.
For a moment you just breathe together, foreheads pressed close, hearts racing in tandem. Your legs are trembling so badly around his waist that you're not sure they'll hold you when he pulls out. When he does, you both make these raw sounds at the loss of contact.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers you to the floor. Your knees wobble slightly as your feet hit the ground, and Matt immediately steadies you.
âOkay?â he asks softly, thumb stroking your hip.
âYeah,â you manage, because that's about all your brain can produce right now.
He kisses you again, but when he pulls back there's something careful in it. Almost like heâs making sure it stays just the right side of casual. His hand cups your face briefly - thumb brushing rogue strands of hair from your face.
âTold you I didn't need long,â he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
âSmug bastard.â
But even as you say it your brain is already pulling away, cataloguing everything that needs to happen in the next ten minutes. Fix your hair. Cover that mark on your neck. Make yourself look like a composed diplomat instead of a woman who just fucked her boyfriendâsituationship? god, you refuse to be a grown woman with a situationshipâagainst her office door while her husband is probably working back home.
What the fuck are you doing?
Your heart kicks up, anxiety spiking sharp and sudden. Matt's thumb stills against your cheek, and you realise he can probably hear it. The way your body betrays every thought before you can even process it yourself.
âHey,â he says, and there's a question in it. âWhere'd you go?â
You open your mouth. Then immediately close it. You don't actually have an answer that won't make this worse.Â
His head tilts slightly, that listening posture you know so well, and his mouth curves into something small and resigned. Like he's already heard the answer in your pulse, in the shift of your breathing, in all the things your body is telling him that you won't say out loud.
So he steps back, creating space between you, and starts dealing with the condom without another word. He ties it off, wraps it in tissue from your desk, buries it under the papers in your trash bin so it's not the first thing anyone sees. The movements are quick and practised, and somehow that makes it worse.
âI should probably let you get back to it,â he offers, straightening out his clothes. âI'm sure you've got seventeen meetings stacked up this afternoon.â
You stare dumbly, watching him button his shirt, tuck it back in, re-buckle his belt. Everything going back into place like this was just a pleasant interlude in the workday and now it's back to business. He runs a hand through his hair to fix what your fingers messed up, and within two minutes he looks perfectly put together, as though nothing happened.
You catch sight of your reflection in the dark window and you definitely don't look like nothing happened. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen, and there's a faint mark on your neck that you're going to have to cover with makeup before your next meeting.
Matt turns away, adjusts his jacket, and something about the ease of it all makes your stomach twist. He's leaving. Of course he's leaving.
He picks up his cane, testing his weight on it, and the gesture is so familiar it hurts. How many times have you watched him do exactly that? Watched him prepare to leave after a late night working at your dining table, after drinks that turned into dinner that turned into more. Always the same smooth transition from intimacy back to separate lives.
He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple that lands somewhere between affectionate and perfunctory. âDon't let Bucky monopolize your entire weekend.â
It's said warmly. Casually, even. Like he's not bothered. Like this is all very uncomplicated and he's very okay with however this plays out.
âMattââ
âI'll see you later,â he says easily, hand already on the door.
The casualness of it catches you wrong. Hooks into something raw thatâs been building this whole week. And thatâs what snaps you out of your own head and back into the moment.
âThat's it?â The words come out sharper than you intend. âYou'll see me later?â
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, shoulders stiffing as he tries to read the edge in your voice. âAre youâis something wrong?â
Itâs remarkable, really. The man can hear your pulse spike from three rooms away, can detect the slightest shift in your body chemistry, can read more from your heartbeat than most people get from a full conversation. And yet here he is, still remarkably incapable of reading the room. Superhuman senses, same oblivious male brain.
âYou know what, no, nothing's wrong.â You scoff, yanking your skirt down with more force than necessary, already moving towards your desk, trying to put yourself back together. âYou're right, I do have a busy afternoon. Thanks for stopping by.â
âOkay, what's actually going on right now?â He asks slowly, like he's genuinely trying to figure this out. âYouâre clearly upset.â
âI'm not upset.â
âYour heart rate says differently.â
God, you hate that he can do that. Hate that your body betrays you before your mouth can even form the lie. And if he's going to use those stupidly accurate senses to call you out, fine. You might as well just say it.
âWhen am I going to see you again?â
The question hangs in the air. Matt's quiet for a moment, and you can see him processing, trying to read the subtext.
âI don't know.â The answer comes after a beat, careful. âWhen do you want to see me again?â
It's a reasonable question. A fair question. So why does it make you want to scream?
âThat's really how you're going to leave this?â You turn to face him, and you know you're being unfair but you can't seem to stop yourself. âI don't know, you tell me, we'll figure it out later?â
His expression shifts, the muscles tightening around his lips even as his posture stays relaxed. âI was trying to make it easy for you.â
âEasy for me or easy for yourself?â
âBoth, probably,â he admits, and the ease of his honesty genuinely makes you pause. âYou've got a lot going on. Your husband's here, clearly trying toâŚâ The sentence trails off, unfinished, like he doesnât want to say something he shouldnât. âI'm trying not to put more pressure on you when Bucky's already doing that.â
âSo you're just backing off? Not even going toââ You stop, because fight for me sounds insane and desperate and you're not sure you even want him to fight for you, but the fact that he won't makes you furious anyway.
âWhat do you want from me here?â Matt asks, and there's the first edge of frustration creeping into his voice. âYou want me to demand your time? Tell you to pick me over him? Make this harder for you?â
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don't know. You don't know what you want from him. You don't know what you want from Bucky. You don't know what you want from any of this mess you've created.
âMaybe I just want you to care! âThe words burst out louder than you meant them, and you have to forcibly lower your voice, aware again of where you are, who might hear. âI want you to act like this actually matters instead of just being whatever's convenient when I have a free hour.â
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
âThat's not fair,â he says quietly.
âIsn't it? You won't make plans more than a day out. You've never even asked me to stay over.â
âBecause I don't know what we are!â His voice spikes, exasperated, and you both freeze for a second, listening for footsteps in the hall. When none come, he continues, quieter but no less intense. âYou're still married. He's clearly trying to get you back. You're asking me to push when you've made it pretty clear you don't know what you want, and I'm not going to compete with your husband.â
âThere's a difference between not being pushy and not fighting for anything at all!âYour voice cracks slightly on the last word and you hate yourself for it, the vulnerability bleeding through when you're trying to stay angry. You swallow hard, trying to pull it back together. âThere's a difference between giving someone space and just letting go without even trying.â
âI'm trying,â he begins, and there's something rawer in his voice now, âto give you space to figure your shit out without making you feel like you owe me something.â
âMaybe I want to owe you something!â You're pacing now, heels clicking sharp against the floor. âMaybe I want you to act like you actually give a damn whether I pick him or not!â
âOf course I give a damn!â It's the closest he's come to raising his voice. âBut I'm not going to manipulate you or monopolize your calendar or show up andââ He stops himself. âI'm not him. I'm not going to do what he does.â
âAt least he's doing something!â
The words land like a slap. You see it in the way his expression shutters, in the way his hand tightens on his cane.
âRight.â His voice is flat. âWell. At least we know where we stand, then.â He's already turning toward the door. âClearly Iâm not what you need.â
âMatt, I didnât meanââ You press your palms against your eyes because you can feel the sting of tears starting and you really donât want to cry right now. âYouâre right, I don't know what I need.â Your voice cracks again and you hate it, hate the tears that are threatening, hate how small you sound. âBut why does it have to be all or nothing with both of you? He smothers me and you won't evenââ
You stop, pressing your hand to your mouth, trying to hold it together. But the tears are coming anyway, hot and frustrated and exhausted, because you've been holding everything in all week and it's too much. It's all too much.
The tap of his cane stops.
For a moment there's just silence, broken only by the humiliating wet sound of you trying not to sob.
âI'm fine.â But your voice does that horrible shaky thing that makes it very clear you are the opposite of fine.
âYou're not fine.â He's already moving toward you, and then his hands are on your arms. Warm and solid and gentle in a way that makes your chest hurt worse. âYou're crying in your office.â
âDon'tââ You try to turn away, humiliation burning hot in your chest because this is mortifying. âI just need a minute. I'm fine, really,â you try again, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.
âStop saying that.â His voice has gone impossibly soft, thumb stroking along your forearm. "Come here, please."
And that please is what does it. The gentleness in it. The fact that he's asking instead of demanding, even now, even when you're falling apart. You let him pull you in, let yourself press your face against his chest while the tears come properly now. His arms come around you, solid and sure, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He doesn't say anything. Just holds you while you shake apart against him, while you soak the front of his shirt with tears that won't stop coming.
âI'm sorry,â you gasp out between sobs. âI'm sorry, I don'tâI don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I want. This whole week has been so fucked up and I can't think straight and I don'tâ"âAnother sob cuts you off.
âShh. I know.â His hand moves in slow circles on your back, the pressure steady and grounding. âIt's okay, just breatheâ
âIt's not okay.â The words come out muffled against his chest. âThis whole week has beenââ Your breath hitches. âHe's everywhere and you'reâand I can't think straight and I keep making everything worseââ
His hand stills on your back for just a moment. âWhat do you need?â
You pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, and his hands shift to your arms. Steadying but not restraining. His face is tilted toward you with that particular focus he gets when he's listening to everythingâyour heartbeat, your breathing, the catch in your voice.
âI don't know.â You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with shaking hands. âMaybe I just need a break. From this. From both of you.â
You try to read his reaction, but he doesnât give anything away. Just keeps stroking your back in those same soothing motions.
âBucky's going back to DC on Sunday anyway,â you continue, and your voice sounds raw even to your own ears. âMaybe I just need some time. To figure myself out. Figure out what I actually want instead of justââ You gesture helplessly at the general disaster that is currently your life. âThis.â
You expect him to argue. To push back. To do something other than what he does, which is nod slowly.
âOkay,â he says quietly, and his thumb comes up to brush away a tear from your cheek. âYeah. We can do that. You need time, I'll give you time.â
The agreement should feel like relief but instead it just makes you want to cry harder. Because of course he's not fighting this either. Of course he's just agreeing, just stepping back, just giving you exactly what you asked for in a way that somehow feels like losing anyway.
âButââ He hesitates, and something in his tone shifts. Gets more careful. âYou might need to explain this all to Bucky too. Since, you know. He thinks you're working things out.â
Your head snaps up, tears still wet on your cheeks. âWhat?â
Matt's lips purse slightly, like heâs trying to figure out how to phrase it. âHe asked me to back off. Said you two were working through things. That you needed space to figure out your marriage without complications.â His mouth twists slightly on the last word. âMeaning me.â
The humiliation of thirty seconds ago transmutes instantly into something else. The tears stop. Everything stops. For a moment you just stare at Matt, trying to process what he's telling you, and then the rage hits like a freight train. âHe told you we were getting back together?â
âNot in those exact words, but yes,â he confirms quietly. âHe tried to make it seem like he knew where things stood between you. Made it pretty clear he considered me a temporary blip in your relationship.â
âThat fuckingââ You can't even finish the sentence, fury choking the words in your throat. Your hands are shaking again, but this time with anger.
âWe had one lunch,â you say, and your voice has gone cold. âOne. Where he apologised for being absent and I agreed to give him one week to prove he could actually show up. That's it. We neverâI never said we were working things out.â
Matt's very quiet.
âHe told you we were reconciling.â You're not asking. You're clarifying. Making sure you understand the full scope of what Bucky's done. âHe told you to back off because we were fixing our marriage.â
âYeah.â
âAnd then he filled my entire calendar. And slept in my bed. And touched me like I belonged to him in front of half of diplomatic London.â The pieces are clicking together with horrible clarity. âHe decided. Again. He just fucking decided without me that we're working things out and told myâtold you to back off like he gets to make those calls for me.â
You're already moving, grabbing your bag, your phone, not even sure what you're doing but you need to move, need to do something with this rage before it burns you alive from the inside.
âWhere are you going?â Matt asks carefully.
âHome.â The word comes out sharp and final. âI'm going home and I'm ending this shit right now.â
ââ â˘Â â âď¸ Ëăťđď¸ âš
The click of your heels echoes through the residence, each step a punctuation mark to the fury coiling tighter in your chest. You stride through the hallway, past Thomas who takes one look at your face and wisely says nothing, and straight to the study where you know Bucky's working.
He's at the desk - your desk, because apparently he's just moved back into every corner of your life without asking - looking at some papers with a confused scrunch of his nose that would be endearing if you weren't currently fantasizing about throwing something heavy at his head.
The papers hit the mahogany with a slap that makes him jolt upright. For half a second there's just confusion - eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted on a question that hasnât formed yet - and then his eyes drop to what youâve thrown down. âPetition for Dissolution of Marriageâ printed across the top in black and white. You watch his face change as he reads the header. Watch the colour drain slightly. Watch his throat work as he swallows.
âWhatââ He starts to speak, stops to compose himself, and when the words finally come theyâre careful, like he already knows the answer and is hoping he's wrong âWhatâs this?â
âTake a wild fucking guess, Congressman.â
His hand moves slowly toward the papers like they might burn him, fingers hovering before he finally touches them. He flips through, and you know the exact moment he finds the signature page because his whole body goes rigid.
Your finger jabs down at the signature line. âSign them.â
âWhat?â He's standing now, the chair scraping back, and there's something raw starting to crack through the careful composure on his face. Something that looks like panic and grief all at once. âBabyââ
âDon't.â You hold up a hand and he actually freezes mid-step. âDon't 'baby' me. Don't use that voice. Don't act like you can smooth this over if you just find the right words.â
âThat's notâI'm notââ His hands spread wide in a helpless gesture. âPlease, just talk to me. What happened? This morning we were fine, we wereââ
âWe were what, exactly?â You cut him off, arms crossing over your chest. âWorking things out? Getting back together? Reconciling our marriage?â
Bucky's quiet for a moment, and you can practically see him running through possibilities, trying to figure out which particular mine he's stepped on. And then the guilt stats to flicker across his face.
âOh good,â you say flatly. âYou know exactly what I'm talking about.â
His whole posture changes, that familiar stubborn set coming into his jaw that tells you he's not going to back down easy. âIf this is about Mattââ
âIf this is about Matt?â You actually laugh, and it sounds wrong even to your own ears. âThis is about you, Bucky! The fact that you lied and said we were working things out. That you said to back off because apparently we needed space to fix our marriage.â
He's quiet. Won't meet your eyes.
âWhen exactly were you planning to mention that to me?â Fury makes your voice shake despite your best efforts to keep it steady. âBefore or after you finished orchestrating my entire fucking life?â
âI was trying toââ
âI don't care what you were trying to do!â It comes out too loud, echoing off the study walls. âYou know, I've had these papers for two months. Two months of looking at them in my drawer, too much of a coward to sign them, because some pathetic part of me still hoped we could fix this.âÂ
Your voice cracks and you have to stop, have to breathe through the anger and hurt tangling in your throat.
âBut we can't. Because you don't know how to be in a partnership. You only know how to run operations and make strategic decisions and manipulate variables, and I'm so fucking tired of being a variable in your life instead of your fucking wife.â
âThat's not what you are to me! I swear, pleaseââ He runs a hand through his hair, and heâs scrambling, trying to find the words that will fix this. His gaze drifts back to the papers like they might rearrange themselves into something different if he looks hard enough. âWait, you drew these up two months ago?â
You watch him do the maths. Watch the realization settle across his features, his jaw going tight.
âWhen you started seeing him.â It's not a question.Â
âStop making this about Matt! Stop deflecting. Stop trying to make this about jealousy when this is about you making decisions about my life without me!âÂ
You're pacing before you realise it, unable to stand still. Three steps to the window and back.
âIt seems very much to be about him though, doesn't it?â Bucky's voice has gone rough at the edges. He pushes off the desk, takes a step toward you. âYou draw up divorce papers the second you start sleeping with him, this whole week goes perfectly fine until you see him again, and now you're in here ready to end our marriageââ
âThis week was a lie!â You shout, beyond caring who might hear. âThis week was you orchestrating my entire life, filling my calendar, telling people we were reconciling without ever actually asking me if that's what I wanted! Don't you dare act like things were fine when the whole thing was built on you manipulatingââ
ââI wasnât manipulatingââ
ââour marriage, making a decision about my relationships without saying word to me!â Your voice rises to stay above his. âI actually had those papers drawn up two months ago because Iâd spent the previous six months unable to have a single fucking conversation with my own husband!Â
The words are coming faster now, angrier, everything you've been holding in for 8 months spilling out. âEvery time I called I got 'he's in a meeting' or 'he'll call you back' and he never, ever did. Because somewhere along the line I stopped being your wife and became an item on your assistant's to-do list that never made it to the top of the pile!â
His head comes up. His eyes are wet with unshed tears when they find yours, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He's trying desperately to hold it together but you watch him start to lose the fight in the way his face crumples, in the painful swallow working down his throat. His hand lifts toward you before he seems to remember himself and lets it drop uselessly back to his side.Â
âIâm sorry, sweetheart, I know I fucked up, I know I wasn't there, and I'm trying to fix it nowââ
âBy doing the same thing! By making decisions without me!â Your nails dig into your palms hard enough to hurt, arms rigid at your sides. âDo you not see that? Youâre still doing it, Bucky, you're still shutting me out and deciding what's best for us without ever asking me what I want!â
âSo what do you want from me?â His desperation bleeds through every word, but itâs far too little, and far too late. âTell me what you want and I'll do it.â
For a moment you just stand there, looking at him across the desk that's covered in his work, in this life he built without consulting you. You should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Some echo of the love that used to live in your chest when you looked at him like this. But you just feel exhausted.Â
When you finally speak, the answer comes out quieter than anything else you've said tonight.
âI want you to sign the papers.â
Your words seem to suck the air out of the room, leaving nothing but the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears.
âNo.â He's shaking his head slowly at first, then faster, like he can physically deny what's happening if he just refuses hard enough. âNo, I'm notâI can'tââ
âYou don't get to say no.â
âJust talk to me!â He begs. âJust talk to me instead of throwing divorce papers on my desk and expecting me toââ
âTalk to you?â You can hear the bitter edge bleeding through your voice, feel it scraping against your throat. âWow, okay. Like you talked to me before telling Matt to back off? Like you talked to me before orchestrating my entire week? Like you talked to me every time I called and got your pretty little assistant instead?â
âI told you I didnât sleep with her.â
âOh my fucking god, congratulations!â Your arms fly up in exasperation. âYou want a medal for not fucking your assistant? You want me to applaud your restraint? Letâs not act like you were alone, pining away for me this whole time.â
âAt least I didn't parade it in front of you!â The accusation explodes out of him like it's been festering, his face flushing with pain and frustration mixing together.
âWe were separated! That was the whole fucking point of the agreement!â Even though your throat is becoming raw from shouting, you canât seem to stop, months of resentment pouring out of you. âMarried in public, free to see other people privately - thatâs what we agreed to. Except clearly, neither of us can act normally about it!â
Your voice cracks.
âWe're just destroying each other. And I can't do it anymore.â
Your words hang in the air between you. You're both breathing hard, and the study feels simultaneously too small and too vast, like the space can't quite contain what's happening. Then something shifts in his expression as he seems to finally hear what heâs been saying, how he sounds. His shoulders sag inward. The voice that comes out next is barely recognisable, all the fight drained away and replaced with a quiet plea.
âI'm sorry.â He drags a hand over his face. âYou're right. I'm making this worse. I'm making everything worse. But please, donât do this, just give me a chance tooââ
âI've been giving you chances for eight months. I gave you a chance when you became Congressman without talking to me about it. I gave you a chance this week when you showed up and I let you back in even though you were already making decisions for me. And every time you fucked it up!â
Bucky just stands there, breathing hard, staring at you like youâve gutted him. His eyes are still wet, tears clinging to his lashes but refusing to fall.
âI love you,â he whispers. âAnd I know you might not have felt it, and i know itâs not enough, but I have loved you through every stupid mistake I've made, including running for Congress.â
He lets out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest for months.
âI thought⌠I thought if I could be someone important, someone legitimate, maybe I'd finally be worthy of you. You've spent your whole career saving lives, negotiating peace, actually helping people. And I'm justââ His voice cracks. âI'm still just the Winter Soldier trying to prove I'm more than that. So I ran for Congress because I thought it might fix me, might fill the hole where my humanity used to be. But instead I just broke us and Iâm still as damaged as before. And now I can'tââ
His voice fractures completely.
âI can't lose you.â
The confession lands entirely wrong, because this is what you've wanted to hear for months - years, maybe. This vulnerability, this honesty, this real version of Bucky youâve only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. And itâs too late. Your throat tightens. You have to look away from him because seeing him like this, broken open and bleeding out in front of you, makes something in you want to take it all back. Want to cross the room and hold him and tell him he's not damaged, that he's never been unworthy, that you've loved him through every version of himself he hasnât.
But loving him has never been the problem.
âYou already did, Bucky.â The words hurt coming out. âYou can't put that on me - your sense of self-worth, your identity, fixing yourself. That was never my job. I loved you. I loved you exactly as you were, and you never believed me. And now you're telling me you destroyed our marriage trying to become someone you thought I wanted, when all I ever wanted was you.â
Somehow his face crumples further. You have to look away again. When you speak next, your voice is barely above a whisper. Tired and sad and so heavy you can barely get the words out.
âSo yes, you're right. You did break us. But not because you weren't good enough, Bucky. Because you never let me love the person you actually are.â
For a moment he just stands there, and you watch all the fight drain out of him like someone pulled a plug. His eyes go distant, almost glassy, and his breathing deepens, like he's shutting something down inside himself. The desperation from moments ago has been replaced by something far more terrifying: quiet resignation. He's finally stopped trying to hold on.
He picks up the pen. His hand trembles badly enough that you wonder if he'll even be able to write, but he manages to grip it, staring down at the signature line for what feels like an eternity. When the pen finally touches paper, the scratch of it against the silence is deafening.
He signs his name. Dates it. Slides the papers across the desk toward you without meeting your eyes.
âThere.â His voice is completely destroyed. âIf that's what you need.â
You pick up the papers with numb fingers. Stare at his signature like you can't quite believe it's real.
âI'm sorry.â He hasn't moved. Just stands there with wet cheeks and empty hands. âI'm so sorry. For all of it. For every way I failed you. For not being what you needed.â
"Thank you." It comes out barely audible. "For the apology. For signing."
You fold the papers slowly, creasing each edge with deliberate precision because if you think about the mechanics of folding paper you don't have to think about what you're holding.
âI want you to catch the next flight back to DC. Tonight, if you can. I'll have Thomas help you pack.â
âOkay.â He looks lost standing there, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his body, with any of this. âOkay, yeah.â
âAnd Buckyââ Your voice is steadier now, or at least you're doing a better job of faking it. âDon't call. Don't text. Don't send flowers or letters or try to fix anything. We're done. Let it be done.â
He nods, even though it looks like it's killing him. âOkay.â
There should be something else to say. Some final words that would make this less awful, less final. But you can't think of anything that won't make it worse. So you just turn and walk toward the door, papers pressed against your chest like you need the reminder of why youâre doing this.
âFor what it's worth,â His voice stops you at the threshold, and it comes out quiet and defeated, like a man who has run out of fight. âYou're the best thing that ever happened to me. The best thing I've ever had and the worst thing I've ever lost, and I know that's my fault. I know I did that.â The silence hangs for a moment. âI'm sorry. For all of it.â
You don't turn around, can't let him see your face right now.
âGoodbye, Bucky.â
Then you walk out, leaving your husband standing alone in the study, and you don't look back.
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The wind off the Potomac is sharp enough to sting, cutting through your coat. March in Washington hasn't gotten any more pleasant since you left - still grey, still biting, still full of men in expensive suits having conversations that matter to nobody outside this ten-block radius.
You've been back for two days. Meetings, briefings, a reception last night where you smiled until your face hurt and deflected questions about London with the practised ease of someone who's done this too many times to count. It's fine. Exhausting, but fine. You can do this job in your sleep at this point.
What you can't do, apparently, is stop yourself from scanning every room you enter for a familiar face. Your heart has been doing this annoying thing ever since you landed at Dulles where it kicks up at unexpected moments - half anticipation, half dread. Walking past a coffee shop that he used to go to. Hearing someone laugh in a way that's almost but not quite his register. Seeing a tall, dark-haired man in a suit who makes your stupid heart stutter before you realise it's not him.
You're not looking for him. You're absolutely not looking for him. You're just aware. Hyper-aware, maybe. Of the absence. Of the space where he should be and isn't.Â
Bucky's on Foreign Relations. He should have been at yesterday's hearing. Definitely should have been at the NATO briefing this morning where you spent two hours making small talk with people who absolutely knew you were divorced and were definitely trying not to bring it up.
But he's not here. And the unease that started yesterday has metastasized into something closer to worry, which is absurd because you're divorced and it's none of your business anymore where he is or what he's doing or why he's apparently missing every major political event this week.
Except now it's your last day in DC and you're walking out of your final meeting, and you still haven't seen him. Which is good. That's good. That's what you wanted - to get through this trip without the inevitable awkward encounter, without having to figure out what you're supposed to say to your ex-husband in a professional setting.
He's probably just busy. He's always busy. That's the whole problem, isn't it? Was. Was the whole problem.
You tell yourself it's none of your business. You tell yourself heâs probably had scheduling conflicts, or dozen other reasonable explanations that have nothing to do with you. You tell yourself to get in the car waiting to take you to the hotel and get a good nights sleep before your flight tomorrow morning.
Instead, you hear yourself giving the driver a different address.
You watch DC slide past the window. Familiar streets, familiar monuments, a city you used to know as well as London but feels foreign now. It's been three months since you signed those papers. Six weeks since the divorce was finalised. And he gave you the silence that you asked for, that you needed, that was supposed to make this easier.Â
It did make some things easier, in a way. You can think about him now without that sharp twist of anger in your chest. Can acknowledge the good parts of your marriage without immediately cataloguing all the ways it fell apart. You've stopped checking your phone obsessively, stopped writing texts you never sent, stopped having imaginary arguments with him at two in the morning.
You've started sleeping through the night again. Started saying âmy ex-husbandâ without your voice catching. Started believing that maybe you could actually do this - be divorced, be separate, be okay.
But you still can't be in this city without needing to know he's alright. Because Bucky Barnes gets under your skin and doesnât leave. Not really. Not even after divorce papers and three months of silence and all the ways you've tried to extract him from your chest. He's just there, permanent as a scar, and you've apparently made peace with the fact that he always will be.
His apartment is close enough to the Capitol that he could walk if he wanted to, far enough that it didn't feel like living at the office. You'd picked it out together four years ago, back when you thought his Congressional run was temporary and you'd be back in New York within a term. The doorman doesn't recognise you, but he calls up anyway when you give him your name.
The elevator ride to the eighth floor feels longer than the entire flight from London. Your heart is doing that kicking thing again but worse now, harder, because this is stupid and inappropriate and you have no right to be here. But what if something's wrong? Or maybe nothing's wrong and you're being ridiculous. Both options feel equally terrible.
You walk down the hallway on muscle memory, and before you can overthink it anymore, youâre standing in from of 8F. The door opens before your knuckles even make contact with the wood.
Bucky's standing there in jeans and a Henley that's seen better days, hair slightly too long and falling into his eyes. The permanent tension he used to carry in his shoulders has eased, and there's no tie strangling him, no suit jacket making him look like a politician action figure. He looks comfortable in a way you've never seen him look in DC.
He also looks completely shocked to see you.
His eyes go wide, lips parting on what might be your name but doesn't quite make it out.Â
âHi,â you manage.
For a second he just stares at you like you might be a hallucination, hand still on the doorframe, body frozen mid-breath. âHi.â
And then silence. Awful, stretching silence where you're both just looking at each other and you're realizing with creeping horror that you came all the way here without any plan for what you were actually going to say. Now you're just standing here like an idiot while he stares at you and oh god you need to say something, anythingâ
âI'm sorry. I know I shouldn't just show up, I was in town for meetings and I wasn't going to bother youââ And suddenly you're talking too fast, words tumbling over each other in a way that would be mortifying if you could stop long enough to be mortified. âBut you weren't at the Foreign Relations hearing yesterdayâwhich isn't my business, obviously, you don't owe me your scheduleâŚâÂ
Your hand comes up to your neck, fingers pressing against the tension there like that might somehow stop the word vomit. âBut then you also weren't at the NATO briefing this morning and I know you're always at those because it's your thing, and I know I have no right to just show up here, and this is probably completely inappropriateââ
Shit, you're babbling. You're fully babbling at your ex-husband who you haven't spoken to in three months while he stands there looking increasingly bewildered. Stop talking. Stop talking right now.
ââbut I was getting in the car to go to my hotel and I just kept thinking about how you weren't there and what if something was wrong, and I know I asked for space and this is definitely not space, this is the opposite of space, this is me showing up at your apartment like a completeââ
âI left Congress.â
The words cut through your spiral, stopping you mid-sentence with your mouth still open. Your brain completely flat-lines for a moment and then reboots, and for a second you just stare at him while the information tries to process.
âWhat?â
âCongress. I left.â He says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather. âAbout three weeks ago.â
âOh.â
The word comes out flat and stupid. You blink at him. Process that. Try to figure out what expression your face is making and whether it's appropriate.
âOh,â you repeat dumbly, because apparently that's all your brain can produce. âI didn'tâI didn't know.â
The silence that follows is excruciating. And you're suddenly extremely aware that you're standing in his hallway, that he's looking at you with an expression you can't parse, that you've just made a complete fool of yourself by showing up here based on incorrect assumptions about his schedule.
This was a mistake. This was such a mistake.
âRight. Of course.â You take a step back toward the elevator, face hot with embarrassment. âI'm sorry, I shouldn't haveâthis was inappropriate, I'll justâ"
âDo you want to come in?â The question comes out slightly strangled, like it surprised him as much as it surprises you.
It stops you mid-retreat. You look at him and he's watching you with something that might be hope or might be caution or might be both.
âI don't want to intrudeââ
âYou're not.â He steps back from the doorway, making space. âI mean, you're already here. And I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay.â
You should say no. Should absolutely say no. Should get back in that car and go to your hotel and let this remain a awkward three-minute interaction you can both pretend never happened.
âOkay,â you hear yourself say instead.
You step inside and it hits you how familiar everything still is. Same layout you could navigate blind, same view of the street you used to watch on sleepless nights, same couch you both used to fall asleep on after long nights reading political documents.Â
But the congressional briefings that used to bleed across every flat surface are gone. In their place are books on the side table - actual books that look read, spines creased, pages dog-eared. The kitchen looks like someone's actually been using it instead of just microwaving leftovers at midnight. It's still the same apartment, but it feels different. Like someone actually exists here instead of just sleeping between eighteen-hour days.
You're standing there trying to process it when you realise Bucky's closed the door and now you're both just awkwardly existing in the same space, six feet apart, neither of you sure what to do with your hands.
But damn, he looks good. That's the thing you keep getting stuck on. The permanent furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His shoulders sit easier. Even the way he's standing is looser, less like a man braced for impact. And he's looking at you like he's trying very hard to be normal about this and failing completely. Like you're something he's not allowed to want anymore but can't quite help it.
You clear your throat, grasping for something to say that isn't we got divorced and you look good and I don't know what to do with that.
âSo⌠Not Congressman Barnes anymore.â
He actually cringes, then huffs out a surprised laugh. âYeah. Thank god.â
âWhat happened?â You're trying to keep your voice neutral, conversational, but it definitely comes out more loaded than you intended. âI mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I don't have a right toââ
âYou have a right,â he interrupts quietly, then seems to reconsider. âOr, I don't know if you have a right, but I want to tell you anyway.â
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He runs a hand through his hair, and you watch him gather his thoughts. That little exhale he does when he's trying to figure out how to be honest about something difficult.
âAfter the divorceââ He stops on the word, like it physically hurts to say. He swallows, tries again. âI did a lot of thinking. About why I ran for Congress in the first place, what I was trying to prove. And I realised I hated it. Hated the politics, the performance, the constant posturing. I was terrible at it, you know I was terrible at it. The only reason I didn't completely implode was because you were there coaching me through it, and once you weren't...â He trails off, shaking his head. âI kept going anyway because I thought that's what I was supposed to do. That quitting would mean I'd failed, or that I was giving up.â
He's looking at his hands now, the flesh one fidgeting against the metal one.
âBut you were right. I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. Trying to be someone I thought deserved you instead of figuring out who I actually am.â He lets out a breath. âNot for you, not to prove anything to anyone. Just for me. I'd never done that before.â
He shifts his weight, suddenly looking uncomfortable with how honest that came out, and you have to swallow past the tightness in your throat because that might be the most vulnerable thing he's ever admitted to you.
âSo I quit.â He shrugs like it's no big deal, trying to play it off. âAnd then I started thinking about what I actually wanted to do if I wasn't trying to prove I was more than what Hydra made me.â
He glances up at you then, and there's something almost hesitant in it, like he's trying to gauge your reaction. Like he canât help that some part of him still wants you to be proud of him even though he's doing this for himself. âSam's been building something with the Avengers. A new teamââ
And he must catch the concern that flickers across your face because he quickly adds, âI'm not fighting; I'm done with that. But Iâm going to help with training programs, support systems, trying to make sure the next generation doesn't get chewed up the way we did. He asked if I wanted to help, and for the first time in years something just... clicked.â
You're staring at him, trying to process all of it. The growth. The self-awareness. The fact that he actually heard you, actually sat with it, actually made changes not to win you back but because he needed to be better for himself.
âThat'sââ Your voice comes out rough and you have to clear your throat. âThat's really good, Bucky. I'm happy for you.â
And you are. You are genuinely happy for him. But there's something bittersweet lodged behind your ribs too, something that tastes like why now and why couldn't you have done this when we were still trying and this is exactly what I wanted from you.
âI'm sorry I didn't tell you,â he adds quietly. âI wasn't sure if it was my place anymore, or if you'd want to know. You asked for silence and I was trying to respect that, trying to give you the peace you deserved after everything I put you through.â
God. He's doing exactly what you asked him to do. Respecting your boundaries, not inserting himself into your life, letting you move on. And apparently getting what you want feels a lot like getting punched in the chest, which seems cosmically unfair.
âYou're allowed to tell me things,â you manage. âJust because we're divorced doesn't mean I don't care about what happens to you.â
He nods slowly, but doesn't say anything, and the quiet that settles between you is thick with all the things neither of you knows how to say.
You're both still just standing there and you have no idea what you're supposed to do now. No idea what the protocol is for this situation. No idea how to be around him when he looks this good and this different and this much like what you'd needed him to be.
That's when you hear it. A small, inquiring âmrrpâ from somewhere behind the couch. A white cat emerges, one blue eye and one green, tail high and confident as she saunters into the middle of the room and sits down to observe you both with feline judgment.
âYou got a cat,â you remark, grateful for a distraction.
âYeah.â Bucky says, and there's something almost embarrassed in his voice. âHer name's Alpine. I got her about a month after the divorce. The apartment was too quiet and Iââ He trails off, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. âShe was at a shelter and she looked at me like she knew I needed someone around and I guess I did.â
The apartment was too quiet because you weren't in it anymore, is the thing he doesn't say. But it hangs there anyway.
Alpine pads over to you with the confidence of a cat who knows she's in charge, and you crouch down automatically, extending your hand for her to sniff.
âHi there, sweet girl,â you murmur, and she immediately butts her head against your palm, purring like a small motor. Within seconds she's winding between your legs, tail curling around your calf with clear ownership.
âWell, that's it then,â Bucky teases, small smile tugging at his lips. âShe's decided you're hers. Good luck leaving, she's very persistent when she wants something.â
The words hang in the air for a second, and you watch his expression shift as he seems to hear what he just said. Like he's just remembered that you leaving is exactly what's supposed to happen. That you have a life that doesn't include him or his cat.
âSo, how are things with....â He clears his throat, and you can practically feel him trying to make his voice sound casual and normal. It doesn't work. âHow's the boyfriend?â
Your hand stills on Alpine's fur. You look up to find him studiously examining a spot on the wall like it's the most fascinating piece of architecture he's ever seen.
âMatt moved back to New York a few months ago.â You straighten up slowly, Alpine protesting the loss of attention with a small trill. âWe ended things. Wanted different things from the relationship.â
âOh.â Bucky's eyes finally land on you, and there's something complicated happening in his expression. âI'm sorry.â
âNo you're not.â
It comes out before you can stop it, and for a second you think you've made it weird again, but then Bucky laughs. It's surprised out of him, genuine and a little helpless, and god you've missed that sound.
âNo,â he admits, smile going crooked. âI'm really not.â
The honesty of it sits between you for a moment. Then something changes in his face, the amusement fading into something more vulnerable.
âBut I should be sorry,â he continues quietly. âIt shouldn't matter what I think. You deserve to move on, to be happy with someone whoââ He cuts himself off, looking down at his hands. âSomeone who can actually be what you need. And I'll deal with that eventually. I will. I'm justââ Another pause. âI'm sorry that I played a part in screwing that up for you, with Matt. And Iâm sorry if the divorce or the complications or just... me... if any of that made it harder for you to have something good.â
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tight. Here he is, your ex-husband, apologizing for potentially ruining your other relationship while also admitting he's not sorry it ended, and somehow it's the most honest you've been with each other in months.
âIt wasn't you,â you hear yourself say. âNot directly, anyway. Matt and I⌠we wanted different things. He wanted easy and uncomplicated, and I'm apparently incapable of either of those things.â
âThat's not trueââ
âBucky.â You raise a brow. âI showed up at my ex-husband's apartment unannounced because I got worried when he didn't show up to committee meetings. I think we can agree that 'easy and uncomplicated' is not really my strong suit.â
His mouth twitches. âFair point.â
âBut,â he adds, âyou deserve someone who doesn't want easy. Someone who wants all of it - the complicated, the messy, the hard parts. Someone who wants you exactly as you are. Because you show up. Even when you shouldn't, even when it's inconvenient, even when you have every reason not to. You came here today because you were worried about me, because that's just who you are. You care so completely, so deeply, even when it costs you. And you deserve someone who loves you enough to show up for you the way you've always shown up for everyone else.â
The words land like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. Your eyes start to sting and you have to look away, blinking hard against the sudden heat behind them because you're not going to cry in his apartment, you're not.
Except apparently you are, because your vision's already blurring and there's a tightness in your chest that won't ease and when you try to speak nothing comes out but a slightly choked sound that you immediately wish you could take back.
âHey,â Bucky moves toward you immediately, concern flooding his face. âShit, no, I didn't mean to upset you.â
You try and recover the situation, aiming for light, but it cracks halfway through. âNo, Iâm fine, thatâs a veryâthat's nice, that's a really nice thing to say, thank you for theââ
You stop because you're not making sense, because the whole thing is so mortifying you want to sink through the floor.
âSweetheart, whatâs happening?â His hand comes up immediately, thumb brushing across your cheek with a gentleness that makes it worse. Heâs so close now that you can see the flecks of grey starting to thread through his hair at his temples. Close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne - the same one you bought him three years ago for his birthday. Close enough that your body remembers what it feels like to fit against his before your brain can stop it.
And god, he still feels like home. Still looks at you like you're something precious. And it's too much, all of it is too much, and the tears that have been threatening finally spill over.
âDon't call me that,â you choke out, but there's no heat in it. âAnd don'tâyou can't justââ
The words are getting tangled up with the crying, which is humiliating, but now that you've started you can't seem to stop.
âYou don't get to do this,â you manage, and it comes out accusatory and broken at the same time. âYou don't get to make all these changes and become this better version of yourself after we're divorced. You don't get to quit the job you hated and figure out what you actually want and get a cat and look at me like that when we're notââ
You stop, pressing your palms against your eyes because maybe if you can't see him this will be easier.
âYou're doing everything right and it's too late. And god, I'm here being pathetic, showing up at your apartment because I couldn't handle not seeing you at a meeting. You've moved on, you're this whole new person, and I'm stillââ
âYou think I could ever move on from you?â
The question cuts through your spiral, stops you mid-sentence. You lower your hands and look up at him, and his face has gone soft and raw and heartbroken in a way that makes your chest cave in.
âI haven't moved on.â His voice drops to barely more than a whisper. âI couldn't move on from you if I tried.You think I got a cat because I moved on? I got a cat because I was so fucking lonely and every time I tried to date, I couldnât. I couldnât let anyone else in here. Couldn't stand the thought of someone in this space who wasnât you.â
He takes a breath that shudders slightly on the exhale, and you can see him fighting to hold himself together.
âI'm not a better person because I moved on. I'm a better person because losing you destroyed me and I had to either figure out who I actually was without you or let it kill me. So I figured it out, because I owed it to myself to be more than just the wreckage of our marriage.â
His thumb continues to trace slow paths across your cheekbone, catching each tear as it falls. The space between you has shrunk to almost nothing. You don't remember either of you moving but suddenly you can count his eyelashes, can see his eyes are wet too.Â
Your eyes drop to his mouth. His lips are slightly parted, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your skin, and you watch him notice where you're looking. Watch the way his pupils blow wider, the way his grip on your face tightens just slightly.
âBut god, Iâm sorry,â he continues, and his forehead drops to rest against yours. âI'm so fucking sorry for all of it. For running for Congress without talking to you first. For shutting you out instead of letting you help me. For making you feel like you weren't enough when you were always everything.â
âBuckyââ
âI'm sorry for manipulating your calendar and lying to Matt and thinking I could orchestrate our marriage back together instead of just talking to you like a fucking adult.â His other hand comes up to cup your face, both palms cradling you as his thumb brushes your bottom lip âI'm sorry for making you feel like you had to be perfect instead of just being yourself. I'm sorry for taking you for granted and not fighting for us until it was too late. I'm sorryââ
You kiss him.Â
You can't help it. Can't wait another second, can't stand anymore distance between you when he's been standing there saying everything you'd needed to hear for months and he's finally, finally letting you all the way in and you need him closer. Need his mouth on yours more than you need air right now.
He makes this startled sound against your lips, like he didn't dare let himself believe this was actually happening. But then his hands tighten on your face and he's kissing you back, desperate and messy, your face still wet with tears.
âKeep going,â you gasp against his lips between kisses. âDon't stop.â
âI'm sorry for every time I chose my pride over our marriage.â The words tumble out between kisses as he walks you backward, one hand now gripping your waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of your head. âFor every time I made you feel small or unimportant or like you were the problem when it was always me.â
You hit the wall with a soft thud, his palm deliberately taking the impact for your head, and his mouth finds your throat immediately, hot and desperate, teeth grazing your pulse point before his lips soothe over it.
âI'm sorry for wasting so much time,â he breathes against your neck, hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling back just enough to drag it over your head. âFor not appreciating every second I had with you. For not telling you every single day that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.â
âBuckyââ You plead, fingers tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes blown completely dark, and the desperation on his face mirrors everything coiling tight in your stomach.
âLet me make it up to you,â he pants, mouth already trailing lower, kissing down your throat, your collarbone, your sternum. âPlease. Let me get on my knees and show you exactly how sorry I am, sweetheart.â
âFuckâplease, Bucky. Yes!â
His mouth keeps moving lower as he sinks down, lips pressing hot and wet over your stomach. When he reaches the waistband of your skirt his hands slide around to find the zip, tugging it down over your hips.Â
He peels it down slowly, mouth following the same path, pressing open kisses down your hip, the outside of your thigh, your knee, helping you step out of it carefully but making absolutely no move to take your heels off. For a moment he just stays there, looking up at you from the floor with blown dark eyes.
The sight of him down there looking at you like that makes your breath come out shaky.
âMissed you so fucking much,â he breathes against your inner thigh, lips dragging higher again. âMissed this.â His fingers find the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly, and when they're gone his right hand lingers on your calf, squeezing.
âMissed the way you sound when I do thisââ He presses his mouth to your clit, barely anything, just enough to make you whine and your hips jerk forward chasing more. âMissed the way you taste. Been so fucking long, sweetheart, I'm gonna make sure you feel every single apology.â
Then he hooks your leg over his shoulder, spreading you wider, the stiletto of your heel digging into his back. He groans against you like he's been waiting months for exactly this, tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every inch of you, before his mouth closes around your clit and sucks.
You're already soaked, embarrassingly so, slick and swollen and desperate, and the obscene sounds he's making against you make your face flush hot. Like he's enjoying this more than you are, which makes the heat pooling in your stomach coil tighter and more urgent.Â
Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, gripping hard, and the moan that rumbles out of him against your folds is immediate, hips shifting like he can't help it. You tug again, twisting tighter, and he groans louder, like he'd let you pull as hard as you wanted as long as you kept him right there.
His tongue curls and your back arches off the wall with a broken, high little sound, thighs trembling against his shoulders. The heel of your stiletto presses harder into his back as your leg tightens around him.
He teases you mercilessly, knows exactly how to make you chase it. Tongue circling your clit until your hips roll forward without shame, grinding against his face, chasing friction with a desperation that would be humiliating if you had any capacity left to feel embarrassed. Every time you get close he pulls back, mouthing at your inner thigh or the crease of your hip, until you whine with frustration.
âPleaseââ It comes out wrecked, barely recognisable as your own voice. âBucky, pleaseââ
He makes this low, pleased chuckle against your folds that you feel everywhere, clearly delighted with himself, and the vibration of it makes you desperately clench around nothing and moan so shamelessly that he does it again on purpose.Â
His tongue fucks into you and the world goes soft at the edges, thoughts dissolving one by one until there's nothing left but the wet heat of his mouth and the needy little moans you canât seem to stop making. His nose bumps your clit with every movement, pressure building so deep and overwhelming that you've stopped being capable of anything as complex as forming words.Â
Just fingers buried in his hair, back arched, existing entirely at the mercy of his mouth.
Then his left hand closes around your standing thigh, metal fingers wrapping around soft flesh. He pulls his mouth away just far enough to speak, his breath hot and damp against your soaked, swollen folds.
âUp,â he rumbles directly into your cunt, breath hot, and you hear it somewhere distant and unimportant.Â
Your legs aren't really receiving instructions anymore - you're not capable of much of anything right now, every nerve ending in your body shorting out under his mouth. Too far gone already to manage something as complicated as lifting a leg.
The crack of his metal hand against your ass brings the world back in one sharp snap.
âUp, pretty girl. C'mon.â His voice is rough, amused, unbearably fond. âCan't have gone dumb on my tongue already, sweetheart. Iâve barely even started.â
âFuck,â you manage.
âThere we go,â he murmurs, the deep warmth in his voice is devastatingly attractive. âGood girl. Up.â
His hand guides you this time, helping you move your other leg up and over his shoulder so both thighs bracket his head. Before you can process whatâs happening, he rises, straightening to his full height with an ease that makes it obvious how little you weigh to him. How effortless this is. How completely in control he is of the situation. And it makes your stomach swoop.Â
Your fingers yank his hair on instinct, panic and want tangled together, and the moan that drags out of him reverberates directly against your pussy in a way that makes your whole body shudder.
The wall catches your back. His hands lock around the backs of your thighs, one warm, one cool metal, fingers pressing into your flesh as he pins you exactly where he wants you. His face is buried between your legs and there's nothing below you but six feet of immovable super soldier who has absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. The realization of how thoroughly he has you, how completely helpless you are right now, sends a fresh rush of arousal flooding against his mouth that makes him moan his encouragement.
âFuckâ pleaseâBucky.â
The answering groan he makes against you says he heard it just fine. And then he gets greedy.
His tongue finds your clit and doesn't leave, licking and sucking with a focused relentlessness that has you sobbing. You're soaked, dripping down his chin. Every careful, deliberate stroke of his tongue pulls another helpless mewl from your throat while his hands keep you pinned exactly where he wants you, going nowhere, taking everything he decides to give you.
He learns you all over again like he has all the time in the world. Finds every spot that makes your thighs clench around his head and returns to them, again and again, cataloguing your reactions with the focused intensity of someone who has missed this more than they can articulate and intends to make up for every lost month tonight.Â
âTaste so fucking good,â he groans into you, the words vibrating against your clit, hips grinding forward against nothing. âMissed this pussy so much. Missed how wet she gets for me. Could eat her all night and never get enough.â
The knowledge that he's this worked up just from going down on you makes another rush of arousal flood against his tongue. Heat spreads through you in waves, the orgasm building each time he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, each time he groans against your folds like he's the one being taken apart. Your thighs are shaking around his head, his name spilling out of you in a broken, continuous stream that you can't stop.
âThat's my girl,â he rasps into you, fingers digging into your thighs. âFeel her getting close. Gonna give me what I want.â
You come with a wail, clenching so hard around his tongue that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt. His hands remain steady around your thighs as he licks you through every shuddering wave, greedy for every last pulse of it, not pulling back until you're twitching and whimpering and completely wrecked above him.
He pulls back with one last filthy, open mouthed kiss to your cunt that makes you mewl, and then his hands shift, sliding you down his body until your legs wrap around his waist. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and insistent against where you're still throbbing, and your hips roll forward instinctively.
âLook at you,â he murmurs against your throat, hands gripping your ass, holding you up effortlessly. âSo pretty when you cum for me. Did so good.â
You make some soft, wrecked sound against his neck that might be his name.
Then one hand comes up to grip your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His chin is slick with you, lips swollen and pink and kissable. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, dragging it down. âOpen that pretty mouth.â
Dazed and pliant, you open your mouth without thinking, too gone to do anything but comply. He leans in and lets a slow string of spit drop onto your tongue, mixed with the slick mess of you.
âAtta girl,â he rumbles, watching your face with a primal satisfaction. âYou taste so fucking good, sweetheart - had to let you have some.â
You swallow and he groans his approval, crashing his mouth back to yours before you can breathe. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you dizzy, fingers twisting in his Henley. Your brain several steps behind your body as he starts moving, carrying you through the dark hallway without breaking the kiss, navigating entirely on muscle memory.
The bedroom is dark. He lays you out across his bed, stepping back to look at you. Spread across his sheets still in nothing but your heels and bra, chest heaving, thighs slick, eyes blown completely dumb. The look on his face makes your stomach flip all over again.
âBeen dreaming about seeing you in this bed again,â he says, crawling over you, caging you in with those unfairly big biceps. âNot done with you yet, pretty girl. Not even close.â
Your hands find the hem of his top immediately, fisting the fabric, and he helps you drag it over his head. His dog tags fall forward as the shirt comes off, swinging between you both as he dips back down to your mouth.
Already your fingers are at his belt, clumsy and impatient, fumbling with the buckle while he kisses down your jaw and unhooks your bra before tossing it aside. His mouth finds your nipple immediately, greedy,tongue curling around it, and your hands stutter.
âBuckyââ You're swearing under your breath, hands shaking as you try and fail to get the buckle undone. âCome on, fuck, come on!â
He grazes his teeth against your nipple and your fingers slip entirely.Â
âShit, please,â you whine, utterly shameless.
Bucky just laughs against your tits, warm and low, not even slightly helpful. Finally, though, the belt gives, button pops, zip drags down, and you're shoving everything down his hips in one desperate motion as his cock springs free. Thick and hard and heavy between his legs, and your mouth goes dry.Â
Itâs been almost a year since youâve seen him like this and your eyes drag down his body with a hunger you can't even pretend to hide. You reach for him immediately, needing to touch, needing to feel the weight of him in your hand, but he catches both wrists before you get there, pinning them above your head against the pillow.Â
âPatience, pretty girl,â he murmurs, hips settling between your thighs, cock heavy against your folds but not where you need him. âWe've got time. Not rushing this.â
You whimper, hips lifting, trying to find friction, finding nothing.
He slides his cock through your folds, dragging through how obscenely wet you are, and the feeling of it pulls a broken noise from both of you simultaneously. Slow and deliberate, he teases the swollen head through your slick, catching your clit on the way, and your whole body jerks underneath him.
âBucky,â you mewl. Your wrists flex against his grip, not really trying to get free, just needing somewhere to put the desperation flooding through you. He drags his cock back through your heat while you clench desperately around nothing, watching your face fall apart with an expression of filthy satisfaction.
âThere it is. Look at that pretty little cunt begging for it.â Another slow roll of his hips, cock dragging through the mess of you. âGonna give it to you. Just want you to ask nice price.â
âPlease,â you manage, and it comes out so small and wrecked and needy that his hips stutter. âPlease, Bucky, I needâI can'tâpleaseââ
He releases your wrists and your hands fly to his shoulders instantly, nails digging in hard, needing to touch him, needing to anchor yourself to something solid while his cock nudges your entrance, barely breaching, just enough to make you clench desperately around nothing.
âShh,â he coos, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wants you even as your hips try to roll forward chasing more. âI've got you, baby.â The head of his cock presses a little deeper, teasing, and your nails drag down his shoulders as your back arches off the bed. âAlways gonna take care of you. You know that.âÂ
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch of him makes your whole body go rigid, nails carving lines down his shoulders that make him hiss as you take him inch by inch. Your walls flutter around him, clenching, trying to pull him deeper even as your body relearns the thickness of him, the weight, the specific fullness that you'd spent three months trying to forget and never quite managed.
âFuck,â he grits out, hips stilling when he's buried completely, forehead dropping to yours, breathing ragged. âAlways so fucking tight. Feel that? Feel how well this pretty cunt fits me?â His hips roll, just slightly, and you cry out. âFeel so perfect around my cock, pretty girl.â
You can't form words. Can only moan and dig your nails deeper into his back and breathe through it, through the overwhelming stretch and heat and the fact that it's him, it's Bucky, it's finally Bucky again after everything.
Then he starts to move.
Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside you, his cock splitting you open over and over until you can't remember what it felt like to be empty. The cold metal of his dog tags brushes your chest with every thrust. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the dual sensation pulls a needy little wail from you, toes curling in your heels
âThat's it,â he breathes against your lips. âThat's my girl. Take all of it.â
You drag him back down into the kiss, desperate, one hand tangling in his hair and the other still clawing down his back, needing more of him, needing every part of him pressed against every part of you. He gives it to you, kissing you filthy and deep, hips rolling into a rhythm that's making coherent thought impossible.
âMissed you,â you gasp between kisses, and once it starts coming out you can't stop it. âMissed you so much, I missed you every single day, I tried not to but I couldn't stop, I missed you, I missed youââ
âI know.â His voice breaks on it. âMissed you too, baby. I'm here. I've got you.â
âDon't stop,â you sob against his mouth. âPlease don't stop.â
âNot stopping.â His thumb keeps circling your clit and his hips snap forward harder, the wet obscene sounds of him fucking into you filling the dark bedroom. âNot going anywhere ever again.â
The pleasure and the grief and the overwhelming relief of having him back crash into each other all at once and the tears come again without warning, spilling hot down your cheeks. You're coming and crying at the same time, clenching so hard around him that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
Instinctively you hide your face against his neck with a mewling, broken little sound, as the waves keep crashing through you. His hand finds your jaw immediately, fingers gentle but certain, tilting your face back to his.
When he sees you - eyes wet and glassy, tears tracking freely down your cheeks, kiss-bitten bottom lip caught between your teeth - his expression cracks wide open. His thumb drags slowly through the wetness on your cheek, just looking at you, chest heaving, cock still buried deep inside you.Â
âFuck,â he rasps, hips driving deeper, mouth dragging across your wet cheeks, licking away the tears. âDonât hide from me. Not this. So beautiful when you cry for me like this.âÂ
Another deep thrust punctuates his words and your sob breaks against his throat. The orgasm is almost too much, pleasure cresting so sharp and overwhelming that you're squirming beneath him, trying to get away from it and chase it at the same time. Your hips buck uselessly as his thumb keeps bullying your swollen clit , wringing every last shuddering wave out of you whether your oversensitive body can handle it or not.
âMade you cry too many times for the wrong reasons.â His mouth moves to your other cheek, kissing the wetness away gently even as his hips keep pounding into you. âNever fucking again. Only time you cry because of me now is when I've got you so full of cock you can't fucking think straight.â
Then he pulls back to look at you, pupils blown, taking in your wet lashes, your ruined expression. âThat's the only reason I ever put tears on this pretty face again. On my fucking life.â
You're trying to say his name but it keeps breaking apart every time his hips drive forward, dissolving into breathless, helpless sounds against his mouth. But you canât stop them, canât control it, canât do anything other than moan because he just keeps fucking you through every shuddering wave of your orgasm until youâre trembling under him.Â
You whimper, oversensitive and shaking, hips trying to shy away from his thumb even as your walls keep fluttering around him.
âCan feel her gripping me,â Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, hips still rolling slow and deep. âFeel that? Still so greedy even when you're all fucked out.â His thumb lifts and you exhale in relief, but his cock is still thick and heavy inside you, every slight movement magnified by how sensitive you are. âGot one more in there for me, baby. I know you do.â
Turning your face into his neck, you make a sound that's half-protest, half-desperate agreement.Â
âCâmon pretty girl,â His voice drops to something low and coaxing, lips brushing your ear. âYou gonna give it to me?â
You nod weakly, barely managing it, pliant and soft and entirely his to do whatever he wants with. You'd agree to anything right now. Give him anything. You just want whatever he'll give you, want to stay exactly like this forever, warm and full and completely undone.
The rumble that comes out of him is deep and satisfied. âGood fucking girl.â
The words land low in your stomach even before his hands are moving, even before he pulls out with a groan that you both feel everywhere, even before the cool air hits the slick mess between your thighs. The empty whine that escapes you is involuntary and embarrassing and he hears every second of it.
His hands find your hips, turning you with that easy, devastating strength, flipping you over like you weigh nothing. Your face finds the mattress, and before you can process the change in position his palm is pressing warm between your shoulder blades, urging you down while his other hand slides under your hips, pulling them up to meet him.
You go pliant without resistance, body soft and utterly compliant beneath his hands, brain several steps behind everything. Your cheek presses into his sheets and you can smell him on the fabric, sending a fresh pulse of want through you.
He leans over you, his chest warm against your back for just a moment, and then his hand slides into your hair. Gathers it gently, sweeping it away from your face with a tenderness that's completely at odds with how thoroughly he just fucked you apart. His fingers are careful, unhurried, and you turn your face slightly into his palm like a cat.
âThere you are,â he murmurs, low and warm, and you can feel the smile in it. His lips press to the nape of your neck, the top of your spine, each vertebra down between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a moment, just looking at you. Taking in the slack, cock-drunk softness of your expression. The way your eyes have gone heavy and distant, lashes still wet, lips parted and swollen.
Then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance again and you keen into the sheets.
He pushes in slowly, achingly slowly, and the stretch of him at this angle is deeper, fuller, hitting every nerve ending at once. You're so wet and so oversensitive that every inch of him dragging inside you pulls sounds from your throat that you couldn't muffle if you tried.
âFuck,â he gasps, hands locked around your hips, pulling you back onto him as his last inch disappears inside you. âLook at that. Taking every fucking inch. Good girl.â
He starts to move and your eyes roll back.
It's different like this. Harder, deeper, each thrust rocking you forward into the mattress, his hips snapping against your ass with a sound that fills the dark room, punctuated by his own rough exhales. One hand is splayed across your lower back to keep your hips tilted exactly where he wants them, the other gripping the curve of your hip hard enough you'll have fingerprints tomorrow.
You fist the sheets. It's all you can do. Knuckles white, face pressed into his pillow, breathing in desperate gasps because he keeps knocking the air out of your lungs with every thrust.
âFuck, baby. Listen to how pretty you are like this.â His voice has gone rough, stripped of everything except want. His cock drags out slow and thrusts back hard, knocking another moan from you. âHear that?â
You hear it. The wet, filthy sounds of him fucking into you, the slap of skin, the helpless little mewls you can't stop making. His dog tags swing forward with every thrust, cold metal grazing your back. Your face burns hot in the dark.
âCâmon, use your words,â he murmurs, hand smoothing up your spine. âYou hear how good this pussy sounds taking me?â
âYes,â You moan agreement, barely recognizing as your own voice. âYes, fuck, yesâ
His hand snakes around your throat, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing at all. And god, to him you don't. Youâre so light in his hands that he barely has to think about it, and the ease of it sends a sharp pulse through you. You gasp as your back hits his chest, Buckyâs free arm secure around you, while his cock keeps driving up into you, the new angle hitting deeper.
He groans softly against your ear when you clenches hard around him. âFuck. Knew youâd like that.â
You canât respond. All that comes out is another needy little sound while your hands scramble desperately for purchase, one gripping his forearm where it rests against your throat, the other reaching back blindly for him. Bucky catches your hand immediately and presses it flat against his lower stomach, holding it there so you can feel every thrust, every flex of muscle as he fucks into you.
âThatâs it, good girl. Hold on,â he murmurs approvingly, feeling you squeeze around him again. âFeel what you do to me?â
His free hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, fingers finding your clit once more. You jolt at his touch, a high broken sound tearing out of you, hips lurching forward despite yourself.
âShh.â His lips brush your ear. âI've got you. Stay still for me.â
You try. You genuinely try. But he's fucking up into you and rubbing your swollen clit simultaneously and the combination is devastating, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make it impossible to do anything except squirm against him and make sounds you'll be embarrassed about later. Your fingers dig into his forearm, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and his breath hitches against your neck.
âFuck, good girl,â he hisses. âScratch me up, sweetheart. Let me feel it.â
His fingers work faster and your head drops back against his shoulder, completely gone. Everything is his hands, his cock, his voice in your ear saying things that dissolve into heat before you can parse the words. You're making these desperate mewling sounds with every thrust, fingers scrabbling at his arm, his hip, any part of him you can reach, just needing to touch him, needing to feel him everywhere at once.
âFeel how wet she is,â he murmurs, fingers slipping through the absolute mess between your thighs. âDripping down my hand. Making a mess of me.â His cock drives deeper and you sob. âSo fucking perfect.â
His hand shifts from your throat to your jaw, turning your face toward his, and then he's kissing you.
Itâs messy and overwhelming, his tongue sliding against yours while he keeps fucking you hard enough to make you moan helplessly into his mouth. Bucky swallows every needy little sound you make, kissing you deeper every time you squirm against him.
You can barely keep up with it. Head fuzzy, heavy with pleasure, especially with the way heâs still rubbing your clit in relentless slow circles that make your whole body shake harder every second.
âCome for me,â he breathes against your lips. âWant to feel that pretty pussy squeeze my cock again, baby. Can you do that for me?â
"Yes, Bucky, please.â
âSo fucking good for me.â The hand at your jaw slides back to your throat, tilting your head back against his shoulder, baring your neck. His mouth finds your pulse point immediately. âBest thing I've ever had. Best thing I've ever touched.â His teeth graze your throat and you whimper, thighs shaking. âThe only thing I ever want.â
His fingers press harder against your clit, hips rolling forward in a way that make you tremble in his grip, knees threatening to buckle, the only thing keeping you upright the arm locked around you.Â
âFuckâI love you,â he grits out against the back of your neck, and it sounds like it's been tearing at him from the inside for months. âI love you. I love you.â Each repetition punctuated by a thrust that makes you cry out. âLoved you every single day I was without you. Never stopped for a second.â
The words hit somewhere deeper than anything else. Deeper than his hands or his mouth or any of it. Something cracks open in your chest, warm and enormous, and youâre coming again. Harder than before, your whole body seizing as you clench around him so completely that your knees do give out entirely. Just ragdoll weight caught entirely in his arms.
âBucky,â you cry name in a needy a sob. âI love you tooâfuckâI love you so much.â
The confession tears out of you and follows you over with a groan that shakes through his whole body. He buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing in deep, spilling inside you with your name on his lips.
Youâre both breathing in ragged pulls, and if it werenât for his arms still locked around you, youâd have collapsed onto the bed. His chest heaves against your back, lips pressed somewhere near your temple, and neither of you speaks for a moment.
Eventually, carefully, he lowers you both down to the mattress, turning you over and pulling you against his chest. You lay boneless against him as his hand strokes slowly up your side, over and over, like he can't stop touching you now that he's allowed to again.
âI've got you,â he murmurs into your hair. âI've got you. You're okay. I've got you.â
And for the first time in almost a year, you actually believe it.
You stay like that for a while, neither of you moving, his hand still stroking slowly up your side. The room has gone quiet and warm around you, just his heartbeat under your ear and the city humming distantly outside.
But eventually he shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple. âStay there.â
A weak sound of protest escapes you when he moves but he's already up, disappearing into the en-suite. You hear water running. When he comes back he sits beside you on the bed, warm cloth in hand.
âI canââ you start.
âI know you can,â he agrees simply, but but does it anyway, cleaning you up with gentle, unhurried hands.
When he's done he disappears briefly, and then the mattress dips and he's pulling you into him, tucking you against his chest. The duvet settles warm around you both, and his hand starts moving slowly through your hair in soothing strokes.
âSleep,â he murmurs against your temple, lips barely moving. âI've got you.â
You don't have much choice. Your body is already pulling you under, warm and safe and held in a way you'd spent months trying to convince yourself you didn't miss. His heartbeat is slow and steady under your ear, his chest rising and falling with a deep, even calm that pulls you further under with every breath.
His hand keeps moving through your hair, and the city outside feels very far away, and sleep takes you before you even feel it coming.
ââ â˘Â â âď¸ Ëăťđď¸ âš
The blaring of you alarm pulls you up from the deepest sleep you've had in months, and for one blissful, unthinking moment you're just warm. Buckyâs chest rises and falls slowly beneath your cheek. Reality hovers at the edges of your consciousness, waiting to be let in, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it, burrowing deeper into the duvet like that might keep it at bay.
Alpine is curled heavy and purring against the backs of your knees, warm and certain, like she's been there all night. Like you belong here. The thought sits in your chest, complicated and tender.
But your phone doesnât stop shrilling from the nightstand.Â
You reach over and fumble for it, managing to silence before Bucky stirs. His arm tightens around you, pulling you back into him with a sleepy, wordless sound of protest, lips pressing somewhere near your hair. But then he goes still.Â
ââŚWas that your alarm for your flight?â His voice is rough with sleep, and underneath the grogginess you can here the carefulness.
âYes,â you reply quietly, but make no effort to move.
The city hums distantly outside the window. Somewhere below, DC is already going about its morning. Up here, in the warm dark of his bedroom, time feels suspended, neither of you quite willing to be the one to break it.
You turn over. His eyes scan your face with an intensity that's so nakedly desperate it makes your chest ache. Like he's trying to memorize your face in case this is the last time he's allowed to be this close. Like he hasn't yet let himself believe last night was real.
âStay.â The word comes out before he can stop it, blurted and slightly wrecked. His jaw tightens immediately afterwards, like he's bracing for it to land wrong. âCould you stay? I want you to stay. Justâa little longer, orâI know we haven't talked about anything properly yet, I justâ" He exhales, slightly pained. "Please stay."
You look at him for a moment. Let him sit with it a moment longer than necessary, watching the soft, desperate hope on his face exist exist without rushing to meet it, because you find you want to keep looking at him like this for just another few seconds. This new version of him that doesn't hide behind composure when something matters.Â
It's devastating and wonderful in equal measure, and you want to hold onto the sight of it for a second before you say anything.
âI suppose,â you begin slowly, watching his expression flicker, âI could probably stay a little longer. Get to know this version of you that coaches Avengers and has a cat and apparently owns cookbooks he's actually used.â
The exhale that comes out of him is enormous. Pure relief, pure joy, and the smile that follows it - wide and unguarded and slightly incredulous - is the most beautiful thing you've seen in a very long time. He pulls you in and presses his lips to your forehead, warm and certain.
You let him. Then you pull back gently, hand finding his jaw, tilting his face down to yours.
âBut slowly,â you add, and mean it. âWe do this slowly. No grand gestures, no orchestrating, no deciding things on my behalf. We actually talk. We work through all of it - the things we broke and the reasons we broke them. We make real effort this time, not just falling back into old patterns because it's easy and it feels good short term.â
He nods. Immediately, earnestly, like every word is being carefully filed away. âSlowly,â he repeats. âYeah. I can do slowly.â
You raise a brow.
He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. âI can learn slowly.â
You're both quiet for a moment, considering this. You are not, historically, two people who do anything slowly. Your entire relationship has been characterized by intensity and momentum and grand gestures and catastrophic miscommunications. The idea of slow is almost comically foreign to you both.
âI'll come to London more,â he offers after a moment. âMy schedule is flexible. I can make it workâI want to make it work. And I know the distance is real, and I know it won't always be easy, but I'd rather figure it out than spend another year without you.â
âAnd I'll come here too,â you add quietly. âI should've done that more. Made the effort in both directions instead of letting the Atlantic become an excuse.â
âOkay,â he says. âWe start there.â
âWe start there,â you agree.
And maybe itâs foolish. Maybe you'll look back on this morning and recognise it as just another impulsive decision in a marriage that's always run on chemistry and stubbornness and the particular madness of two people who can't seem to leave each other alone. Maybe the distance will be hard and the conversations will be harder and somewhere down the line you'll hit another wall neither of you knows how to climb.
But when he looks at you like that - open and unhidden in a way he spent years not knowing how to be - it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels like something you've been working toward through every wrong turn and bad decision and midnight argument. Like the mess of the last year was just the long way round to something you were always going to find your way back to.
âCome here,â he murmurs, and you let him turn you back over, let him pull you into his chest where you fit so perfectly.
The relief of not having a flight to catch settles over you like the duvet itself.
His lips find the curve of your neck, lazy and warm, just the occasional soft press of his mouth against your skin. Just enjoying the fact that he can. That you're here and not leaving and there's nowhere either of you need to be.
Your eyes drift closed, hovering in that soft place between sleep and waking again. Alpine purrs against your feet. You feel more at peace than you have in longer than you can remember. And then, through your sleepy haze, you gradually become aware of his hand.
It's moved without him seeming to notice, fingers drifting down your arm, over your wrist, settling at your left hand. His thumb brushes absently over your ring finger, back and forth, over the bare skin where your ring used to sit. Slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
Your right hand moves to cover his, and he still immediately. A slight tension moving through his chest, like he's been caught at something, like he's about to pull back.
âAsk me again someday,â you murmur into the pillow, half-conscious. âWhen we're ready.â
The tension bleeds out of him all at once, his whole body exhaling like he's been holding that breath for months. His arms tighten around you and his mouth presses to the back of your neck again.
âI will,â he affirms quietly, against your skin. âI promise you, one day, I will.â
His thumb resumes its slow path over your ring finger, gentle and deliberate now. A quiet promise being made in the dark.
âI love you,â he murmurs into your hair, lips barely moving. âMissed saying that. Missed you hearing it. I love you so much.â
You sink deeper into his arms, into the warmth of him, into the love in his voice, into the particular peace of being somewhere you belong after a very long time of being without it.
You fall back asleep before you can answer. But that's okay, you have time now.
more mads: that's all folks! I really, really hope you enjoyed, like seriously. this fic has both been the bane of my existence and a precious little baby because i do really love these idiots. i hope i gave them a satisfactory ending and that it was worth the wait, and i would absolutely love to know your thoughts via any comments or reblogs! thank you so much for reading :)
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